Black Cherry Bourbon Pie
I LOVE BEING known as a pie maker. I always have. There’s something about it that’s humbling and enchanting at the same time. It requires work and patience, creativity and experimenting, and the outcome makes it all so worth it. Of course, not every pie will taste award-winning, but that’s half the fun—tweaking it until it does.
There’s also an art to it that can never really be mastered, just practiced over and over again, refined. It makes me feel proud to know not only have I found that one thing in life I love to do every day, it also brings love and happiness to others as well. I mean, is there really anything better than a slice of pie?
GiGi once told me there are two kinds of people: those who love cake, and those who love pie. At the time, I was shocked. Sure, most eat both—after all, who wants to say no to something delicious and sweet—but generally people will gravitate toward one or the other. How pie isn’t their number one go-to, I’ll never know. I mean, we’re talking about pie. Pie, people!
A pie can be sweet or savory; a cake cannot. Pie crusts are buttery, flaky, and melt in your mouth; a cake shouldn’t have a crust. If it does, gross. A pie with ice cream is rich and delicious; a cake with ice cream is soggy mush. Pie is for adults, ones who appreciate a developed palate; cake is for children. And, well, pie is delicious and leaves you craving more, whereas cake is usually dry, slathered with icing to cover that up, and likely to leave you nauseated with sugar shock. I mean, if you think about it, cake is really just a round dessert that’s trying its hardest to be as good as a pie but never will be.
Also, pies are traditions, holidays, and memories. For me, being a pie maker—it’s my childhood. It’s what will always keep me connected to her.
When James and I were two years old, our mother decided to drop us off at GiGi’s house and never look back. I am sure GiGi heard from her over the years, but James and I never did, and we never asked, because honestly, we didn’t care. Other than old pictures GiGi kept up in the house of her as a kid, neither one of us could remember what she looked like, so in a way, it was as if she never really existed.
GiGi was our mother’s mother, and she was only forty-two when we showed up. She never really felt like a grandmother to us, and she filled the role of loving mother perfectly.
“Tell me again why we don’t hire someone to do this.” Marie groans. I glance over, and she’s behind the tree next to me. Her dark hair is pulled back, wet from sweat, and her face is red. She looks miserable.
“Well, the obvious reason is it saves us money, and with the house expenses lately, we need it. Also, you know how I feel—it needs to be us, from start to finish. It’s part of our story and our charm.”
“But it’s so hot,” she whines.
Pecans in the south are ready to be harvested in the fall. Not every year do we get a large bounty, but this year we hit the mother lode. There are so many pecans on our trees that we won’t even be able to use them all, and unfortunately for us, the weather still feels like it’s the middle of summer.
“Stop thinking about that and focus on all the money we’re going to make from having so many jars of perfect pecan pie filling.” I grin at her, and she rolls her eyes.
Money.
Just the word alone evokes emotions and has them swirling in the pit of my stomach. Marie knows money is tight due to all the repairs, but she doesn’t know how tight. Yes, I inherited the house free and clear, but that didn’t stop me from getting hit with property taxes, insurance fees, and so many things that need fixing. It’s unfortunate because all the repairs started almost immediately after I got financing to remodel the kitchen and the mudroom. Now, I’m one more unexpected problem away from being forced to take out a home equity line against the house and being even more in debt.
But, it’s my home and my business, and I know this year’s holiday season is going to be the best yet for us.
Firefly Kitchen is known for its five core pie fillings: black cherry bourbon, Meyer lemon shaker, strawberry rhubarb, honey balsamic blueberry, and the perfect peach pie. Outside of these five, we occasionally sell seasonal fillings based on what we have, how busy we are, and what kind of creative concoction we can come up with. I love having pecan filling in the shop for general retail, but some years the harvest holds us back, and I’d rather offer it as an extra than always be out of stock.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, she walks over to the rolling garbage can and empties her pecan picker. No, we don’t use it for garbage, just pecans. It makes transporting them back to the barn or house easier.
“This is true. The handyman did a good job on the ceiling in your old room last week. You can’t even tell there was ever a leak.”
Ugh. That leak was another unexpected pain in the rear.
“Yeah, he did. I was also so relieved he didn’t find any mold.” Mold might have tipped me onto the crazy side. Fortunately, the leak was new, not one that’s been slowly dripping into the house all summer. I’ve quickly discovered that sometimes it really sucks being a homeowner.
“Can you imagine?” she asks.
“No.”
I don’t remember GiGi ever having these problems with the house. Sure, things came up here and there due to wear and tear, but over the last six months, I feel like the hits keep coming nonstop.
GiGi’s house, which is now my house, is on a large piece of land in central Florida that she inherited from her father. The house can be found in the middle, on top of a hill, and it faces northwest. It’s white, three stories, and complete with a wrap-around veranda and four white columns that adorn the front. Some would call it a plantation home, but to me it’s just my house.
Most people think Florida is just plain old hot and flat, but I’ve got news for them: they are wrong. The town we live in is covered with rolling green hills and pastures filled with horses and cattle. Sure, it can get hot during the day—like right now—but each afternoon the skies open up with a quick rain shower, causing the temperature to drop. GiGi always said God made it rain to water the grass and the trees, and to keep the cows’ feet cool from the burning ground. She had an answer for everything, and we loved her.
“How long do you think it will take us to gather these pecans?” Marie asks, as if we don’t do this every year.
We’ve already been out picking them up here and there over the last week. A few dropped in September, but boy oh boy have they been raining down lately. Marie hates manual labor, which is why she’s perfect for the corporate side of our business, but it is what it is. If we don’t get out here early, we end up competing with the squirrels—the thought of that makes me shiver—deer, and other elements.
“I guess it depends on how many jars we want to make.” Really, the more the better. Sure, pecan pie is a great fall pie, but it’s a big seller for Easter too. I’m down for the work of jarring it, and we need to capitalize on it when we can. She knows this.
I think maybe tomorrow I can get out here super early and get a head start. We’ll finish sooner, and I can get on with doing something else. I watch as Marie lets out a sigh and eyes all the trees we still have to do.
My great-grandfather did an amazing job laying out how different things are planted around the property. To the north we have two rows of pecan trees, black cherry trees, peach trees, kumquat trees, and avocado trees. To the east, just behind the house, we have produce crops with strawberries, tomatoes, strawberry onions, blackberries, blueberries, herbs, and different varieties of peppers. To the south we have all of our citrus trees. I’ve been lucky they haven’t been hit by any diseases and I’m still able to commercially sell the fruit. Believe it or not, those oranges make a nice bit of income for me, especially after last summer and the water pump problem.
As I roll over a few more pecans, my phone rings. Pulling it from my pocket, I freeze as I stare at it. Reading the name on the screen, I blink several times to make sure I’m not seeing things.
This can’t be real.
I’ve spent what feels like my entire life waiting to see his name flash across my phone for an incoming call, and now that it has—it finally has—my heart thunders in my chest. In fact, I’m so flustered, I jerk back and almost trip over the picker.
Two rings. Three rings.
When he left last week, he said he would call, but I didn’t actually expect him to. Now here it is and I feel like I don’t know what to do.
Taking a deep breath, I answer, doing my best to sound as if this isn’t a life-changing moment for me.
“Hey, Bryan,” I say, my voice chipper. From the tree next to me, Marie gasps, drops her picker, and races over as quickly as possible. I swear not even ten minutes after he left last week she was calling me to find out how it went, and every day since she’s badgered me to see if I’ve heard from him.
“Hey, you.” His voice is deep, just like I imagined it would be, and all the air in my lungs leaves me.
“Why—why are you calling me?” I tried not to stutter but failed. Marie, who’s standing in front of me, starts tugging on my arm and silently begs me to put him on speaker. I pull away and harshly mouth the word, “No.” No way am I sharing this. It’s irrational, I know, but I’ve waited so long for it.
He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess this call is a little out of the blue.”
Ya think?
It’s been a week since he left here saying he would speak to me soon. I didn’t think it would be this soon.
“Not that I mind you calling. You can call me whenever you want.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. I’m an idiot.
“What are you doing?” he asks. I can hear music playing in the background; he’s either at home or in his car.
“Picking pecans with Marie.” Does that sound stupid? It probably does to him. He plays for hundreds of thousands of people, and I’m a farm girl.
“Oh yeah? Get a bunch this year?” Are my ears deceiving me? Does he actually sound interested?
“We did. These trees have made up for the last two years ten times over.” I look up between the branches at the swaying leaves and see all the nuts that have yet to fall but will soon.
“Wow, that’s great. I remember how GiGi used to say, ‘Little pieces, big taste.’ She sure was right, and I always loved your pecan pie.”
I pause and say nothing. He mentions her as if she’s not a part of his past life but his present, and it throws me off. To my knowledge, he never talked to her again after he left, and he hasn’t had my pecan pie in so long.
He breaks the silence. “I’m not embarrassed to say I ate two slices at Zach’s party over the summer.”
Oh, now I understand. Our friend Zach owns Wolff Winery in northern Georgia. He and my friend Shelby were featured in All About the South, one of Food Network’s regional issues, and she paired Southern foods with his wine. They were followed for two weeks, during which they created recipes and participated in videos, interviews, photoshoots, and more. At the end, they hosted a party for the wrap-up. Since I couldn’t attend due to the pump problem, I overnighted pies. A little bubble wrap and ice packs do the trick every time.
“Just two?” I ask. I’ve seen him eat a whole one in one sitting.
“Well, maybe a few more.” There’s a tenderness to his tone, and I can almost see his face. He clears his throat. “Listen, the reason I’m calling is the annual team family barbecue is coming up, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me this year.”
I’m confused. “As your family?”
“Yeah, if that’s okay with you.” There’s a twinge of uncertainty. I can’t help but wonder if it was easy or difficult for him to call and ask me this. I’m not sure I could have done it. Then again, when he sets his mind to something, he goes after it. He always has.
“When is it?” I ask hesitantly.
“Two weeks from Saturday, on November third.”
That’s so soon, and two weeks from now, the curing process for the pecans will be done. Whereas most people have a dining room with beautiful furniture, mine has a functional wooden table, is lined with bookshelves, and is used for work-related things. By then I’ll have at least ten large cloth bags of pecans in the middle of the room that need to be shelled. I have so much to do to get ready for the holidays.
“I don’t know . . .” I tell him.
“I should also tell you I signed up to bring the dessert.”
“Of course you did.” The real truth is coming out now. “How many pies do you need?” My apprehensive tone slips to a flat one.
“No, it isn’t like that.” He’s backtracking. “Well, it kind of is, but I can get something from somewhere else. I just thought this would be great for you. The team is paying, and I’ll get to spend some time with you.”
If the team is paying, I could use the money, and he’s right—it would mean exposure to a lot of people who live close enough that I could potentially gain new business.
Business—Marie will be so proud.
Wait! Marie! I spin around and look up, having completely forgotten she’s standing next to me. Her hands are on her hips, her eyes are widened, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s pieced our conversation together.
“So what do you say?” he asks, sounding hopeful.
Marie nods like she might kill me if I say no, and then it really hits me—he’ll be spending time with me. I’ll be spending time with him! He wants me, in his world! As I shove away the nerves that tell me it’s too many people and I’ll be overwhelmed, a smile slowly takes over my face. I take a deep breath and tell him, “I say yes.”
The Perfect Pecan Pie
EVERY GAME, EVERY year for the past ten years, I’ve found myself looking up into the stadium for her. I’ve imagined, more times than I care to admit, what it would be like to randomly find her and have my heart soar. From ages ten to eighteen, she was at every game, and she was the one constant I knew without a doubt would be there cheering for me—that is, until she wasn’t.
There’s something about having family and loved ones at the games, win or lose, that’s like having solid ground under your feet. It’s support, it’s tangible, it’s impenetrable, and it’s a constant that feels a lot like security. She was that for me. There was no one else, and when James and I went away to college, that steady feeling that wraps around your heart went away too.
No one who meant anything to me came.
Granted, I only had three people, and two of them I pushed away. There was James, Lexi, and GiGi, but before them, it was my mother.
I never knew my father, something Lexi and I share, but my mother . . . she was like a living, breathing angel to me. She was beautiful, happy, kind, loving, and everything a mother should be. It was her and me against the world.
Until her world ended. Drunk driver.
At the time, we were living in Orlando, she had just married Cole, and I was young enough and stupid enough to think I was finally getting what every kid wants: a complete family.
Cole was different then. I liked him well enough, and he seemed to like me too, but in hindsight, I now know he just tolerated me because he really loved my mother. Everyone loved her.
We were all in the car, and he was driving when that person ran the red light and plowed into her. The driver died too.
I still relive that night in my dreams, the sounds, the voices, all the flashing lights, Cole hugging her body, begging her to come back.
He changed after that. We both did, and I quickly learned that Cole didn’t want me. He was stuck with me, and he reminded me of that every chance he got.
Six months later, we turned onto the driveway at GiGi’s house, passed right by it, and stopped about a quarter mile down in front of a two-bedroom, thousand-square-foot home. He turned to look at me before we got out and said, “Don’t fuck this up for me.”
“You nervous?” Jack comes over and slaps me on the back.
I don’t answer; he knows I am.
Pinching my lips together, I look out at all th
e people. I was right—there are a minimum of three hundred here, and I don’t know if I’m more nervous to spend time with her or to have all these people see me with her.
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s her saying she’s here, in the parking lot. It’s go time.
I take two deep breaths, swallow once, and then quietly slip out to meet her. I find her swinging open the back gate to an SUV, and she bends over to pull out a large platform dolly.
“Here, let me help you with that,” I call out as I jog over.
She spins around at the sound of my voice, and the sight of her has my stomach falling. It’s like déjà vu to the moment I realized this girl was going to be the girl.
People love those stories of love at first sight or childhood sweethearts, but that wasn’t us. I didn’t even really notice her until I was sixteen. Yes, we had basically spent the last six years growing up together, but she was James’s sister. She spent most of her days inside with GiGi, and James and I spent most of ours outside.
It was a Saturday morning, and James and I had just spent the last four hours sprinting and running drills. We walked into the kitchen to grab a drink, and there she was. She was bent over, pulling a pie out of the oven, and I froze, stunned speechless by the curve of her spine, her tiny ass, her long legs. She stood and turned at the sound of us entering, flashing us the most gorgeous smile. I felt my whole world zero in on the moment, and I lost my breath as I took the impact of an invisible sucker punch to the gut.
She’d changed.
I don’t know when it happened or how I didn’t notice, but standing before us wasn’t my best friend’s tagalong sister. She was taller, her face leaner, and there were curves present that hadn’t been there before. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing a simple white V-neck T-shirt, cutoff denim shorts, and a small apron tied around her waist. Her eyes were bright as she smiled at James, and then they settled on me—warm, kind, and so open I felt I could see straight to her soul. Better yet, it seemed she could see straight to mine. That was when I knew.
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 6
