“It’s perfect.” I throw myself into the chair sideways, so my legs hang over the arm, my insides tingling. The chair kind of swallows me up. I can’t wait to curl up in here with my recipes and books and Tom.
“Let’s see, I’ve got a reading lamp in the garage we can use, too. And you can have a couple of these.” She takes out a small patchwork quilt and a crocheted pink blanket and throws them on top of me. “Comfy?”
“Yeah,” I say from under the blankets. Suddenly I get tears in my eyes.
Suzanne touches my arm. “You okay?”
I nod. I don’t know how to explain why I’m crying over a chair and paint. But I’ve never had a place with a door I can shut. A place just for me. “I’m happy, is all.” I throw the blankets off. “And a little hot.”
Suzanne sinks down and hugs me tight, not saying a word. For once, Shell would say. That makes me smile.
Within a week, three more local restaurants place orders for the new flavors. Shell’s been going in super-early with María to help make crusts, and even Claudia’s been pitching in.
“The strawberry basil is so refreshing!” I heard one lady say.
“That makes sense,” Suzanne said when I told her. “Strawberries mean summer, and that’s what people are in the mood for.”
So my notebook ideas are about all the fruits that are in season right now. Peaches, nectarines, and plums. Strawberries and blackberries and cherries. I think we should have more new flavors.
I tell Suzanne my idea as she drops me and Jay off at the shop one afternoon. “It’s too soon to introduce another one.” She slings her big purse over her shoulder as she shuts the car door. Suzanne’s so petite that almost every purse looks enormous. “But what if we switched out the two new pie flavors every month? We have our regulars, then the two new ones, to keep people guessing.”
“So I can come up with the September pie flavors right now?” I ask.
“Exactly.” Suzanne pops open her trunk and hands me a box to carry.
“Which flavors say September to you?” I ask Jay.
“Apple,” he says promptly.
“That’s not helpful.” I shake my head at him. “We already make that.”
“Pumpkin.”
“We need to save pumpkin for Thanksgiving,” Suzanne says.
I think hard. What’s sort of like pumpkin, that says fall? Something that’s not apple. “How about carrot?”
“Carrots?” Jay shudders. “No vegetables in pie.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “I bet if I didn’t tell you it had carrots, you’d eat it.” I step off the sidewalk as a family walks by us, pushing a double stroller. The good thing is, there are still plenty of people in the mountains today. Maybe everyone hoped it’d be cooler here. “How about carrot with some fruit?”
“Oooh. Nectarine?” Suzanne suggests. “That could be good. We’ll get some today and you can try it.”
Inside the shop, there’s one person in line, but about a dozen sitting at the tables, chowing down. That’s almost two pies’ worth. This is good for ten thirty in the morning.
“You want to go to the Candy Mine later?” Jay asks me. “I want some more Nerds.”
I still feel bad about how I reacted to that Adam guy. I pick up a boxed strawberry basil pie. “Let’s go right now.”
Adam’s sitting at his station, reading a comic book. I march in ahead of Jay and put the white box down in front of him. “Here. Compliments of the house.”
He pushes it back, pursing his lips. “We get our pies from Grandma’s.”
Ouch. I’m not sure what to say now, or do, but Jay steps in.
“Come on,” Jay says. “Don’t stay mad. It was a misunderstanding.”
Adam finally looks up. I lean forward. “I’m sorry I, like, freaked out a little bit the other day. Will you please accept this scrummy pie as a token of my apology?”
He squints. “What’s scrummy?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s British. Like scrumptious, I guess.”
Adam’s mouth turns up. He pushes a few taffies toward us. “Trade?”
“Sure.” I pop a peppermint one into my mouth and grin. Making things right feels pretty good.
When we get back, Suzanne calls a team meeting in the kitchen. Shell’s taking pies out of the oven. She looks up but doesn’t say anything as everyone else gathers around. My stomach turns all over again.
Suzanne props a large flat object, wrapped in a black trash bag, on a table. “Shell, come here.”
“I’m a bit busy,” Shell says.
“Well, you can see from there.” Suzanne chooses not to acknowledge Shell’s grumpiness. She grins at Claudia. “This is something the shop’s needed for a while. A little update. Claudia, will you do the honors?” She makes a gesture like she’s pulling off the cover.
Claudia tears off the trash bag.
It’s a sign. A cartoon Mr. Miniver holding a pie, printed in red on white. In the cartoon his cheeks are plump and his eyes are somehow twinkling. Sort of like a beardless Santa. The words SHELL’S WORLD-FAMOUS PIES are written in a half-circle shape underneath.
It’s Claudia’s drawing, blown up to three and a half feet tall.
Claudia’s mouth drops open and her eyes widen into platters.
“This is for the inside of the store. I’m also having one made for the outside.” Suzanne’s practically jumping up and down. “And that’s not all.” She opens the box Jay had. Inside there are napkins printed with the same logo.
María hugs Claudia. “Such a great job, mi hija! I’m so proud of you.”
“Cartoon Mr. Miniver is cute,” I say. “He looks like one of those dough ornaments that little kids make.”
Jay snaps his fingers. “Yeah, he does.”
We all look at Shell, whose mouth is so upside down and eyebrows so furrowed she literally looks like the angry-face emoji. “You’re very talented, Claudia.” She turns and checks the oven, even though she already took the pies out and it’s empty.
My stomach feels like it did on the way up those winding mountain roads.
Nobody says anything. Claudia’s smile fades. María pats her daughter on the shoulder, then tugs her and Jay gently to the front. I don’t know if I’m supposed to follow them or stay. I don’t move.
“What’s the problem, Shell?” Suzanne draws her shoulders back. “I got a good deal and I paid for them. Don’t worry.”
Shell’s jaw muscles work and twitch. “Thank you, Suzanne.” Obviously she’s not all that grateful. “But you should have saved your money.”
Why doesn’t Shell see how these signs will help? Does she want the store to fail? Why is she still so grumpy? I open my mouth to tell Shell to be happy about what Suzanne gave her, but I close it again. It won’t help.
“Oh, and I called about leasing the space next door. I think we could do very well with our new flavors. Shipping them to stores in the city.” Suzanne’s tone is determinedly cheerful. “I thought you were on board.”
Shell seems to sag down into herself. “I only ever said I would think about it.” She rubs her temples.
“But—”
“I already called every store in San Diego County. Nobody’s interested. They’ve got enough pie. They don’t think new flavors will work outside a local shop. Frankly, I think I agree.” Shell shakes her head. “That’s just how it is. We’re stuck with what we have.”
Suzanne turns to me. “Go put these napkins out front, please.”
Neither of them says another word, which makes me more worried than ever. I slink out to the front, my stomach folding in on itself.
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of Shell and Suzanne arguing downstairs. Jacques and Julia clack into my room, their tails between their legs, like they’re to blame. Jacques sticks his head under my bed as far as he can but he doesn’t quite fit. I reach down and stroke his smooth fur. “It’s okay.” Julia flops under my window, sighing as if she’s exasperated. I try not to listen,
but their voices carry straight up to me like they’re yelling into an intercom.
“I gave you my share of the mortgage and bills!” Suzanne says. “What happened? You said you would take care of it.”
“If I didn’t pay off the suppliers, we would have closed. When the pie shop made money this month, I was going to pay the mortgage.”
“I knew we shouldn’t have taken out a second mortgage.” Suzanne sounds like she’s going to choke. “The late fees double or triple our costs.”
“It’s what I had to do.” Shell pounds the table with each word. “If I hadn’t, the shop would have gone under two months ago. We can ask for an extension.”
“Oh, they’re not going to wait any more than they have to. They can make a ton of money off this house if they resell it.” Suzanne sounds like she’s got stones in her mouth. “How late is the mortgage?”
Shell doesn’t answer. In that silence, it’s as if a dark cloud, heavy as lead, covers the house. I swallow and pet Jacques harder.
“How late?” Suzanne demands again.
“Four months,” Shell says reluctantly.
“Four months?” Suzanne sounds hysterical. “That means they can foreclose. They’re going to take it back. Why didn’t you tell me everything?”
“I didn’t want you to worry. It wouldn’t have made a difference. Neither of us had the money.”
Suzanne’s crying for real this time. “This is going to take a huge amount of cash, Shell!”
“We can do it,” Shell says, and I recognize this strange note of fake confidence. The same as when Dad says, Everything’s going to be fine. It’s a lie and it makes tears spring to my eye. “I’ll work out a payment plan. It’ll be fine.”
So much for her word.
It’s the house too, not just the pie shop. The place where we live, that belonged to my grandparents. We’re going to lose absolutely everything.
And what about Jay and his family? How could Shell let this happen? Julia comes over to lick the tears off my face.
The front door slams. Suzanne’s car starts and takes off, wheels churning up gravel.
I go downstairs, Jacques and Julia following. To my surprise, María’s here, sitting next to Shell at the kitchen table. “Is everything okay?” I will them to tell me the truth.
María looks pale. “No, mi hija. I’m afraid not.”
Shell puts her hands over her face. The backs of her hands are red and calloused. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Cady. Or to María or her family.”
That’s like promising ice won’t melt when it’s a hundred degrees. Nobody can keep a pledge like that.
María shakes her head. “You told me what the risks were. I said to do it.”
I lean against the counter. So María knew and not Suzanne? I wonder if that’s another reason Suzanne’s so mad. Shell should have told Suzanne. “Are we losing the house? I want to know if we are.”
“Of course not.” Shell sounds fake. It’s not a good look for her.
I cross my arms and glare. Shell looks like she’s getting ready be upset, too. The muscles in her jaw twitch.
“It’s not a worry for a child,” María intervenes. “Especially not after what you’ve been through.”
I’m a kid, but I know when stuff is going on. Why do they expect me to pretend it’s all okay? “I can handle it. Remember?” I stare at Shell. “I can handle truth.”
“I know you can, sweetie. I just wish you didn’t have to.” Shell’s eyes fill with tears.
My heart turns to jelly. Poor Shell. This time I walk over and put my arms around her.
Chapter 32
Shortly after we open, a little girl comes into the pie shop. She’s all by herself, wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a coat although it’s pretty warm today. “May I help you?”
She twists one dirty-looking pigtail around in her hand. “Do you have gluten-free pie?” Her voice is particularly high and clear, like Jenna’s.
I feel a sad jolt. If Jenna came here, she wouldn’t be able to eat anything, either. “Sorry, we don’t.”
Her face falls a little, but not much, like she’s used to hearing this. “Okay.”
I’m a little afraid for her. She looks about six. Who lets their six-year-old go to town to buy pie? “Where are your parents?” I say it as if I’m ancient, like I’m thirty years old myself.
“They’re in a shop.” She shrugs. “They’re coming.”
That’s good. “Can you have vanilla ice cream?”
She nods and hops up to a table.
I put a scoop in a bowl and hold up the can of whipped cream. She nods again. I put on a gigantic squirt and set it in front of her.
She produces a five-dollar bill from her pocket. Crisp and new. “Here you go. Keep the change.”
“It’s on the house.” Shell won’t mind. She’s been complaining about needing to get rid of the ice cream before it gets freezer burn.
She narrows her eyes, then shrugs. She sits there eating her ice cream, and her parents come in. Her dad has long hair poking out from under a floppy fedora. He wears about ten bracelets and silver rings on every finger. Her mom’s got on a long flowery dress and her sandaled feet are dirty from Julian’s paths. She wears a big diamond ring. “Any luck here, Sammy?”
Sammy shakes her head but points at her ice cream. Her parents order two slices of apple. The little girl comes up and puts the five dollars into the tip jar. “Thank you.”
I lean against the counter. “So does your daughter have celiac?”
The man blinks as if surprised. “No. Why?”
“I don’t like eating gluten,” the girl says. “It makes me poop funny.”
The woman giggles while the man looks embarrassed. “Honey, that’s private information.”
“It’s true, though. Her tummy hurts, and she gets stopped up and bloated for a week,” the woman says matter-of-factly. “Doctor’s orders. No wheat. We couldn’t find any gluten-free pie in town, though.”
“Do you have gluten-free pie where you live?” My mind whirs.
“In a few places around Los Angeles. But it’s hard to find. A lot of gluten-free bakers make sweet breads and cake, but hardly anyone does pie. And I know several people who are intolerant.”
“Bakeries have to have a space just for making truly safe gluten-free stuff,” the man says. “You can’t use the same equipment. So not many do it.”
That’s what Jenna needs, too, so she doesn’t get sick. “Huh. Very interesting.” I almost touch my invisible beard, until I remember I’m not with Jay and these people will think I’m a weirdo. This girl reminds me so much of Jenna that it makes my sides ache.
I walk over to where Mr. Miniver’s sipping his coffee and reading the paper. “Mr. Miniver. Did you hear all that?”
“What?” Mr. Miniver asks, but he winks.
I slide into the seat across from him. I know that I don’t have to tell him about the big trouble we’re in or about this morning’s fight. María would have told her mother, and Señora tells Mr. Miniver everything.
“What if we used the shop next door to make a gluten-free space?” I whisper. “And sold it all over the place where people want it? Do you think that would make us enough money?”
Mr. Miniver looks off into the distance. “Possibly. Possibly. Do you know what we need?”
I shake my head.
He slams his hand on the table. “Hard numbers.”
Mr. Miniver says if we sell these gluten-free pies only in our shop, the cost of adding the space won’t be worth it. But if we can get other stores to sell the pies, then it would be.
He opens a browser on his phone. “Make a list of all the grocery stores in the Southern California region. Call them. Ask if they would carry gluten-free pie. That way, we know exactly how much we should be able to sell,” he explains.
The thought of having to talk to people on the phone makes me nervous. “Can’t I email them?”
“Voices are bet
ter,” he says firmly. “You want the personal touch. But you can write down what you’ll say.”
“What if they hang up on me?”
“What if they do?” Mr. Miniver shrugs. “Will lightning strike you dead?”
“Probably not,” I mutter. “But I might die of embarrassment.”
“Only three people in the world have ever died of embarrassment,” Mr. Miniver says gravely. I look at him, surprised. He chuckles. “Okay, none that I know of.”
I dial the first store. Mr. Miniver helped me write a script. While the phone rings, I pretend that I’m Suzanne. Confident and cheerful. “Hello, this is Cady Bennett from Shell’s Pie up in Julian. Is your manager available?” I ask.
Sometimes people say no. Usually they put me through, though. And nobody questions if I’m a kid. By the end of the week, I’ve called ninety-eight stores. The area actually has hundreds, but that’s too many to call. Besides, if it’s a big chain of stores, some main office decides what they’re going to carry. So I mostly call smaller stores. Thirty stores say they might be interested, if the pies were good and reasonably priced. Some say they’d do it if they were frozen. Mr. Miniver says we’d need to use some kind of special facility to do that. We don’t count those stores. All in all, we have a pretty good case.
Mr. Miniver shows me the plans he’s drawn up. He’s spent the week doing research and pricing out all the things we would need to put in the new space. “I’ll be the money guy. But you know what we need that only you can provide?”
I shake my head.
“A good-tasting gluten-free pie.” He winks.
Mr. Miniver calls a meeting with Suzanne and Jay and me to discuss our plans. He takes us to the Rongbranch Restaurant off of Main Street, which serves a lot of steaks and burgers and has an Old West theme. Not surprisingly, it smells like beef in here.
Suzanne slides into the booth next to Mr. Miniver. Jay and I sit across from them. “Get the burger,” Jay advises as I look over the menu. “With extra cheese.”
My stomach agrees. We all order. Then Suzanne puts her elbows on the table. “Thank you for taking us out, Mr. Miniver. But why all the secrecy? Why couldn’t we meet at the shop?”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 19
