The Diva Sweetens the Pie

by Krista Davis

He cut me off. “She’s already scheduled to teach Avoiding the Shame of a Shrinking Crust, on Tuesday, and Blackbottom Pie Doesn’t Mean Burned, on Thursday. Amy Wellington Smith’s class was also on Tuesday, at the same time as Patsy Lee’s.”

  “What about Tommy Earl?” asked Nina. “I can vouch for him. He’s an excellent teacher.”

  Roger’s lips pulled tight. “Ohhh, I don’t think so. His pies are delicious, I’ll grant you that. But Tommy Earl is notoriously unreliable. Such a pity. He’s so talented, but I know better than to hire him. I wish Nellie Stokes were available. That woman knows how to bake!”

  “What’s wrong with Tommy Earl?” asked Nina.

  Roger didn’t say a word, but he cupped his hand as though he were holding a glass and tipped it toward his mouth.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. It wasn’t as though I spent a lot of time with Tommy Earl, but I had ordered plenty of pies from him for events and he had never let me down. “I’ve never had a problem with him.”

  “Trust me on this,” grumbled Roger. “It’s well-known in baking circles. Ask anyone in the business. He must have some great employees who cover for him at his shop. Sophie”—Roger gazed at me with sad eyes—“can’t you help me out? Could you teach the classes?”

  “Me? Good heavens. I just took one of Tommy Earl’s classes. I’m not a pie pro by any stretch of the imagination. Not even a little bit. And I haven’t published a cookbook.” Whew. That would get me off the hook for sure.

  But Nina exclaimed, “You should! I would buy it.”

  She wasn’t helping. “Why don’t you come to the Old Town Pie Festival tomorrow? A lot of professional pie bakers will be entering their pies in the contests there.”

  “I would sleep better if I had someone scheduled in the slot for Tuesday.” He eyed me again.

  Well, there was nothing I could do about that.

  Nina said, “I find melatonin helps me.”

  I bit my lip to keep from giggling. “I’ll keep an eye out for an appropriate baker tomorrow.”

  Roger no longer looked quite so crisp. He thanked us before leaving and dragged away like a disappointed child. I let Daisy out in my fenced backyard.

  When I returned, Nina asked, “Can we try your pie now?”

  “Not unless you want to see the Horror of the Runny Filling play out right here in my kitchen.”

  “Why do pies take so long?”

  Her question was rhetorical. Nina knew that fillings had to set, although she probably wouldn’t have cared. She would have scooped up the oozing filling with a soupspoon and declared it delicious.

  “Besides,” I said, “don’t you think we’d better check on Bernie? The pie festival is a big undertaking. He could probably use some extra hands.”

  When Daisy returned, she was panting and headed straight to the water bowl. I added a couple of ice cubes to her water to make it super cold. Her nose wet, she sprawled on the floor as if she was trying to cool off. The August heat was brutal, but the weather was supposed to cool off dramatically for the weekend.

  I didn’t feel guilty about leaving her at home when we stepped out into the humid heat again. We had only trudged one block when I asked, “How would you feel about an iced coffee or tea?”

  Nina moaned. “Anything with ice in it would be welcome.”

  We stopped at Moos & Brews, relieved to be in the air-conditioned café while we ordered.

  Nina checked the time. “Ugh. I am officially over the hill. I’m too old to drink real coffee after noon. I’ll have a decaf iced caramel latte.”

  I ordered a plain iced coffee with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, which I knew would melt into my coffee in less than a minute once we were outside.

  We were slurping the remains through biodegradable paper straws as we approached the park, where banners for the Old Town Pie Festival already fluttered in the gentle breeze.

  “Francie is going to be mad that she missed this.”

  My elderly neighbor was a hoot, and had she been home, she would surely have attended the pie festival. “I don’t think she’ll be too upset. I’m sure she’s having fun with her sister. How many women their age go on an African safari to photograph animals?”

  So many people surrounded Bernie that he was barely visible. He had been the best man at my wedding. Bernie’s sandy hair was perpetually mussed, and his nose had a kink in it where it had been broken, possibly twice. Footloose, Bernie had traveled the world before settling in Old Town, Alexandria, Virginia, and taking on the management of a restaurant for an absentee owner. To our astonishment, he had a flair for the business and The Laughing Hound had become one of Old Town’s most popular eateries.

  But today, mellow Bernie was being yelled at by one of our friends.

  “For your information”—Natasha pulled her shoulders back and held her chin high—“I grew up in the country, and no one knows pies like country cooks. And why are you in charge of the festival, anyway? English people don’t know anything about pies.”

  Bernie had listened politely right up until she said that part about the Brits.

  In contrast to Bernie’s just-rolled-out-of-bed mussed hair, not a single hair on Natasha’s head dared stray out of place. She wore an admittedly elegant cream-colored suit in spite of the ninety-five-degree weather and unbearable humidity. Natasha fancied herself the Martha of the South—except she wasn’t. Knowing her penchant for wreaking havoc, and given the chaos she caused the previous year, Bernie, who was in charge of the pie festival this year, had pointedly omitted Natasha from the event arrangements.

  The two of them didn’t get along at all. Natasha resented Bernie for not bowing to Her Highness’s whims, and Bernie was unimpressed by Natasha’s constant self-serving demands. A confrontation had been inevitable. I had expected kindhearted Bernie to relent, but then Natasha had to go and offend the Brits. I held my breath.

  Chapter 3

  Dear Sophie,

  My family loves apple pie better than any other dessert. I bake it all the time, but I always have an air gap between the apples and the crust. What am I doing wrong?

  McIntosh Mom in Apple Valley, North Carolina

  Dear McIntosh Mom,

  You’re probably making your pie dough with shortening. Switch to an all-butter pie dough, which is softer and will do a better job of sinking with the apples as they cook. In addition, slice the apples as thin as possible. And I’m sorry to tell you that McIntosh apples are not your friend in a pie because they shrink more than most apples.

  Sophie

  “Pies were well-known in England, as far back as the twelfth century,” said Bernie in the English accent that made him sound like an authority on every subject. “Who do you think brought pies to America?” His voice sounded softer and conciliatory when he said, “Natasha, we’ve already been through this.” He walked over to her and spoke in a low voice so as not to embarrass her, which I thought very kind.“We settled this weeks ago. We have already selected our judges. Do I really have to remind you that your entry last year sent the judges to the emergency room?” Smiling broadly and speaking louder again, Bernie pointed at me. “Sophie isn’t entering the pie-baking contests, either.”

  Natasha glanced at me over her shoulder. “Well, I understand that. She’s a home cook, not a chef. It would only be an embarrassment to her.”

  Nina whispered, “Are you going to let her get away with that?”

  Actually, I was. She had just embarrassed herself by intimating that she was a chef, which she wasn’t. Neither one of us was professionally trained to cook or bake. We wrote competing columns about entertaining, cooking, and all things related to lifestyle, but we had different approaches. I kept things simple while Natasha loved complex projects and keeping up with the latest trends.

  I had known Natasha since we were kids growing up in the same small town where we competed at everything except the beauty contests that she loved. She might have a local TV show and fans, but I knew that underneath that perfect fig
ure and coif, Natasha was an insecure mess, still searching for the father who abandoned her when she was a kid. True, she might have been waiting in the wings to nab my ex-husband when we divorced, but they had since separated. While my ex appeared to be thriving, Natasha seemed lost, grasping at anything she thought would propel her to the stardom that she craved.

  None of that justified her ugly remarks about me, but I had grown largely immune to them. Natasha always thought she knew best and imagined that it was noble of her to improve the rest of us by imparting her wisdom.

  “You’re being completely unfair to ban me from the contest. Honey Armbruster is entering,” Natasha said with disdain. “And she can’t cook her way out of . . . out of a take-out bag.”

  “Look, Natasha,” said Bernie. “You know the problem. I’m sorry, but your performance last year prohibits you from entering again.”

  “How was I supposed to know that a ghost pepper would burn their tongues? People eat them all the time. Besides, I’m not cooking with peppers at all anymore. They’re passé. No one is interested in peppers. You should know that, Bernie. Everyone’s into activated charcoal now.”

  I had a feeling the judges would be glad they didn’t have to eat a pie made with charcoal.

  Bernie just stared at her. “No.”

  “Then make me a judge. I know more about baking and flavor combinations than anyone else in Old Town.”

  “I’ve had so many great people volunteer to help out that I don’t have any positions left to fill. Especially not judge slots.”

  “Hey, y’all! Patsy Lee is here.” The singsong Southern voice rang out behind me. I turned to see Patsy Lee Presley, the woman with the number one cooking show in the country—and the woman who had been on the run in the street last night.

  The sun gleamed on her light brown hair, which was blown out into a shoulder length fluff and sprayed into a helmet as immoveable as Natasha’s. She strode into our midst with an air of entitlement. She wore a turquoise shift-style dress with a V-neck that showed off her ample cleavage. A strand of giant pearls lay against her tanned skin and a chunky gold bracelet encircled her right wrist. The sun glinted off the diamond bezel on her watch, which sat prominently on her left arm.

  To Natasha, she said, “Now, darlin’, who are you?”

  I expected Natasha to wither into a fan girl moment when she realized who was addressing her, but she simply said, “Natasha.”

  Patsy Lee waited a second longer, then raised her eyebrows when no surname was forthcoming. “Not the Natasha?”

  Natasha beamed. “Why, yes.” She smiled broadly as if unable to contain her excitement.

  “Sugah,” said Patsy Lee, “that explains everything. They didn’t want you showin’ up little ole me.”

  It was brilliant. She was one shrewd woman to have assessed the situation so quickly. Patsy Lee couldn’t have said anything that would have pleased Natasha more.

  Natasha touched the sides of her face with her fingers. “Oh, my word. You’re right. Why didn’t I see that? Of course, we’re both TV stars, so we’re really on a par.”

  “All the more reason. They probably didn’t want you to step on my toes.”

  “We’re like sisters,” gushed Natasha. “You must join me for dinner one night while you’re gracing our fair city.”

  I glanced at Bernie. He caught my look and discreetly waved his hand as if to say not to worry.

  Patsy Lee smiled at her. “I would love that. You just get in touch with Brock here. He handles everything for me.” She gestured toward an exceedingly beautiful young man, who stood a step behind her.

  The person who coined the phrase tall, dark, and handsome must have known someone like Brock. His jet-black hair waved gently. I suspected he always needed a shave. His dark eyes were lively and sharp, like an owl that was taking everything in. His broad smile seemed very natural. He was a good twenty years younger than Patsy Lee.

  Brock immediately latched onto Natasha. “Let’s step over here and see when you’re available.” He steered Natasha away, but she was beaming. It was almost as though she didn’t realize that he was moving her away from Patsy Lee.

  Bernie introduced Nina and me to Patsy Lee and apologized for the little confrontation with Natasha.

  Patsy Lee’s gaze lingered on me for longer than normal, bolstering my belief that it had indeed been her in the bushes last night.

  “Thank you so much for invitin’ me, Bernie. I am honored to be back in Old Town. I miss livin’ here. It feels like comin’ home. And I can’t wait to dig into those pies.”

  When someone else asked him a question, and he turned away for a moment, Patsy Lee asked me, “Who was that woman?”

  “Natasha?” I asked.

  She blinked hard. “Sweetheart, I understood her name. What I want to know is who she is.”

  Momentarily taken aback, I said, “She has a local cable-TV show about all things domestic.”

  Patsy Lee nodded her head. “I should have known. There’s one in every town, and they’re all trying to beat me at my game. Brock,” she called.

  The crowd had grown considerably, and I noticed that many of them focused on Patsy Lee. We watched as Brock finished up with Natasha and ambled toward us.

  “I am not available to dine with Natasha.” She turned her attention back to me, but said over her shoulder, “Or to do anything else, either.”

  Brock murmured discreetly, “A wise move. Trouble at noon and three o’clock.” Brock held out his hand to me. “Brock Anderson.”

  I smiled at him and shook his hand. “Sophie Winston.”

  He nodded and introduced himself to Nina.

  Patsy Lee glanced in the directions he had indicated and took a deep breath. “What about the guy in the suit?”

  “He’s not interested in you. He’s watching Sophie.”

  “What?” I was alarmed by the mere suggestion. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s my job,” said Brock.

  I scanned the crowd for a man in a suit and spotted him right away.

  “Is he the man who had sprinted around the corner?” asked Nina.

  “He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.” Had he followed Nina and me here? He was lean. Maybe even too lean. He deflected his gaze when he saw me looking at him.

  I wondered where he had been the night before when Patsy Lee was creeping around in the dark. What if Brock was wrong? What if he was the one Patsy Lee had been running from?

  “Used to be I loved comin’ to the South,” said Patsy Lee. “It just feels like home, you know? As long as I live, I’ll always feel like a transplant in New York. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to like about New York City, but it’s no place for a Southern flower. Lately, though, every time I venture southward, a ghost from my past floats back up again to torment me.”

  People were milling all around us. I had no idea who she was talking about.

  Brock asked, “Shall I run interference?”

  Patsy Lee shifted the V-neck of her dress and shimmied like she was trying to adjust her Spanx. “He’ll just chase me around until I talk to him. Might as well get it over with. But I’ll sign something for Honey first. For once she didn’t have to travel to see me. I do love my fans.” She shot Brock a look, and I realized that he steered Nina away from us.

  “I believe we met last night,” said Patsy Lee.

  New York hadn’t taken the South out of her accent. I nodded. “I thought that was you.”

  She adjusted the hefty bracelet and spoke very softly. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather no one knew about that little incident. I was just surprised to see you there in the bushes.”

  I probably should have let it pass. It really didn’t matter, but I was concerned about her. “It seemed to me that you were the one hiding in the bushes.”

  She took one step back and assessed me. “When you get to the top of your field, everyone wants to take you down. They look for any tiny chink to blow into a huge scandal
. They sneak around and hold their breath, just waitin’ for you to misspeak. I’m sure you understand.”

  I didn’t. She had deftly sidestepped the issue of hiding in the bushes.

  “It was lovely meetin’ you, Sophie. I may call on you if I need somethin’. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course, it is. Just let me know if I can be of assistance.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I wondered if it had been wise of me to offer to help her. As she hurried off, once again opening her arms and calling out, “Patsy Lee is here!” I glanced at Brock. Heaven knew what kind of instructions she might give him about me. While I had initially thought her kind words that had placated Natasha were very smart, I wasn’t sure what to think of her now. I had never seen someone give instructions to an assistant that were the equivalent of hanging out a DO NOT DISTURB sign. Maybe that was how all celebrities managed their lives. I had no idea.

  A man with chestnut hair, which was shot through with silver, watched Patsy Lee. He wore a button-down blue plaid shirt, with aviator sunglasses tucked into a breast pocket. Smiling, he strode in my direction while Patsy Lee signed a book for Honey Armbruster, a domestic diva with boundless energy and according to rumor, an amicable divorce.

  If gossip was to be believed, Honey demanded a list of the birthdays of students in her children’s classes and brought homemade cupcakes to school for each child’s birthday. And they weren’t just simple cupcakes. They had themes tailored to the child’s interests, like a favorite Disney character or a sport. Each year, Honey arranged a children’s choir to sing at the hospital and senior center at the holidays. And at this time of summer, the front steps of her house overflowed with cascading flowers, all in various shades of pink.

  Patsy Lee chattered nonstop with Honey, who clung to her every word and responded as though this was the highest point of her life.

  Brock checked his Apple watch and moved in. “Excuse me, Ms. Presley, but people are waiting.”

  On cue, Patsy Lee exclaimed, “I wish we had time for a cup of coffee. I always love seeing you, but it’s never long enough, darlin’.”