“No, ma’am. You’ve got to go there in person.” He goes to some exposed pipes at the side of the building, turns a lever. Then he sticks the tool into something and twists. He slides the lock through the metal.
We’re all quiet. I feel ashamed, like I did something wrong on purpose and got called out. I look at my aunt. Her cheeks are deep magenta, and she stares unblinkingly at the ground. Suzanne stands next to her, stiff, her arms crossed, glaring at the man.
The customers peek through the windows, whispering. Are they going to visit the Candy Mine next and say, “Shell’s Pie is going under”?
I wonder what Mary Berry would do under these conditions. Would she yell at the man or somehow try to make things a tiny bit better?
I blurt out, “Would you like a slice of pie?”
Jay gives me a sideways glance. “Are you crazy?”
The man’s face stretches in surprise. Shell practically snarls at me. This guy’s turning off our water and we’re going to have to close and now I’m giving away our profits. But I can’t back out. “We have apple, apple cherry, strawberry basil, or apple fennel raisin,” I rattle off.
Jay coughs pointedly. I ignore him.
“Strawberry basil sounds okay.” The water man turns his cap awkwardly in his hands. Shell glares at him. She’s thinking, Say please. I race inside and get him a piece. Pile it high with whipped cream. Add a scoop of vanilla and grab a napkin and plastic fork.
I hand it to him. “Here you are, my good man.” I present it to him with a little bow.
He bows back awkwardly. “Thank you.” He tucks into the pie. “I’ve been meaning to come here.”
Shell’s lips thin into a straight line.
Señora Vasquez thumps her cane. “If you had been coming here to buy pie, we might not have this problem.”
His face has an expression like Jay’s grandmother is a rattler he almost stepped on. I don’t blame him. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay out of reach of her cane. He eats some more, fast. “It’s delicious.” He scrapes up every last bit of crumb. “I never would have thought to put these flavors together.”
I shrug modestly. “I’m not the first one to come up with it.” I think every possible pie flavor is on the internet already. It’s just my own spin.
“It’s Cady’s recipe. She’s going to be a famous baker one day,” Señora Vasquez chimes in. “You wait and see.”
I look at her in surprise. She nods at me and my cheeks flush. Yes. Wait and see.
I’m a long way from the first pie I made and threw into the garbage. Now people are saying I’m going to be famous. I grin.
“This little girl?” He puts his cap back on his head and takes a knee. He holds out his hand. “Thank you, young lady. That was the best pie I’ve ever had.”
I stick out my Bennett chin as I pump his hand up and down. “That’s because we use butter and all-natural ingredients.”
“Yup. Everything’s better with butter.” The man glances at the lock, then at Shell. I expect him to say, Thanks for the pie! I’ll give you more time. But he only hands the empty plate to Jay. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
Now Shell swipes her hand across her face. “It’s not your fault.”
“Still.”
Shell turns away. Suzanne puts her arm around my aunt. “We know you’re just doing your job.”
The man tips his hat to us, then gets in his truck and drives off, the wheels spinning granite dust into our eyes.
“Can’t we clear out these last pies?” Suzanne asks inside the store. All the customers have left during this, as if they sensed everything happening. “We could mark them down.”
“Jay and I could tell people on Main Street about it.” I count the pies in the case. More than a dozen. My heart sinks.
“It wouldn’t make a difference to our bottom line,” Shell says. “If I don’t have all the money, I might as well have none of it. We’ll take the pies to the shelter.”
Suzanne has nothing to say to this. Suzanne being speechless—that’s a bad sign. She goes in the back.
Shell turns over the sign in the door. CLOSED.
Chapter 35
Suzanne knocks on my door to wake me. Tom howls angrily at her. “I know, Tom. It’s too early.” Suzanne comes in and sits on my bed. “Hey, Cady.”
“What’s wrong?” I can tell by her face something’s up. It’s been four days since we closed the pie shop.
She massages her temples. Her eyes are so swollen she can barely see. She’s been crying. “Um. Shell and I are driving to the bank in the city. See if they can delay a little.”
I sit up. That sounds hopeful.
“Otherwise, we’ve got to be out of here in thirty days,” Suzanne continues.
Every function in my body stops. I hold my breath. “What about Jay?”
“They’re going to stay with Mr. Miniver for a little bit, until María finds a new job.” Suzanne fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “My parents in Washington are going to let us stay with them. I can work for my dad’s auto shop. In the office, not as a mechanic.” She sort of pats my leg. “But we have to go to court and get approval to take you out of state.”
I’m still holding my breath. I don’t want to leave California. I don’t want to leave Shell’s house or Julian.
And Dad. I’m still mad at him, but the thought of moving out of state makes my heart panic. How will he get better if he knows I won’t be here when he gets out? “What if the judge says no?”
“They won’t.” Shell stands in my doorway. “As long as your dad doesn’t object.”
My throat squeezes. “Do you think he will?”
Shell doesn’t say anything.
“What if my dad says no?” I ask.
“He won’t.” Shell shifts. “We’ll go visit him. Make him see how important it is.”
My dad’s definitely going to say no. I’m his only kid, his only relative. He won’t want me to move away. And maybe I’ll be more upset if he says yes, because that will mean he’s given up.
This is so unfair. Why did they have to bring me to Julian and make me love it? For the first time ever I have a lot of friends. Now they’re taking it all away. I stand up. “This is your fault,” I say to Shell. “You should have never gotten me.”
Shell blinks at me hollowly. I know it’s a mean thing for me to say, but it’s also true.
Jay and his family. Mr. Miniver. Each of the locals I’ve met, the ones who say hello and ask me how my aunts are. The chickens.
It’ll be like I’d never met any of them at all. I wish she’d left me at the children’s center, where I could be miserable by myself. Knowing them all and then losing them—this hurts so much worse.
Suzanne folds in half on my bed, covering her face. I’ve hurt Shell. I hate myself. I hate everything.
I get up and walk out of my bedroom. Down the stairs and through the living room.
I don’t really have a plan, except I need to get out of here, fast. My mind’s all muddy. I put on my shoes and leave the dogs whining by the gate and take off down the road.
It’s only seven, so it’s not hot yet. But the clouds are burning off fast and I’m already sweating under my pajamas. A car honks. I probably look kind of silly. I don’t care.
My stomach growls. I skipped breakfast. I decide I don’t care about that either.
To my right is the Culvers’ farm. Their horses wander near the fence, sucking grass into their mouths. The white one, Miss Daisy, nickers at me. I stick my hand over and pet her. It’s hard to stay mad when you’re petting a horse, but I try. “Bye,” I say to her. “Good luck.”
I keep walking. Another car beeps at me as I trudge along the road. I ignore it.
“Hey, you!” The car pulls up beside me. A Jeep. It’s Mr. Miniver.
I stop and shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re telling me that you’re out here in your pajamas and you’re perfectly fine?” He beckons to me. �
��Get in.”
“I don’t want to go home.” My heart twists at the word. Home.
“I won’t take you home,” Mr. Miniver promises. “Come on, now.”
Mr. Miniver takes me to his house, a one-story ranch accented with stone walls, on three flat acres on top of a hill. Or mini-mountain. I’ve never been here before.
Our steps echo as we walk across the honey-colored wooden floors. Almost all the furniture is wood or has wooden elements; even I can tell it’s the kind that you need to use coasters with. It’s a big house, at least twice the size of Shell’s. “Don’t you even have a pet or anything? Like a goldfish?” I’d be lonely here. It’s kind of lonely with just two of us.
Mr. Miniver shrugs. “Eh. We used to have animals. I’ve done my share of cleaning up the poop of other creatures.”
I snort.
“Have a seat.” He indicates a stool at his kitchen counter. His kitchen is kind of small for such a big house, with oak cabinets and older white tiles lined with brown grout on the counters. “Want a bagel and cream cheese?”
Do I? My stomach momentarily drowns out the sound of his ice maker. We both laugh. He hands me the bagel package and the cream cheese, and I get to work.
He takes out a saucepan and sets it on his stove. “I’m going to make you my famous hot chocolate, invented by my great-great-grandmother. Known to heal all ills. You’re lucky. I happen to have all the ingredients.”
I sigh. “Chocolate can’t fix everything, Mr. Miniver.”
“You’re right. But it can help ease the problems. Like shocks on a car.” Mr. Miniver gets a chocolate bar out from his cupboard. “High-quality chocolate. That’s the key.”
I lean my head on my hand, watching him melt the chocolate in a saucepan over another pan of boiling water. Watching him cook and smelling the bittersweet candy is settling me down.
At last he pours the chocolate concoction into two cups, then squirts some canned whipped cream on top. “If I were serious I’d make this from scratch, but this isn’t so bad.” He clinks my cup. “Cheers.”
I tell him what Shell and Suzanne told me. When I’m done, he doesn’t say anything. The sun’s climbing into the sky and shines hot into the kitchen, his hanging potted plant with its tendrils making a squid shadow on the wall.
Finally he speaks. “Cady, let me tell you the one thing I’ve learned from life.”
Uh-oh. I brace myself. So many adults want to tell you about the things they’ve learned. They never seem to know how I feel, though.
“The only constant in life is change,” Mr. Miniver says.
“Yeah. I know,” I grunt. I’m already turning back into old Cady. I decide I don’t want to be like that—old Cady wasn’t that happy—so I’m going to stay quiet. For now.
“But people are naturally afraid of change,” Mr. Miniver continues. “And true, not all change is good.” He takes a sip of hot chocolate. “When my wife died, I thought my life was over. I wanted to curl up and die. But if I became a hermit, if I just gave up on life, why, it would have been like spitting on Ginny’s memory.” He indicates my mouth and hands me a napkin. I wipe. “She’d want me to live with hope.” He points to some framed photos on the wall.
Ginny has a big smile and a fluffy sweater, exactly like what you think a grandma would look like. Like a woman who hugged you a lot and gave you candies and five-dollar bills. “So you volunteering and all that, is that how you keep her alive? Her spirit, anyway?”
His eyes get as bright as headlights. “Yes. Yes, I’d say that’s right.”
We sip our hot chocolate for a while. It’s creamy and rich and not too sweet like the packages of hot chocolate are. I want it to last forever. Then Mr. Miniver speaks again. “Life has highs and lows and it never stops throwing things at you.” He smiles. “What I’ve learned is to enjoy the good times while they’re here. And the bad times never last, either.”
I swallow. “I think I’ve had bad times for at least the past seven years.”
“What about the good parts?” he says.
I close my eyes. Jenna. The pie shop. Jay. Mr. Miniver. My tears return. “I would have rather never had those.”
“You’re wrong.” Mr. Miniver taps my empty cup with his spoon. “What about this?”
“It was delicious.”
“But it’s gone forever.” Mr. Miniver widens his eyes. “Do you wish you’d never had it?”
I shake my head. “Of course not.”
“Of course not,” he echoes. “So you don’t really wish you’d never met Shell or Jay or your father, do you?”
My eyes sting. I shake my head no.
“You’re going to be okay.” Mr. Miniver picks up my mug. “Better than okay. Excellently okay.”
I nod. I want to believe him.
“And it’s not done yet, is it?” Mr. Miniver winks. His phone buzzes and he picks it up and reads the text. “Shell’s on her way over.”
“You told her where I was?”
“Of course. I didn’t want her to worry.”
I stare at Mrs. Miniver’s smiling face and realize two important things.
One. I don’t want Shell to worry, either.
Two. Being bitter and ignoring my dad won’t solve anything. It’s not helping me at all. I can be happy here and still want him to be better at the same time.
I want to see him.
Chapter 36
The arched metal detector buzzes, and the man in the guard uniform tells me to hold my arms straight out from my sides. I do, and his wand beeps. “Do you have something in your pocket?”
I dig into my jeans. Some coins tumble out. “Oops.” I throw them into the plastic bin he holds.
Shell told me to empty them, but apparently I didn’t do a good job. She’s already ahead of me and waiting, and I expect her to scold me for not listening. My face gets hot. “Sorry, Shell.”
“No worries.” Shell stands there patiently as the guard finishes and I pass through.
She holds out her hand. I hesitate for a second—I’m twelve, do I need to hold anyone’s hand?—but then the fluorescent-lit hallway opens up in front of us, the guard’s work boots clumping on the linoleum, and I wish I were a little kid who could be carried.
I grip her hand tightly.
“You okay?” Shell asks.
“Yeah.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“No. I don’t know.” I pull up the collar of my T-shirt and chew on it. “What if—what if he’s different?” Or worse, the same?
Shell stops walking and faces me. “Tell you what. Let’s have a code word. Say it and I make up an excuse for leaving.”
I cast my eyes over the hallway, looking for something to inspire me. Just a bunch of locked doors.
The guard taps his boot. “You guys coming or what?”
“Boot,” I say. “That’s the code.”
“You got this.” Shell winks. We follow the guard all the way to the end.
My dad has to stay here for one year. Then he’ll have eighteen months to prove he can be an upright citizen or whatever. Shell explained it all to me. He’ll have to take parenting classes, get a job, prove himself. If you add the year in jail to the eighteen months, I’ll be halfway done with eighth grade by the time he’s ready to take me back. Almost in high school.
I hadn’t known what to say, exactly, when Shell told me that. We’ll be in another state. I’ll be used to my life there. She looked at my face and knew the question even if I didn’t say it out loud. “We’ll make it work. Don’t worry. I will always take care of you.” Shell’s jaw clenched, so I knew she was serious. Well, I mean, she’s pretty much always serious, but this way I knew she was extra-super-duper serious.
I believe her.
This room has a bunch of tables and chairs in it, sort of like a classroom. The light’s the same greenish hue as it was in the hallway. Shell sits next to me. Her breathing’s raspy and—wait for it—there’s the jaw twitch again. She might be even more nervo
us than I am. I grab her hand and squeeze it.
Shell squeezes back. “This is going to be fine, Cady.” She’s talking to herself as much as to me.
Dad shuffles in. No handcuffs, thank goodness. But an orange shirt and pants. His hair looks neater than it has in a long time, combed straight back, and his eyes are clearer. “Cady!”
I don’t have any words. I stand up and he grabs me in a hug, patting my back awkwardly. He feels different, a little heavier. And he seems shorter. Or maybe I’m taller.
Dad kisses the top of my head and I sit down next to Shell again.
“Hello.” Shell lifts a hand, the corners of her mouth turning down, until she forces them back up.
“Michelle.” Dad nods at her. He doesn’t even try to smile.
“Shell. Dad.” I look at both of them. Make up. Do something.
Shell puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’ll let you have some time with your dad.” Shell gets up and retreats to an empty table in the corner of the room. I’m glad she’s still here.
Dad sits there looking at me, and I have a hard time looking back. I stare at the tabletop instead. “I’ve missed you, Buttercup. I mean, Cady. Sorry.”
I nod. I missed you too, is what I should say. I should tell him about Shell and Suzanne welcoming me into their house, about Jay, about pie, about the shop closing, about Washington. All the things a parent might want to know about. I can’t. Acid churns into my throat. Why weren’t you different? I want to scream at him. Why couldn’t you get better, for me?
Suddenly I remember Señora Vasquez’s story about her husband crashing their car. I was so angry at him. . . . But blame and anger don’t get you very far.
And what Mr. Miniver said. If I could build a time machine, would I travel back and set everything different? Make it so I never met Aunt Shell and Suzanne and Jay at all?
I raise my head and look straight into my father’s eyes. No. I would not. I don’t want to wish away this summer, or these people. Ever. Even with all the bad stuff. I’ll take it.
My throat clears. I reach across the cold metal table to take my father’s hand. “I’m glad you’re better. I’ve missed you too.” I squeeze his hand. “You can call me Buttercup. It’s okay.”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 21
