A Slice of Magic

by A. G. Mayes

  Before I could even give myself permission to cry, the tears began to fall. I felt the sharp loss of the family I’d once had. We had been so happy – my parents, Aunt Erma, and me. I had a chance to reconnect with Aunt Erma. Maybe we couldn’t get those lost years back, but we didn’t have to lose any more.

  When the tears stopped, I sighed and unpacked my bag.

  Chapter 3

  Day 2 ― Thursday, November 3rd

  I woke up before my alarm. A rarity for me. Even though I had been exhausted, it took me a while to fall asleep. It was just too quiet. In my apartment back home I could hear cars driving on the highway all night. Here, nights were quiet aside from Mitzy’s snoring. I eventually turned the television on for a little background noise. I had slept on the red sofa in the living room. The thought of sleeping in Aunt Erma’s bed made me uncomfortable. I knew she wouldn’t mind, but it felt like an invasion of privacy.

  I stood up and stretched. My stomach knotted when I thought about baking pies by myself. Mitzy cracked open an eye when I got up, but since she wasn’t nervous about anything, she decided to stay curled up on her perch on the back of the sofa.

  As doubts over my abilities crept into my mind, I packed my bag again. If things went badly today, I wanted to be able to leave quickly. Then, I showered, got dressed, pulled my mess of curls back in a ponytail, and went downstairs with my coffee. I dreaded facing the mess in the kitchen.

  I stopped in my tracks the minute I entered. The place was spotless. All of yesterday’s dishes were clean and put away. The floor had been mopped. The kitchen actually seemed to sparkle.

  What was going on here? I’d never been the victim of a break-in, but I was pretty sure most criminals didn’t clean up. I debated about what I should do. Call the sheriff? And tell him what? That my kitchen was inexplicably clean? That would probably give him a good laugh. There had to be a good explanation for all of this, even if I didn’t know what it was yet.

  Mitzy brought me out of my head with a bark from upstairs, reminding me that dogs have to go outside in the morning even if they are reluctant to get up.

  Once Mitzy was back upstairs and curled up on the couch (it looked like she had her day planned), I went back to the kitchen to once again look for pie recipes.

  I opened cupboard doors and dug through the papers on the desk in the back corner hoping I’d missed something yesterday. But after another thorough search, I was still empty-handed.

  I sighed and went upstairs to get my laptop. Mitzy had managed to pull down my pillow from the spot I had carefully tucked it and was now sprawled across it.

  ‘Hey,’ I said indignantly as I pulled the pillow out from under her and tried to brush off any dog essence. She looked surprised and confused. ‘Don’t lay on my pillow,’ I scolded, and I swear she narrowed her eyes at me.

  I put my pillow on top of the high bookshelf. Then I saw the necklace Aunt Erma had left for me. I had left it next to her less-than-helpful note. I examined the sparkly bottle at the end of the chain, and then slipped it on over my head. It wasn’t really my style, but I tucked it under my shirt. It made me feel slightly more connected to Aunt Erma. I grabbed my laptop and headed downstairs.

  As I began searching online for pie recipes, I thought about all the hours I had spent in Aunt Erma’s kitchen growing up. I closed my eyes for a minute and tried to dig way back in my memory to see if I could recall anything Aunt Erma had taught me when I was a kid. It was amazing. I could remember the exact pattern of her star covered apron, every word to the songs we used to make up and sing, and the number of gnomes on the wallpaper border in her kitchen, but I could not for the life of me remember anything concrete about the actual baking.

  I think the butter in the crust was supposed to be chilled. Or was it supposed to be melted? Or was I supposed to use shortening in the crust? I distinctly remember Aunt Erma telling me that one was better than the other, but which one? I let my head bang down against the computer keyboard for a minute before taking a deep breath and scrolling through the recipes. I found a couple that looked doable.

  I lined up all the ingredients from the two recipes I had picked out and cracked open the back door to let in some cool air. Today was going to be a choice of two kinds of pie: apple or blueberry. I would make six of each pie and hope that the day didn’t get too busy or I might have to shut down early. If these went really well, I might get crazy and add a third, like French silk. I loved French silk, but that recipe looked complicated.

  I was very young when I started helping Aunt Erma in the kitchen. I remember her tying me to chairs with towels so I wouldn’t fall off as I stood at the counter to help her. Mostly I helped by playing in the flour. My parents didn’t let me make a mess in the kitchen like Aunt Erma did. She would pour a cup of flour onto the counter in front of me just so I could squish it between my fingers or spread it around and draw in it. She would sing and tell me stories that would leave me breathless with their magic. Keeping a child like me quiet took a special gift. I always thought it was funny when she would talk to the pies, singing little rhymes as she sprinkled the spices on top. She would wink at me and say, ‘Now they can work their magic,’ as she slid them into the oven.

  I loved those days in Aunt Erma’s kitchen. They were full of pure joy and deliciousness. Aunt Erma made sure we had a pre-baking snack, usually cheese and crackers and some kind of fruit. ‘We have to make sure we have energy to complete this grand task of ours,’ she would say as we stood by the corner of her kitchen counter. We would pause after making the crust for another snack, which was usually a few pieces of chocolate eaten while we stood in the middle of the kitchen surveying our work-in-progress. She would ask me about my day and patiently listen to my long-jumbled stories about something that had happened on the playground or a dream I’d had the night before. She never interrupted me or told me I wasn’t making any sense. She just let me talk.

  Then there was the post-baking snack – a big slice of the fresh pie, which we usually enjoyed as we sat with our legs outstretched on the light green carpet in her living room. She never worried about me spilling pie, though I did more than once. Somehow, she always got the stains out of the carpet.

  I stared at the ingredients and drank my coffee. Did I have time to eat some cheese and crackers? I looked at the clock and realized I had to focus. Maybe if I concentrated all my energy, it would somehow magically turn into finished pies. Unfortunately, the power of my mind seemed to be failing me, so I set to work. I added all the ingredients for the crust to the industrial mixer. It was a little daunting to flip the switch to the on position because even though it had a protective guard around the bowl, I was still afraid somehow I would fall in and get mixed to death. I carefully read and re-read the recipe to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. I felt my confidence build as I looked at the giant ball of dough that actually seemed to resemble the pictures of pie crust I had found online. I covered the counter with a layer of flour and plopped the ball of dough in the middle so I could divide it into smaller chunks. Out of the blue, I sneezed right on the pie crust. A cloud of flour surrounded me.

  I jumped when I heard a snort behind me. I turned and saw a tall man standing in the doorway. He was a good-looking guy who was probably in his early thirties with wavy dark brown hair, brown eyes, and thick eyebrows. His lips were pursed together as though he was fighting to suppress laughter.

  He cleared his throat trying to compose himself. I attempted to brush the flour off me, but there was really no recovering from this.

  ‘I saw your door propped open, so I stopped to say hi,’ he explained. ‘I’m Henry.’ He looked like he was going to shake my hand but then, as if he remembered that I’d just sneezed, he dropped it back by his side.

  ‘I’m Susanna,’ I said with a sigh as I grabbed the ball of dough and dumped it in the garbage.

  ‘You’re the niece,’ he said. ‘I heard some rumblings in town about you.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

 
‘Something about you loving the musical Annie?’ He raised his eyebrows questioningly at me.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like me,’ I said, somehow managing to keep a straight, innocent face. ‘You must be confusing me with someone else.’

  He looked suspicious. ‘There’s not a lot of new people in town to confuse you with.’

  ‘So, what do you do, Henry?’ I asked, in what I hoped was a smooth change of subject.

  ‘I work at the nursing home.’ As he spoke, he walked into the kitchen and washed his hands. ‘The people there are great, but it’s like I have eighteen grandparents always trying to “help” me make my life decisions.’ Without missing a beat, he was over at the sneeze counter, washing it off.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘The shop is supposed to open soon, and…’ He waved his hand over the counter where I had all the ingredients lined up. ‘There are no pies. I thought maybe you could use a hand.’

  ‘You bake?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘Erma is one of my many surrogate grandparents.’

  Part of me wanted to shoo him away. ‘I can do it myself,’ had been my motto ever since I was a little kid and had read a Sesame Street book by that same title. But I glanced at the clock, and he was right. The shop was supposed to open in a couple hours. I had a feeling the town wouldn’t respond well to me just putting the ingredients in the display case and trying to sell them as a DIY pie kit.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, a little reluctantly. I started peeling the apples.

  He tossed the ingredients into the mixer, barely glancing at the recipe I had out on the counter. In no time, he had the ball of dough on the counter and was dividing it up.

  ‘Ah, ah,’ he began as if he was going to sneeze, then dazzled me with a smile. ‘Just kidding.’

  I was tempted to throw a handful of flour at him, but I settled with fixing my withering glare towards him. I wasn’t quite ready to laugh at that yet.

  ‘So, tell me more about life at the nursing home,’ I said, as I slowly peeled my second apple.

  ‘They’ve all discovered social media,’ he said, darkly.

  ‘Really?’ I laughed.

  ‘Yup,’ he nodded. He had all the crusts prepared and had moved on to helping me peel apples. ‘Life used to be easy. I just had to set up bingo games and card tournaments. Now everyone is constantly handing me their phones and asking me to help them take selfies.’

  I laughed. He was already on his fourth apple, and I was still struggling with my second. Tomorrow I would be sure to pick recipes that didn’t involve peeling anything. I wondered if with all the genetic engineering out there if you could buy peel-less apples.

  ‘That’s not even the worst part,’ he said. ‘Betty asked me to explain sexting to her.’ He shivered in horror at the memory.

  ‘Wow, no wonder you’re hiding out in here,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not hiding,’ he said, a little indignant. ‘I’m just doing a community service. The town needs their pie.’

  He helped me make the apple pies and prepare the crusts for the blueberry pies. Soon the place was smelling like the pie shop it was.

  ‘I should probably get going.’ Henry headed towards the back door. ‘Remember to reduce the temperature in fifteen minutes.’ He pointed at the timer he’d set. ‘And here’s this just in case.’ He held up a handkerchief and set it on the corner of the desk with a wink before sliding out the back door.

  I found myself still smiling after he left. I tried to wipe the smile off my face as I mixed the blueberries and sugar together. Sure, he was cute and he could bake, but I had to focus on the pie shop. Who knew how long I’d be here anyway?

  I had a habit of ending up with boyfriends when I was lonely. Usually I chose them without much discretion. My mother disapproved of anyone I dated, so I had learned to accept her disapproval early on. As a result, it often took me longer to recognize when I disapproved.

  I was startled out of my daydream by a meow, and to my horror I saw the same silver cat from yesterday sitting on the floor by the pantry. I lunged at it. Why had I left the door open? The cat smoothly sidestepped my grasp. I could hear Mitzy barking from behind the door at the top of the stairs.

  Thank goodness I hadn’t unlocked the front door yet. The last thing I needed today was the health inspector stopping by while I chased a stray cat around the kitchen. I followed it as it ran under the kitchen island and around to the front of the shop. I stretched out my arms and felt the fur slip through my fingers. I grunted when I fell on my knees and prayed that Flora wasn’t looking in from her window just then. The cat disappeared under the display case. Out of breath, I dropped to my stomach and peered underneath expecting to see blue eyes staring back at me, but I couldn’t see anything. I ran back and found my phone so I could use the flashlight on it. I shined the light across the dark corners and saw nothing but a few dust bunnies. Mitzy continued to bark her encouragement from upstairs.

  ‘Here kitty, kitty, kitty.’ I tried to use a soothing voice. ‘I have tuna.’ I felt slightly guilty for lying, but I reassured myself that it was for a good cause. Where did the cat go?

  I reached my hand underneath, cringing slightly as I imagined cat teeth taking off a finger. I felt nothing. Did she move when I wasn’t looking? I found that hard to believe, but as I flashed the light back and forth, I couldn’t figure out where she had ended up. I did four more laps around the kitchen dropping to the floor to check every nook and cranny. She must have gone out the back door when I wasn’t looking.

  I closed the back door and locked it for good measure, then finished making the blueberry pies. Every now and then I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and I turned my head expecting to see a cat. It was always my imagination.

  I found the plates in one of the upper cupboards, all stacked and clean. I stood on my tip toes and carefully pulled the whole stack down. Whew, no problem. I balanced the plates in my hands and turned to bring them out front.

  Something wrapped around my foot. Oh no, it’s the cat, I thought. I danced around trying to free myself before I realized that my computer was sliding precariously towards the edge of the kitchen island. I was tripping over my computer cord. Instinctively, I lunged to save my computer, dropping all the plates I had in my hands. The crash was still ringing in my ears as I froze, holding my computer. Every single one had broken. ‘Into a million pieces’ didn’t seem at all like an exaggeration. I crunched through the plate bits and found the broom and dustpan. I swept it up all the while wondering what I was going to serve pie on today.

  With the pies still in the oven, I couldn’t run to the store to buy paper plates so I searched the cupboards for the second time today. The best I could come up with was a stack of pie tins. I was hoping that word would get out that I was quirky and fun with my innovative idea of serving pie in pie tins instead of the truth that I was a bumbling butterfingers.

  My phone beeped and I jumped for it. It was a text from my friend, Michelle, asking if I wanted to go out for a drink tonight. Michelle and I had been friends since college when I helped her fix the desk in her dorm room. It had broken after she’d danced on top of it during an overly enthusiastic round of karaoke.

  She considered it her job to make sure I got out on the town at least one night a week. I guess we hadn’t talked for a couple days. I explained where I was.

  ‘Whoa, that’s major. Keep me posted,’ she wrote back. We texted back and forth a little more, and I already felt homesick as our exchange reminded me how nice it was to talk to someone who knew me so well. ‘I have to go, but hurry home and bring pie,’ she wrote.

  ‘Will do.’ I blinked back tears as I set down my phone.

  Flora, Lena, and Mr Barnes quite literally danced into the shop that morning. Mr Barnes was singing a Frank Sinatra song and twirling Lena as he walked through the door. Then he dipped her. I was amazed at their grace considering she was almost twice his size.

 
‘Pie’s on me this morning, ladies,’ he said, pausing his singing for a moment. ‘I’m just lucky to have three such beautiful women in my life.’ He looked up at me. ‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked, extending his hand in my direction.

  ‘I think I’ll just stick to serving pie for now,’ I laughed.

  They all ordered blueberry pie and insisted that I sit with them again. I tried to turn them down as I still had a lot of baking practice to do today, but in the end, they wore me down. I was hungry, and anyway, it’s pretty much biologically impossible for me to turn down pie.

  Flora said that the pie tin plates were fun, but she gave me a look that made me think she knew what had really happened. She probably heard the crash all the way over at her shop.

  ‘Who cleans the kitchen at the pie shop?’ I asked. They all froze with their eyes wide, forks poised over their slices of pie.

  ‘What do you mean, dear?’ Flora asked. She set down her fork and adjusted the napkin on her lap.

  ‘Last night when I went to bed, the kitchen was a disaster zone, and this morning when I woke up it was sparkly clean,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that’s just…’ Lena began and then paused.

  ‘Minerva,’ Mr Barnes said just as Flora said, ‘Jane.’

  ‘Right, Minerva and Jane,’ Lena said. ‘They clean the kitchen every night.’

  ‘What time do they come?’ I asked. I wanted to be ready so I would know not to be panicked if I heard noises coming from downstairs. It would be best to know when to write it off as the cleaners and when to call the police.

  ‘They come different times each night,’ Mr Barnes said. ‘Usually when you’re sleeping.’

  ‘Like Santa Claus,’ Lena offered with a forced laugh.

  ‘OK,’ I said. I wondered why they were so acting so strangely. It seemed like a simple question.