The Ultimate Pi Day Party

by Jackie Lau

  But for now, I won’t focus on the bill.

  My pulse hammers as I approach the table. “Hi, Mom.”

  She stands up to greet me with a hug.

  Dad, on the other hand, merely grunts.

  Oh, is this how it’s going to be? The three of us having dim sum, and he still isn’t going to talk to me?

  But then he nods and says, “Josh.”

  The first word he’s said to me in ages. My name.

  “Hi, Dad.” I attempt a smile as I sit down.

  Meeting Sarah’s family on Monday was a cakewalk compared to this. I’m afraid that if I say the wrong word, Dad will go back to the silent treatment.

  “How was the drive?” I ask. “You must have left quite early this morning.”

  Dad grunts again. “Lots of construction.”

  I’m hanging on every meaningless word, because it doesn’t feel meaningless, not to me. He’s actually answering my questions.

  I hold up the order sheet, where we write down how many of each dish we want. “Do you want to order, or should I?”

  He clucks his tongue. “If you do it, there will be siu mai and bao and nothing else. Better let me.”

  I laugh. He remembers exactly what I like at dim sum, even though it’s been years. Except my tastes are a little more varied now than when I was a child.

  Dad orders a generous amount of things, including turnip cakes, which none of us particularly like, but he enjoyed teasing me with them when I was little—I’d always wrinkle my nose.

  Is that why he orders them now? I don’t know.

  The server comes back and takes our order sheet, and when she leaves, Dad looks at me and says, “So, how have you been?”

  “In the past seventeen years?” I can’t help saying.

  He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Well?”

  And so I tell him about my life, though I suspect he already knows all about it—my mother probably tells him everything. He expresses disgust, as expected, at the fact that my business involves making apps for smartphones.

  “Ah, so many people, all they do is stare at their phones all day.” He shakes his head. “And you make it even worse!” The chicken feet, which are his favorite, arrive as he says this. He tries one and says, “A little too salty.”

  The little digs and complaints—that’s normal. If my father didn’t complain at all, that would be a red flag. I’m glad he’s acting like himself in front of me. “A little too salty” is high praise from him, so I don’t think he’s disappointed in my choice of restaurant. If, instead, he said, “It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted!” I would wonder if he’d started smoking the stuff I used to smoke in high school.

  The siu mai and har gow—shrimp dumplings—are next, and we continue to avoid any touching family reconciliation scenes. We don’t talk about the Pi Day party at all. There will be time for that later.

  However, when I stand up while we’re waiting for our egg tarts, my father jerks my arm and pulls me back into my seat.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he demands.

  “The bathroom.”

  He gives me a look.

  He’s not wrong.

  I’ve drunk about fifteen small teacups of tea and I do need to relieve my bladder, but I’d also planned to pay the bill while I was up.

  He clucks his tongue again. “That’s the oldest trick in the book. I’m disappointed in you. So predictable, not at all sneaky. How are you a good businessman?”

  “You don’t have to be sneaky to be a good businessman,” I say. “What kind of stuff do you think I do?”

  “I know what you were doing in high school. Skipping class to smoke marijuana.”

  “You sound so uncool,” Mom says. “Nobody says ‘marijuana.’ It’s ‘pot’ or ‘weed,’ isn’t that right, Josh? And it’s legal now.”

  “Hold on a second,” I say. “Dad, are you suggesting that my company is a front for drug dealing?”

  “Ah, silly boy. You know I’m kidding.” He’s still gripping my arm. “But you are not going to the washroom. It’s a cheap trick.”

  “Fine, fine,” I grumble. I suppose I can wait.

  The egg tarts arrive. I’m stuffed, but that won’t stop me from having an egg tart now, or from eating lots of delicious pie later on.

  I use a chopstick to draw a pi symbol in the custard filling of one of the tarts. For the pies she’s serving tonight, Sarah made steam holes in the shape of the pi symbol, which is a nice touch. Her idea, of course, not mine.

  I hand the tart to my dad. “Happy Pi Day.”

  “I can’t believe you’re having a Pi Day party,” he says. “I thought you were too cool for that, with all your Facebook and Twitter and apps. Though I’m disappointed the party doesn’t start at one fifty-nine.”

  That’s the ideal time for a Pi Day party to start, since those are the next three digits of pi after 3.14. But... “I didn’t want the party to be in the middle of the workday. And speaking of Facebook, I found your account.”

  My father’s eyes widen in horror, and oh, I’m enjoying this.

  “What?” Mom says. “You got Facebook? After you forbid me from getting it?”

  “How did you find my account?” Dad asks.

  “You friended Nancy,” I say. “Did you think she wouldn’t tell me?”

  Mom turns to me. “What does he do on Facebook? Does he post pictures of us?”

  “No, just lame math jokes.”

  “Wah, they’re not lame,” he says. “They’re brilliant!”

  “Well, then, I hope you enjoy the party tonight. I even have math joke napkins.”

  Dad laughs. It’s the first time in forever that he’s actually laughed at something I said.

  I smile. “He even has a fan club,” I tell my mother. “Two hundred forty-three of his former students are in the Facebook group.”

  “Two hundred forty-three?” he says. “Last time I checked, there were only two hundred and thirty. How often do you check my fan club?”

  Too often, apparently, but my father’s unlikely Facebook presence was the closest I could get to him. Until now.

  The server comes over with the bill, and the instant she sets it on the table, I grab it.

  “I’m paying,” I say.

  Dad tries to grab it back, but I hold it above my head.

  “No, I’m your father,” he says. “Your elder. I pay.”

  “I invited you to this restaurant.”

  “But going out for dim sum was my idea,” Mom interjects. “We pay.”

  I pull out my wallet and shove a hundred-dollar bill toward the waitress.

  She frowns. “What about the card you gave us earlier?” She holds up a payment terminal and a credit card. “Can I put it on this?”

  What on earth...

  Dad is smirking.

  “Did you get here early just so you could give them your credit card?” I ask.

  He nods triumphantly. “One hour early.”

  An hour? But they drove all the way from Ottawa. They must have had to wake up super early, all so they could pull this over me.

  “You wouldn’t let me go to the washroom,” I say. “Why, if you’d already given them your card? And why were you trying to grab the bill back from me?”

  “Just messing with you.” He crosses his arms over his chest, then enters his pin when the server hands him the machine. “Fun, no?”

  I roll my eyes. Alright. Point to my father.

  I could try to shove some money in his hand, or steal his car keys and leave the cash on the front seat. But for now, I let him have his victory, because for the first time in twenty years, things aren’t terrible between us.

  * * *

  After dim sum, my parents want to do a little shopping, so I head back to my house without them. At four o’clock, Amrita and Clarissa come over, and we set up the house for the party. Moving things out of the way as needed, setting up folding chairs and folding tables covered in pi tablecloths. T
his probably would have worked better as a casual summer party in the backyard, but alas, Pi Day is in March, and there’s still snow on the ground.

  Sarah arrives with the appetizer tarts, dessert pies, and salads. She’s accompanied by her friends, Chloe and Valerie, who will help serve the appetizers. They’re all dressed in black pants and white shirts, and when Sarah smiles at me, my heart bounces around in my chest.

  “How did dim sum go?” she asks as she arranges the shortbread cookies in order of the digits of pi on a dark wooden serving board.

  “Good, I suppose. My dad talked to me, and he got there an hour early to give them his credit card so I couldn’t pay.”

  The other day, I explained to Sarah the antics of my family when it comes to paying the bill, and she looked at me in bafflement.

  She laughs now, but then her expression sobers.

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  She doesn’t look at me. “I just really want this to go well. What if Fatima and Dylan screw up the savory pies somehow? What if nobody likes the appetizer quiches and tarts?”

  “You’ve got this. I believe in you.” I press a kiss to her temple. “Everything you make is amazing, and this will be only the start of your catering business, okay?”

  She nods. I’m not sure she fully believes me, but I hope she does.

  My parents return at five o’clock, after going to multiple Chinese supermarkets to get things they can’t buy in Ottawa.

  Mom slips off her shoes in the entryway. “This is your house? Wow.”

  Dad grunts. “You have illegitimate children you didn’t tell us about? Is that why you need all this space?”

  “It’s really not that big,” I protest.

  “But in Toronto, everything is small. You should save for retirement instead.”

  “I’m not lacking in money. I can afford what I have. I can afford to throw a Pi Day party for my employees. Here, I’ll show you the guest bedroom.”

  I take my parents upstairs. When they come back down, my dad examines the math joke napkins, which are sitting on one of the tables. He grunts again, but this time, there’s some laughter behind the grunt, and I’ll take it.

  My father is still talking to me and occasionally laughing, and that’s more than I’ve had in a very long time.

  * * *

  By six thirty, the party is in full swing. People are gathered in little groups around my house, some sitting at tables, chatting together. A couple children are running around. I greet everyone who comes in and put their jackets on the extra racks I had Clarissa order for this event. Chloe and Valerie are walking around with platters of quiches and mini tarts. The mushroom and cheese ones are my favorite, but I’ve restrained myself—I’ve only eaten two. I haven’t seen Sarah in a while, but I know she’s in the kitchen, heating up the appetizers and getting the salads ready to serve with dinner. The bartender I hired—Sarah arranged it—is making cocktails and pouring wine, and one of her employees will arrive any minute with the hot savory pies.

  I told Sarah earlier that I wouldn’t introduce her to my parents tonight, at least not as anything more than the caterer. My dad talked to me for the first time in well over a decade today; I don’t want to spring a girlfriend on him, too.

  But next time, I’ll introduce them.

  I don’t know when next time will be, but maybe it’ll actually be before Christmas.

  My father is in the living room, gesturing animatedly with a cocktail as he speaks to a couple of the project managers, who are hanging on his every word. My father can be charming—in a slightly grumpy way, but charming nonetheless—and that’s what he’s doing tonight. He’s probably telling embarrassing stories from my childhood, and I’ll hear all about it tomorrow.

  I can’t wait.

  No, really, I can’t. This is all going the way I want, and although the party was my idea, I owe its success to Sarah, who helped me plan it and made the delicious food. I peek into the kitchen, and when I see her, I smile and my heart rate kicks up a notch.

  She did it.

  And she’s mine.

  Chapter 22

  Sarah

  Josh is giving a little talk, thanking everyone for coming, saying this year has been great for business so far, and he’s looking to hire a few more developers. He’s magnetic, and people listen to him when he talks. He doesn’t exude power—which is how the heroine describes the hero in A Secret Baby for the CEO when she’s not calling him an asshole—but he has an air of friendliness and trust, and I can see that everyone here respects him.

  Except maybe his father.

  His father is magnetic, too, and I can see how he was popular as a teacher, but he has a surliness to him that Josh doesn’t.

  And I can’t forget that he basically disowned Josh.

  I also overheard him say that the braised lamb and rosemary pie had too much rosemary, and that annoyed me.

  He’s wrong. My pie has the perfect amount of rosemary.

  Trust me, I spent years getting it just right. His taste buds are broken.

  But now the savory pies are finished, and the dessert pies are spread out on the dining room table. There’s pumpkin, spiced apple, pear ginger crumble, strawberry-rhubarb, and many others, plus the special pies and tarts I made just for this party, as well as whipped cream and vanilla ice cream. People are taking pictures as they ooh and aah. Hopefully they’ll post the photos on Instagram and tell their friends, and I’ll get more business. And be known for something other than making the banana cream pie that once adorned the premier’s face.

  This table is like my life’s work. Sure, it’s just pie, but pie makes people happy. Sometimes people need something to make them smile, and I can provide that.

  And you know what? Josh has always believed in me.

  It hits me then.

  I’ve been thinking that my budding relationship with Josh will be to the detriment of my business, just because I made a few silly mistakes in the kitchen. But I’ll stop making those mistakes, won’t I? What’s more important is that Josh makes me feel good and he believes in me. He asked me to do this party, and he knew I’d succeed.

  And I did.

  His dad’s eyes light up when he tries the Nutella pie. A woman moans in bliss after a bite of pear ginger crumble pie.

  Since the very beginning, Josh has thought that I’m amazing at what I do, and his belief in me never wavered. I’m not used to having someone in my corner like this.

  And having something else to think about, other than my business, is good for me. As I’ve been told, I might burn out if I think about Happy As Pie all day, every day. It’s good for me to have Josh, to have someone to spend time with me. Someone who understands and respects how important my business is to me.

  Before, I assumed that any relationship would hurt my dream, but I was wrong. There’s no reason for me to avoid relationships, not with someone like Josh.

  I catch his eye across the room. When he smiles at me, my heart flutters in my chest, and I can’t help wishing I could steal a kiss.

  “Sarah?”

  I turn. It’s Valerie, and she looks a little pale.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Headache.”

  “You can go home. It’s fine. I can handle everything else.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod.

  She looks at all the people gathered in Josh’s house. “I used to do what they do.”

  “An ice cream shop sounds more fun than programming.”

  “Ice cream is Chloe’s dream, not mine.”

  Valerie looks sad, which isn’t an emotion I’ve seen on her face before. She’s more likely to be a little prickly and sarcastic.

  “Why did you quit?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Because men are assholes.”

  “Josh said he’s looking to hire some people. You could apply? I’m sure he wouldn’t let his employees act like assholes.”

  “No, I think that par
t of my life is finished.”

  “Don’t say that!” I’m in a good mood. I believe everyone’s dreams can come true. After all, I have my own bakery, and we just successfully catered our first party. I have a boyfriend and a couple new friends.

  My life is as good as it can be. I need to believe Valerie can have that, too.

  After she leaves, I eavesdrop on a bunch of people telling stories about the Pi Day parties at their universities. One man describes how the math department would order a bunch of pizzas and buy a few pies at the grocery store.

  Everyone agrees this party is superior.

  Of course they do. Not only is my food freaking awesome but there’s also alcohol. I’m skeptical that an event hosted by the math department would have alcohol.

  It really is the ultimate Pi Day party that Josh desired.

  His parents approach me.

  “My son says you own the pie shop,” his father says.

  My son. I bet his dad hasn’t said that in a long time. I’m thrilled the party brought the two of them together again, thrilled I could do that for Josh, since I know how much his family means to him.

  Though to be honest, it takes some restraint not to tell his dad off for the way he’s treated Josh—and for the fact that he thinks my lamb pie has too much rosemary.

  “The butter tarts are even better than mine,” his mother says.

  “I like the hazelnut tarts,” his dad says. “Both the maple and the chocolate. Interesting that he named his company Hazelnut Tech. Why name a company after a nut?”

  He did it because hazelnuts are your favorite. But I don’t say that.

  “Well, there’s Apple,” I say instead. “Not a nut, obviously, but...”

  “True. I thought that was a stupid name, too. But the food is delicious.”

  “Thank you.”

  A few minutes later, I hear him telling someone that smartphones are stupid, which I’m sure is the appropriate thing to say at a party for a company that does app development.

  Josh comes up to me when I’m cleaning up in the kitchen.

  “You don’t need to do that now,” he says. “Enjoy yourself. We can do it together after the party’s over.”