by L. E. Rico
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Ex-excuse me?” I ask, playing dumb. But Win isn’t dumb.
“Yeah, Maddie saw you two together at the fair, holding hands—”
“Oh, Maddie, huh? You mean the girl you were sucking face with behind the pigpen? That Maddie?”
He scowls at me. “Not just Maddie. Apparently, you guys have been very cozy lately… I know what’s going on. But she’s the mother of my kid, Scott. And my ex-wife. I don’t know—maybe someday we’ll even get back together again, when she’s worked through all her issues. But it’ll never happen with you here.”
How could he possibly think I’d consider such a thing? And for him! I must be shaking my head because he asks me to wait a second.
“Please, Scott. I screwed up. Big time. You were so right that night at the fair. There I was, messing around with Maddie when my own kid was missing. But God, the way my heart stopped when I realized that Jax was missing… And then, after we found him, I saw Jameson holding him in her arms, and I knew. I knew right then and there that I gave up the best thing I’d ever had in my whole miserable life.”
“Please!” I snort. “Miserable? You were doted on! Dad was so proud you wanted to be a lawyer like him. And then you scored that amazing woman and had a great kid… Nah, man, if you’re looking for sympathy from me, you’re not gonna get it.”
Win gets to his feet and sighs as he looks down on me. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand. You’re not a father. But someday you might be, and let me tell you, the prospect of losing your family is enough to drive a man insane. You don’t have to say anything now. I’m just asking you to give it some thought, okay? Now that Dad is okay, I’m asking you to go back to the job you’ve loved for the last ten years. Is that such a bad thing, Scott? Think about it. Please.”
He picks up his keys and leaves before I can say another word. I put my head in my hands and groan. The timing of all this is…extraordinary. For a split second, I wonder if Win had something to do with the job offer…but no. He’s not that connected. The terrifying thing here isn’t that Win had the nerve to make the ask; it’s that for just an infinitesimal beat, I was actually considering it.
…
When I next see Janet Lahti, it’s not inside her pie shop; it’s on a bench on Main Street.
“Are you all right, Scott?”
I’m so deep in my own thoughts that I practically jump out of my skin when her voice penetrates the brain fog.
“Oh! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says. “I thought you saw me sitting here.”
I didn’t. Despite the fact that she’s right in front of me.
“Uh, hi, Janet. Sorry, I’m a little distracted,” I admit.
“So I noticed.” She grins pleasantly. “Anyone paying any attention at all would’ve turned and run the other way!”
It’s then that I realize we’re not alone. Janet is seated, but milling around her on the sidewalk are dozens of young women and girls ranging from pre-teen to…well, Janet’s age, whatever that might be. They’re all fluttering around excitedly, creating a buzz of female voices that fills the space and rises up above us. They seem to be everywhere.
“What’s going on here?” I ask, turning my head slightly so I can make out the long line snaking for blocks in the other direction. To hell with dozens, there are hundreds of them clustered together here.
“Oh, they’re here for the Knitty Kitty Celebrity Kat Walk.”
“The…what?”
Janet chuckles and smiles.
“Julie Freddino is introducing her new fall line of cat fashions,” she explains. “I closed up the shop for a few hours so my waitresses could be here.”
“Okay…and all these girls are here to see the cats?”
“Not just any cats, Scott. Celebrity cats.”
“Like the ones in the cat food commercials?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around how a cat might become a celebrity.
Janet snorts at me. “No, no, no. Come, sit here next to me,” she says, patting the bench. I follow her request. “I’m talking about cats that are celebrities because they belong to celebrities.”
“Oh, okay. Yeah, Jameson told me something about that Taylor Swit’s cats.”
I swear at least ten people standing around us stop speaking and turn to gawk at me. Janet pats my knee.
“He’s been out of the country for the last ten years,” she explains to the crowd before they can pull out their pitchforks. Once they’ve settled down and the threat is no longer imminent, she continues. “That’s Taylor Swift. Her fans are called Swifties, and they’re here to see her cats, Dr. Meredith Grey and Detective Olivia Benson, who are modeling sweaters on the Kat walk tonight.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “They’re waiting in line to see someone’s…cats?”
“Shhh!” Janet hisses. “Keep it down or you’re bound to get yourself in a pickle I can’t help you out of. Taylor Swift may be all sweetness and sunshine, but her minions will fight for her to the death! Do you see all those serious-looking women standing in the crowd? The ones in the blue uniforms? They’re special security brought in to keep the peace and to ensure the cats arrive without incident,” she says, pointing a finger at an approaching limo. It pulls up to the curb in front of the Knitty Kitty showroom and, sure enough, several of the blue-clad women seem to appear out of nowhere, keeping the now-shrieking Swifties off to either side of the door.
Julie’s purple-haired head pops out of the shop, and she steps forward to greet the long black car as the driver comes around to open the door for its occupants. First come two very large, very imposing men in dark suits and sunglasses. There’s no mistaking what their purpose is—these guys are professional security. Cat security!
Holy. Crap. Mayhem has always been known for its quirks—it’s part of the charm of the place—but this…this is silliness bordering lunacy. And I seem to be the only person who notices.
Once the cat bodyguards are satisfied that the perimeter is secured, one of them nods toward the car. And there they are. The cats are gingerly carried out of the car on plush red pillows. The first is all white, save for some light gray striping atop its fuzzy head and the very tip of its tail. The other has a snowy white belly—the rest of her body dappled with big patches of gray and striping. They’re really quite beautiful. For cats, that is. But even more impressive than the two feline stars is the entourage that accompanies them. One by one, they step out of the back of the limo.
“That one’s the stylist for Meredith,” Janet tells me. “And coming out now is Olivia’s stylist. Oh! And those are their handlers…and that’s the cat walker…and the cat therapist…”
“You’re making this crap up,” I accuse her, but the look on Janet’s face tells me otherwise.
Julie Freddino is fawning all over the cats as she beckons them and their party to enter her shop.
“Uh-ohhhh…” Janet murmurs under her breath.
“What? What’s uh-oh?”
With her chin, she indicates another approaching limo. This one is pink.
“That’ll be Kitty Purry, Katy Perry’s cat. She and the Swift cats do not get along. At. All. They’re saying all over the internet that Katy and Taylor have ended their feud but clearly no one has told the cats that… Oh, dear. I don’t think Julie was expecting Kitty Purry for at least another hour. Oh my…wait till the Katy Cats notice…”
It only takes the “Katy Cats”—another faction of crazy cat fans—about ten seconds to recognize the encroaching cat coach and to start chanting.
“Katy Cats! Katy Cats! Katy Cats!”
They are immediately met with a contentious chorus of “Swif-ties! Swif-ties! Swif-ties!”
Janet stands up abruptly, grabbing my hand and pulling me along with her. “Scott, let’s get inside the pie shop. Things are about to get really ugly out here.”
“Oh, come on, Janet, they’re just chanting,” I protest, starting to enjoy the distraction that this
ridiculous cat-centric drama is providing.
“Maybe now…but I just flashed on an image of a bus full of Smilers headed this way!”
“What the—? Smilers?”
“Miley Cyrus fans, Scott! One of her cats was banned from the event after it coughed up a fur ball on Meredith Grey last year. Oh, sweet Jesus…”
I struggle to keep up with Janet, surprised by how fast she can move in those boots and long skirts she likes to wear. Once we’re safe inside the empty pie shop, she locks the door behind us and has me help her draw all the blinds until we’re standing in darkness, our breathing the only sound in the room. Outside, though, on the street, the volume has risen considerably and now includes the sound of screeching cats, wailing sirens, and Julie Freddino with a bullhorn.
“Come on, have a seat at the counter. I’ll fix you a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. The sheriff will have that mess sorted out by the time you’re done.”
Not wanting to offend…or get caught up in the melee…or miss out on a piece of Janet’s pie, I agree and take a seat, watching her pour me a steaming mug of coffee. She pulls a piece of pie out of a case on the counter, squirts it liberally with whipped cream, and slides it across to me.
“I don’t recognize this one,” I note, spinning the plate a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.
“Lemon lavender.”
“Oh. Another lemon?”
“And lavender. Wasn’t that your mom’s favorite flower?”
I nod.
“Don’t worry, you’re going to love it,” she says, nodding for me to take a bite.
I do.
Suddenly, it’s as if every worry and concern leeches out of my body, leaving behind the most euphoric sense of wellbeing.
“Oh…oh God, that feels so good…” I moan through a full mouth.
Feels, I register vaguely. Not tastes. Though it is a pretty yummy slice.
“Powerful stuff, that pie. It’s not on the menu, but I always have some made. And I only serve it ‘as needed.’ And today, my dear Scott, you need it.”
I don’t know how much this woman does or doesn’t know about what’s going on with me right now, but I do know that she has the power to make it all better—if only for a little while. I take a sip of the perfect coffee and sink my fork in for a second go at the lemon lavender miracle in front of me.
When I close my eyes, I’m with my mother at O’Halloran’s Pub. I gasp out loud when I see her—she’s young and beautiful, wearing her favorite Sunday dress and laughing as my father hugs her from behind, sneaking in to kiss her neck. I haven’t left her side since we arrived at the party. What was it for? A birthday, maybe?
“Scotty, why don’t you go play with the other children?” she suggests. “They’ve got a Twister game going on over on the other side of the bar.” When I’m reluctant, she shoos me away. “Go on, now. See what your brother’s up to.”
I walk toward the shrieking pile of children and notice Win there. He kicks the leg of one of his competitors out from under him when he thinks no one is looking. Such a cheater. I hate my brother.
I’m about to change course and head outside when I spot her over in the corner. The little girl with hair the color of pennies. Every once in a while, she spins around quickly so that her skirt twirls out around her. I like this girl—Jameson is her name. She smiles a lot, and she doesn’t make fun of me when I talk about all the places I want to go.
We talk for a little while, and I make a decision, right there and then. I want to marry this girl. I ask her if she’ll go with me when I travel around the world. She agrees. We hold hands. There’s a song playing in the background. What is it? I can just make it out. Is that…is that Garth Brooks? He’s saying that there ain’t nothing that he wouldn’t do to make me feel his love…
When my eyes fly open, Janet is watching me curiously.
“I don’t understand,” I rasp. “Was that a dream… Or was it a memory? Because I don’t remember this…”
“I think maybe you’re not finished,” she says gently.
“Yeah…okay,” I murmur, reaching for another bite of the pie. But then I feel the warm press of Janet’s hand on my arm.
“No, dear. You won’t find your answer there. Not this time.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jameson
“Would you please tell dip…stick to stop sending flowers? This place is starting to smell like a funeral parlor,” Walker grouses as she shifts yet another vase of roses to the office. It’s the third delivery from Win this week.
“He’s just feeling guilty,” I explain. “For a smart guy, Win can be pretty dense. He thinks a dozen long-stemmed roses and a box of fancy chocolates are enough to undo whatever nonsense he’s been up to.”
“Oooooo…is there a box of chocolate around here somewhere?” Bailey asks, walking in on the tail end of this exchange as she returns a tray full of empty beer glasses to the bar.
“Nope. I guess making out with Princess Drew only warrants a vase of gerbera daisies,” Walker mutters.
I smile as I pull out a small, square box from behind the bar and flip the top, displaying several foil-wrapped truffles. “Help yourself,” I offer.
“None for me,” Walker says. “I don’t want Win’s flowers or his chocolate.”
“I do!” Bailey grabs two and pops them in her apron pocket, then she gives me an appraising look. “You’re happy,” she declares.
“Ummm…okay…”
“It’s Scott, isn’t it?”
I give her my best Cheshire Cat smile and shrug.
“It is! I knew it! Good for you, James!” she says, smacking the bar top for emphasis.
Walker scowls. “Hey, these drinks are already mixed quite well, thank you very much.”
“Well, excuse me!” Bailey harrumphs and rolls her eyes.
It’s nice to see someone else on the receiving end of that for a change. In fact, Bailey and I have been doing quite well since “The Harry Incident.” Which makes me think…
“Hey, Bailey, I haven’t seen Harry around in a while,” I mention as casually as I can.
“Oh, yeah, we’re not seeing each other anymore.”
“You’re not? How come?” I press.
“He’s a player.”
Walker snorts so loudly that people turn to look at us. “Harry? That geeky science guy? He’s a player?”
Our youngest sister shrugs. “Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you. Geeky is hot this year. But I’m not gonna be anybody’s back-up girl,” she proclaims firmly.
“Good for you!” I say, opening the box of candy again. “Here, you get another chocolate.”
Bailey grins as she pulls another one out, this time unwrapping it and taking a bite. “Oh my gawwwwwd,” she manages through her mouthful. “Sooooo good!”
“Hello, hello, hello!”
We all look up to see Janet Lahti rushing toward us.
“Janet! What brings you down this side of Main Street?” I ask, glancing at the clock behind the bar. “Aren’t you about to go into your lunch rush?”
She waves a ring-laden hand at me and shakes her red-blond curls so that they swing around her headscarf and gold hoop earrings.
“Oh, the girls have it all under control. I had to make this delivery personally,” she informs me, setting two white pie boxes on the counter with a thump. They’re tied with that red and white bakery string, and the Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop logo is stamped in the middle.
I lean across the bar to get a whiff.
Mmmmm. Fresh pie.
I feel the box.
Mmmmm. Warm pie.
The question is whose pie? I don’t have time to ask before she’s explaining.
“This one is for Hennessy,” she says with a gesture to one on the left.
“What kind?” Bailey asks, sniffing the box.
“It’s peach.”
“Peach! Oh, her favorite! What’s the occasion?” I ask.
“Your guess is as good
as mine,” she admits with a shrug. “All I know is that it needed to be here before noon.”
“Okay…”
“And then there’s this one.” She taps the second pie box lightly with her index finger. “It’s for you, Jameson.”
“For me?” I’ve only received a handful of pies in my life, and the last one was a teeny-tiny baby pie to congratulate me on expecting Jackson…even though I hadn’t told a soul yet—not even Win.
“Yes, for you. Here, look,” she says, using a key from her key ring to cut the string. She gently eases the top of the box open, and what I see makes me gasp aloud.
The pie is the same size and shape of any other pie, but that’s where the similarity ends. The top of it is covered with dozens of butterflies, lovingly cut and sculpted out of piecrust dough and positioned on the top of the pie in such a way as to allow the dark red filling to peek through in between the numerous sets of wings.
“Janet, it’s…it’s just perfect!” I say, barely able to get the words out. “It’s the most beautiful pie I’ve ever seen…”
She beams at me proudly, glancing downward periodically to admire her own handiwork. “Yes, well, I’ve never done one quite like this. And it came on so suddenly…I had to haul myself out of bed in the middle of the night to make it.”
“But why? Why me? And why the rush to do it now?”
“It’s a message, Jameson. From your mother. She was the one who loved the butterflies, right?”
I nod, dumbstruck.
“She wants you to take the pie with you when you go to the airport.”
“What? But I’m not going to the airport…” I protest.
“Honey, I’m just the messenger,” she repeats. “The message is all yours to sort out.”
I nod. “I—uh…I…”
“Okay, love, I have to shuffle along now,” Janet says, switching out of her low-key omniscient mode and reverting back to sunny, flakey Janet.
“Wait! You’ve gotta give me a little more than that. Which airport? When? Where am I flying to…?” I call after her as she runs out the door of the pub.
“Just the messenger!” she hollers back at me, holding up her hand in a good-bye wave as she flits back out the front door and across Main Street before turning down the block toward her shop.