“After we’ve got all the paperwork, we’ll make a formal offer, and we already know they’ll accept. You’ll give me the check for the down payment. You’ll plan an inspection. And if all goes well, in about 60-days, you’ll have the key to the place. Maybe earlier, if I can make some magic happen.”
I jump out of my chair and my eyes get wet. “Thank you so much for your help, Charlie, and your patience with me.” I hold out my hand and we shake again. “It’s time. Really time,” I say.
He nods. “You bet it is, Aspen. Your dream is coming true. We’re all proud of you.”
I hug Becky on my way out and head to the bistro to share the update with Mom and make twelve pies for my client, Spring Hills Country Club. They’re expecting delivery by noon tomorrow.
It’s 2:00 p.m. when I walk into the bistro, and I hear Mom banging dishes in the back. She drops a pan and yells, “Goddammit! It’s hard living in this body!”
It’s closing time, and we still have four regulars lingering, one of which yells back to Mom, not even glancing up from the book she’s reading, “Swear jar, Gabby!”
I laugh, shaking my head. My mom is dramatic, but it’s also one of her most endearing qualities. Popster is still here, reading the newspaper in his usual booth, and he chuckles.
I call out to him on my way into the kitchen, “Hey, Popster, how many today?”
“Don’t ask, or it’ll stress you out,” he says and winks. I don’t know how the man can still smoke cigarettes, now that everyone knows the risks. I guess I should be grateful he’s no longer smoking two packs a day. He’s down to one pack, but even one cigarette is too many. My chest tightens at the thought of him dying, especially from something as unnecessary as cigarettes.
I stroll into the back to get started on making pies, my arms full of flour and sugar. I put down the sacks, grab my apron, and wash my hands. I’m calculating the amount of flour I’ll need for the pies, when I hear Mack calling his goodbye from the dining room.
His leaving cues the remaining customers that they should probably go, too. We normally don’t mind if they hang out a little while after closing, but I have a lot of pies to make, and I want to jam out to music while I bang through them tonight. Shaking my butt a little while rolling out pie dough is the most exercise I can fit into my day.
I take my fresh cherries from the refrigerator and give them a rinse. I’m relieved to see Jessica has already pitted them for me. God bless her, I didn’t even ask. I don’t usually mind doing it—it’s meditative—and one of the reasons I enjoy making pies. For me, baking pies equals stress reduction. But this order is big, and Jessica’s thoughtfulness means I might get to watch an episode of Ozark tonight before bed. If I’m lucky.
Mom walks over to me, and she peers over my shoulder. I catch a whiff of her perfume, the same one she’s been wearing for twenty years, Mysterè de Rochas. She bought twelve bottles of it once, “afraid they might stop making it someday,” and it’s all she wears. And although it’s not my favorite scent, it’s her. It means she’s nearby, and that gives me comfort.
“Did you go see Charlie?” she asks.
I smile big. “Of course! He’s getting the paperwork together, and I’ll take a check over later this week. When do you get the money from Robert?”
“Should be in a couple of days.” She turns back to her cleaning up, and I put the cherries on the counter, and then head to the pantry for the rest of the dry ingredients. I stand in front of the counter to do a quick tally of everything there. As I check off my mental list of ingredients to ensure I have everything I need, I see something black and hairy, and I scream “Ahhhh! Spider!!!” and I jump back. Creepy-crawlies are a legit phobia of mine.
A half a second later, I realize it’s not moving. It’s just sitting on the counter. Ew. Is it dead? Then I peer closer, squinting my eyes.
For fuck’s sake.
“Mom! It’s not a spider! It’s one of your fake eyelashes!”
“Whoops!” she yells from the back. “Sorry, honey!”
“Mom, you have got to stop wearing the individual lashes. This is happening too often, and you’re lucky one of them hasn’t ended up in someone’s quiche!”
“I know. I know. I just can’t stand the other kind, and you know I can’t leave the house without my lashes.” I sigh. Mom and her lashes. I need to buy her some of those groovy magnetic lashes. Then, she regales me of the time she wore them on her honeymoon with husband number one—my dad… and I’ve heard the story a million times.
I resume making my pies, half-listening to her, but smiling as I acknowledge that my pies are no longer in the sky.
My dreams are coming true.
4
Ryker
“What would you like to drink, Mr. Miles?” the young, female server asks. She knows my name, as should all the servers in a country club like this. Now that I have many homes around the country—hell, the world—I’m a member of more than a few country clubs. Frankly, they’re all starting to look the same. Hunter green and burgundy carpets, a bar and grill with heavy, rolling brown leather chairs, and windows that open up to views of the golf course. I thought country clubs would be good places to meet people, but I find myself bored or disappointed in the members, whether it’s California, Colorado, Michigan, or Vermont.
“I’ll have a Pick Axe Blonde beer, please.”
She leaves to get my drink, and I change my seat to the opposite side of the table, deliberately with
