Peace of pie, p.23
Peace of Pie, page 23
“You’re doing great now.” Charity patted Chuck’s knee.
When Chuck looked at his wife, Bryony saw love passing between them. They were not merely aged versions of iconic high school sweethearts. They were a mature, married couple surviving a crisis together.
“I hope to see you in here more often,” she said.
Chuck smiled at her. “I hope we see more of you, too.”
Bryony carried her coat to the rack in the back of the store, lifted it to the hook, let it drop, and sighed.
Chuck and Charity Henderson were not the people she had known in high school. She was not the person they had known then either. Everybody grew up—everybody except maybe Susie—and moved past divisions related to the competitive nature of high school. They could all be friends—except maybe Susie—including Cal.
That night she made a tomato pie. Bryony had read that dreaming of tomatoes was a sign of moving in a new work direction, one that would go well. Maybe daydreaming while working with tomatoes would have a similar effect.
Over the weekend, catalyzed by Etta’s encouragement, Bryony had mapped out a vision for her pie business, a bold plan starting with a state-of-the-art kitchen sufficient to produce enough pies for both local and online sales.
After the tomato pie cooled, she removed a piece to taste test. The savory tang of new adventure hit her tongue like the spicy scene in a novel or movie. She would be fine without Cal, and he without her. They would be friends doing their own things, as it should be for two independent adults, neither of whom had ever been married, neither of whom expressed a strong desire to head toward matrimony. Why muck up two perfectly refined single lifestyles?
She took another bite, and then another.
The taste lost its tang after the fourth bite, but she kept eating, for comfort and joy, neither of which she achieved as she swallowed forkful after forkful until the entire piece was gone, leaving only crumbs on her plate.
She started to press her finger into the crumbs to eat those, too, but stopped. After a deep breath and a chance to allow for introspection, she took her plate to the sink and rinsed it.
Crumbs were not her future.
CAL CALLS FOR HELP
The time between the end of dinner and lights out constituted the hardest part of Cal’s day.
Over the past several weeks, he had settled into an evening routine of reading his way through a new detective series recommended by Chuck, who said the stories helped during his recovery.
The main character—a middle-aged man tracking crooked colleagues and various kinds of trafficking rings from which imperiled people required rescuing—mourned his wife and daughter after the author killed them off in the first chapter of the first book in the series. Cal could relate to the loss of loved ones. The drama in the stories distracted him from missing Bryony.
Though they had run into each other a few times and been cordial, he had not called her, as she had not called him. They were both wise enough, he guessed, to know when to cut their losses. But tonight the loss of her loomed larger than usual. He needed to talk to somebody.
Chuck and he had not spoken in a few weeks, so Cal picked up his phone and pulled up his contact list. He wanted to check in. He hoped to hear good news.
After observing a few social amenities related to family, sports, the national news, and which volume of the series he was reading, Cal asked, “Any word yet from the school board?”
“Nothing,” Chuck said. “Charity’s pulled out all the stops with every contact she has. Seems like someone’s feeding the board information which makes our program seem redundant, unnecessary. Charity keeps hearing the word, ‘useless,’ passed around, and the phrase, ‘no evidence basis.’”
“Didn’t they read the report you sent in?” Cal asked. “We documented the rise in student attendance and the reduction in detention over the last five years for seniors entering the program.” Did the school board know anything about the young people served by the program?
“I don’t know, Cal,” Chuck answered. His voice sounded tired, though stronger than a few months ago. “I only know it’s not looking good at the moment, which can change. They won’t vote on next year’s budget until after the new year. I’m not sure what I’ll do next year if the program ends.”
Whether or not the program continued would have little impact on Cal. He would leave after the end of the school year. The idea of staying had been short-lived and exclusively tied to his feelings about Bryony. Feeling foolish now, he was surprised he could be taken in by his need for someone to call his own. Rock ballads came to mind. To yearn for one’s own great love story may be entertaining, but not pragmatic.
“You can always move back to Cleveland,” Cal said.
Chuck laughed. “If there’s no place for me next year in this school system, I’ll retire and do something else. Maybe I’ll be a greeter at Walmart.”
“Their loss, Walmart’s gain,” Cal said.
Chuck laughed again, paused, and said, “Listen. If the weather gets bad and you can’t drive to Cleveland on Wednesday, you’re welcome to come to our house for Thanksgiving.”
Cal appreciated the invite, though short of a blizzard, he knew he would be going home.
They ended the phone call. Cal spent the rest of the evening grading papers. Right before bed, he walked Bailey again and locked up for the night. In the morning he would finish the last few papers at school before the students arrived. Not stopping at the coffee shop gave him another thirty to forty minutes every morning. He missed the lattes, but he didn’t need all those extra calories anyway.
The scent of fresh sheets welcomed him to bed. Seeking the right neck support, Cal stuffed the pillow under his head. Bailey jumped on the bed and settled in beside him. “No snoring, buddy,” Cal said, and closed his eyes.
He woke to the sound of his ringtone. The clock registered twelve thirty. The caller ID on his cell read “Heidi.”
Cal sat up and switched on the light.
“Hey, Heidi,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Don’t panic, but I need you,” his sister said.
“Not a good way to start a call. Are the kids okay?”
“They are, but Dad fell again.” Her voice was rushed, and he heard sounds in the background—a car starting, an electronic voice reminding the driver to fasten their seatbelt. “We think he was rolling his garbage can back up to the house,” she said. “The neighbor found him in the driveway and called the squad. They took him to the ER. I’m on my way there now, but it doesn’t sound good.”
“What was he doing outside this late?” Cal threw off the covers and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.
“I don’t know. The nurse who called said Dad was confused. He might have bumped his head, or he fell because he was dizzy or disoriented.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The blankets on the other side of the bed erupted into a plume of shaking dog fur. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to bury you.” He pulled back the covers, and Bailey jumped to the floor.
“Are you talking to your dog again?” Heidi asked.
“Yes,” Cal answered.
“Can you leave him home?” Heidi asked. “One less thing to worry about. We might all be pretty busy.”
“I’ll figure something out. Call if anything changes.” Cal made a mental list as he strode to the closet—dress, pack, call Mitch to arrange for a sub, establish pet care. Tomorrow he would call to have his mail held. He had filled the gas tank yesterday.
“Drive safely,” Heidi said.
“Always.”
After slipping on the jeans and T-shirt he had worn earlier in the evening, Cal opened his closet and pulled out his duffle bag. Bailey sat beside the bed scratching his ear. “What am I going to do with you?” Cal asked.
Heidi was right. He couldn’t take Bailey with him. If Cal needed to be at the hospital round-the-clock, he didn’t want to leave Bailey alone at his father’s house. Heidi and her kids would step up if needed, but Cal didn’t want to impose. They all had busy lives.
After stuffing jeans, khakis, underwear, socks, and T-shirts into the duffle bag, he went to his closet and pulled out three button down shirts. He would hang them in his car. Mission accomplished, he sat down on the bed and hit a contact number. Mitch answered the phone, his voice sleepy but surprisingly gracious about being awakened.
“No problem, Cal. Good thing Parker’s on board for trivia. Take all the time you need.”
Cal thanked him and ended the call, noting the cynical thought that Mitch would probably be happy if he didn’t return at all. And then, without thinking twice, he pressed the very number associated with Mitch’s assumed preference that Cal would return never.
“Cal?” Bryony asked.
“Sorry to call late,” he said.
“I was awake,” she said.
“I have to go to Cleveland. My dad fell tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Is he okay?”
The concern in her voice caused a hitch in his throat. She was someone with whom he could have shared his fears about someday losing his father. He ignored the surge of feeling and pressed on. “I don’t know. I’m leaving in a few minutes. Would you mind taking care of Bailey while I’m gone? He’s very little work. A walk in the morning. A walk at night. Food in his bowl. Water. He won’t drag you through the mud again. I’ll make him promise. I’m so sorry to ask last minute, but I think Bailey and I would both be happier if he stayed home.”
“I guess so,” Bryony said. “I’ve never taken care of a dog before.”
“He’s not much trouble. I have a cat now, too. You aren’t allergic, are you?”
“You have a cat?”
“Buggy showed up a few weeks ago.” Cal didn’t say, about the time you and I ended. “She’s a stray, and for some reason Bailey loves her, even though she bugs the heck out of him, hence the name.”
In addition to the addictive detective series, caring for the cat had kept him interested in something other than making a nuisance of himself with Bryony.
“Wow,” Bryony said. “I’m amazed. I don’t see you as a cat person.”
She was right, and Cal wanted to tell her the whole story, but that would never happen. He needed distance from her. A clean break. Because even though he’d declared himself understanding of her need to back off, nothing he thought or felt agreed with that plan. He’d only called Bryony for help because he couldn’t think of anyone else to ask on such short notice, in the middle of the night. “The cat requires minor oversight. I’ll leave a note and put everything you’ll need on the kitchen counter.”
“What if I mix them up, give the dog the cat’s food and vice versa?” Bryony asked.
Cal laughed. “They’ll be waiting at the door with sharp knives when you return.”
“I’m overthinking,” Bryony said. “Leave a note. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“I have a note ready to go.” He’d prepared it for his Cleveland dog-sitters. He would print it and make a few edits with a pen. “Thanks, Bryony,” Cal said. “I’ve missed seeing you.” His whole face immediately tensed, wishing he could take back the words. They matched his feeling, but not his better judgement.
Bryony’s silence said it all. She hadn’t noticed his absence. Better that way, cleaner, no drama.
“I’ll leave a key under the front mat,” he said. “Thanks, again. You’re a good friend.”
“Not a problem,” she said. “Drive safely. I hope your father’s okay.”
They ended the call, and Cal finished the tasks on his mental to-do list.
The temperature outside had dropped. His car was cold. Cal threw his bag in the back seat, hung the shirts, and started the engine. It had been less than twenty minutes since Heidi’s call. Remembering one more detail, he turned off the ignition and exited the car to slip the house key under the porch mat. Prior to starting the car again, he took a breath and went over the list once again, ticking off each item in his mind until he reached the end.
List double-checked, he was good to go.
Backing out of the driveway, he reviewed his phone call with Bryony. Had he missed telling her anything vital? He didn’t think so. She had his number and could call if she had questions. He could count on her. And she could count on him to be a friend. An appropriate, distant friend with no other expectations. Cal turned on the radio.
Hard rock would keep him awake and drive away the worry and regret thrumming through his mind and body.
BRY FALLS FOR CAL’S KITCHEN
Streetlights still on, Bryony climbed the three steps to Cal’s front door. The key lay under the front mat as promised. Apprehensive, she unlocked and pushed open the door to enter.
In the brief time they had toyed around with dating, they spent all of their time together away from their homes because they always had somewhere else to be. She felt odd walking into his house now, too curious, like a trespasser, like an intruder.
“Bailey?” she called. Cal’s dog bounded down the last few steps of a staircase, fur flopping and tail wagging. He stopped at her feet, sat, and looked up panting, his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth.
“Aren’t you the well-behaved one today?” Bryony asked. She patted his head. Bailey slurped her hand. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so hard after all.
“Show me around the place,” she said as she started wandering down the wide hallway.
Bailey wagged his tail and followed.
Cal lived in a neighborhood a notch up from hers. Bryony assumed homes like these were always owner-occupied. Maybe Charity knew the owners. Maybe she had suggested the arrangement.
The first door on the left opened into a massive living room, the second into a dining room.
At the end of the hall, she pushed open a swinging door, located the light switch, and gushed, “Wow!”
The house may have been built fifty to seventy-five years ago, but the update on the kitchen was recent, no more than five to ten years.
Floor-to-ceiling oak cabinets surrounded a granite counter reflecting under-counter lighting on its polished surface. A double sink with a gooseneck faucet sparkled. The six-burner gas stove sat atop a double-oven. Overhead lights bounced off the built-in microwave and a stainless steel side-by-side Sub-Zero refrigerator freezer.
Bryony sank onto a chair. Cal had been holding out on her. Had she known about the kitchen, she would have suggested a dinner date at his place. She sat for a full five minutes, reverence and peace descending over her. She belonged in a place like this, a shrine to that which made her spirit puff up like a perfect pastry.
Bailey sat in front of the kitchen sink, watching her. Bryony noticed cans and boxes on the counter. She pushed herself out of the chair to investigate. A page-long list of dog care tips quelled any leftover fear about not knowing what to do. And now she knew they had surpassed the proper time for a walk per the line, Bailey will expect you take him out the minute you walk in the door. All will go better for both of you if you follow his guidance.
A dog leash lay beside the boxes and cans. Bryony hooked it to Bailey’s collar. Two colorful plastic bags were tied to the grip end.
“Okay, boy,” she said. “No chasing cats, no digging in flower beds, and no knocking me down.”
He led her out the front door and peed on the first tree they came to.
“I guess we left at the right time,” Bryony said.
She had never lived with a dog. When she was five, she begged for a pooch, but her father nixed the idea, saying he had a dog when he was kid and he was not going through that again. Later, she learned her father had witnessed the dog’s death under the tires of a speeding car. As an adult, she could understand why he chose to not risk a repeat of such loss. But the five-year-old in her still yearned for a living being like Bailey, someone, or something, who would greet her with unrestrained welcome every time she returned .
Bailey walked her around a five block tour of his territory. He seemed to need to acquaint himself with every hydrant, bush, tree, and post they encountered. Instructions in the note were to let Bailey sniff until he was done, so Bryony did, impatient until she started to enjoy the morning air, hints of pink in the eastern sky, and architecture revealed by porch lights and lamp posts.
A few friends in elementary school had lived in these houses. She remembered a summer day with pony rides for a birthday party at a house around the block. Those were the years when everybody in the class had been invited.
Bailey made one long last sniff at the tree in the neighbor’s front yard, then trotted up to his front door and wagged his tail. Bryony dug the key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. She might as well put it on the metal ring with her key fob and house key.
The door latched behind her. Bryony went back to the kitchen counter to read the note again. There were handwritten additions. The one at the top read, I attached the business card for my local vet. She glanced at the card for Benson’s Veterinary Services. Across the left margin of the page, Cal had scrawled, Call me on my cell, day or night, if you have any questions. Thanks for being a good friend. Cal.
Maybe they could be friends. He had invited her into his home without him being there, and trusted her enough to place his animals in her care. But her version of friendship implied effort to spend time together. Once the “dating” thing fizzled, Cal seemed too busy to come around. But Bryony supposed she had done the same, making little effort toward him.
A note was scribbled in the right margin of the paper. Leave a can of fresh cat food in Buggy’s bowl in the morning and evening. Fill her water bowl. Put her food and water on the middle shelf in the pantry and leave the door open. Otherwise, Bailey consumes it. If you want to see her, you’ll have to search. She hides under the bed or in the den.
Bryony opened a can of cat food and dropped it into one of the bowls stacked on the counter. The food smelled fishy, like being at the ocean, but a tad more nauseating.
