After a minute or two, the ear splitting wail stopped.
“Well,” Lucy said, leaning on the counter that held the ruins of her piecrust. “Now you’ve heard me cuss.”
“Sweetheart, if you weren’t already a cusser when you got tangled up with my grandson, you were bound to be soon.” The woman actually looked amused.
“It’s not that I can’t cook,” Lucy said. “Now, I’m no Missy but I can make good lasagna and chicken and dumplings, and more than passable enchiladas. I’ll put my cheese grits up against anybody’s and I can fry a chicken. I can make a Coca-Cola cake from scratch. But this pie thing has defeated me.” She gestured to the kitchen. “Though not all pies,” she hastened to add. “I can make lemon ice box with the vanilla wafers around it.”
“Hardly a pie has been invented better than that one.” Miss Caroline took off her sweater and started cleaning up the mess. “What do you say we claim a victory where this pumpkin pie is concerned?”
“I’m not sure.” She looked doubtfully at the pumpkin in the sink.
“Oh, that’s history. I’m going to clean up here and I want you to unpack what I brought.”
Lucy opened the Big Starr bag. There was a box of Pillsbury piecrusts, a pound of dark brown sugar, a bottle of maple syrup, a carton of whipping cream—and a can of Libby’s solid pack pumpkin. She picked up the can of pumpkin for a closer look.
“Missy didn’t tell me about this.”
“Read the recipe on the back.” Miss Caroline bent over and wiped flour and bits of raw dough from the floor. “I assumed you have eggs and spices.”
Lucy nodded as she read.
Why, there was nothing to this. All you did was mix this can with a few things and you had pie! It didn’t even want nutmeg, freshly grated or not. With that box of piecrusts, this was no different from lemon icebox.
“Is this how you do it?” Lucy asked. “This is the one Brantley likes?”
“It’s not exactly how I do it. I substitute cream for the evaporated milk and brown sugar for the white. I add two tablespoons of the maple syrup. You just let that piecrust warm up on the counter for a few minutes and then fit it into your pan.”
“I can do this.”
“Of course you can.”
“You must think I’m the dumbest woman to ever walk.”
“I don’t think that. I think you want to make my grandson a pie and I think you want to do it by yourself. Else I would have sent Evelyn over. She might have intended to coach you through it, but she would have taken it over.” She moved to clean the pumpkin out of the sink. “I’ve made you a clean spot. Make your pie.”
Lucy mixed the filling while the rolled up crust warmed up a little. “So Charles didn’t think I could make this pie?”
“Charles doesn’t know a thing about pie, beyond the eating of it,” Miss Caroline said. “He just bragged that you were going to make Brantley his favorite pie. When he started talking about baking a pumpkin and buying a pastry blender, I thought there might be a little trouble. You never end up with a crust on the same day you buy a pastry blender.”
“There.” Lucy held up the pie plate with the perfect crust. She’d even crimped it, like it showed on the box.
“No one will ever know the difference. I love those crusts. The ones in the foil pans will give you away.”
Caroline finished restoring order and went to sit at the kitchen table. Lucy slid the pie into the oven, set the timer, and went to sit across from Miss Caroline.
“Oh.” She jumped up again. “I have no manners. Would you like some iced tea? Or I could make coffee. That is, if you trust my tea and coffee making after this mess.”
“Iced tea would be lovely and I trust you implicitly. Remember, I had your curried fruit.”
Lucy set about putting ice in glasses and cutting a fresh lemon.
“And, Lucy,” Miss Caroline said. “I trust you with Brantley. That’s not something I could have said to many young ladies.”
That warmed her and scared her all at the same time.
She didn’t know what to say, so she broached another subject, one she had been toying with for a few days.
“Miss Caroline,” she turned to face her. “I’ve been going through that box of pictures.”
“Have you found much that will help you with the restoration?”
“Oh, yes, so many great ones. But there are lots of family pictures too. I was thinking of making Brantley a photo album for Christmas.” Surely they would last until Christmas. “I’d get copies of the pictures I use, of course. But I didn’t want to do it without asking your permission.”
“Oh, my dear!” Caroline smiled broadly. “What a wonderful thought. And you must use the originals if you like. There are so many wonderful ones of him with Eva. With Alden. With all of us. What a treasure.”
Lucy wasn’t sure if Miss Caroline meant the book would be a treasure or if she was talking about Lucy herself.
Brantley called just as Lucy was crawling into bed, just when she thought he wasn’t going to.
“Lucy Mead,” he said. “I am not a happy man.”
Warmth spread though her.
“Do you know why I am not happy?”
She snuggled under the covers. “Because Will wouldn’t take you to Six Flags Over Georgia?”
“Close. I am missing my own personal amusement park that is Lucy Mead.”
“That isn’t the most flattering comparison I’ve ever heard,” she said. “I don’t believe I want to be thought of as a funnel cake and log ride. Maybe I’ll cancel your surprise.”
“No! Don’t take back the tall boots. Please. Anything but that. What if I compared you to something else— say, a rose garden? A perfume shop? How am I doing?”
She laughed.
“Ah, I’ve been waiting all day to hear that.” His sweet caramel voice was so warm, so sexy, and so convincing that for the first time she actually considered looking into tall boots.
“How was the salvage store?” she asked.
“Great.” The flirtation left his voice and took on the professional down to business tone. “Will called ahead and they stayed open late for us. That’s why I haven’t called before now. I’ve got to say, you were right about Will. He knows his stuff. And he entirely understands that we want to use period materials where we can. He even said he would install the salvaged materials in prominent places and use his reproductions, say, near the ceiling. Though he is pretty sure of himself. He said I wouldn’t be able to tell one from the other. I told him I doubted that.”
She laughed again. “Did you get some of the things we talked about?”
“Yes. Three doors, and they are going to be on the lookout for more. Will suggested that, though that’s taking money out of his pocket. For every door they find, that’s one he won’t make.”
“Will stays busy. I doubt he’s worried about that. What else did you get?”
“Some flooring. Woodwork, but not near enough. No light fixtures, but I gave them the pictures you sent.”
“Sounds like you did pretty good.”
“It’s a start. And there’s one more thing. You remember the picture you found of how the reception area looked originally? The fireplace they covered up?”
She shuddered. “How could I forget?”
“I wish I had brought that picture, but I think there’s a mantle and some tile here that would satisfy you.”
That would be a fantastic find. “I could scan the picture and send it,” she said.
“No. I am not making that judgment call, even with a picture. That’s for you to decide. I took a picture and I’ll send it to you when we hang up. If you want it, we’ll pick it up first thing in the morning. If not, we’ll head on
