I’m at the table with Edith where she’s teaching me how to make a lattice top pie, when Harry bustles into the small space, cold radiating off him.
“Atti’s gonna change the oil in the pickup. We need more coffee,” Harry says to his wife. Edie rises and refills the thermoses Harry brought in, smiling at me as he surveys the table.
“Making pie? Edie makes the best pie. I ain’t just sayin’ it, neither. The best pie ever.”
I remember telling Atticus that ain’t isn’t a word, and hearing his father use the word makes me feel like a completely judgmental asshole. It may not be a word, but he’s a chip off the block, and the block happens to be a well-rounded, sweet man who adores his wife and loves his son.
And I made fun of that.
“How’s it going out there?” I ask with a smile after agreeing that Edie’s pies are likely the best. What do I know? It’s not like my Mom ever bought or ate a pie, much less made one.
“Oh, we’re busybodies today. Atti’s got a fire lit under his ass; he’s takin’ care of everything while he’s here,” Harry says, sliding his gloves off to snag a taste of soup with the ladle resting near the pot.
Sitting back down at the table, Edie doesn’t see him taste the soup but somehow knows. Calling over her shoulder she says, “Harry, Goldie doesn’t want your mouth in her soup. Don’t you dare put that spoon back in the pot.”
My eyes flick to Harry’s, and we share a smile. He drops the spoon in the sink and fits his fingers in his gloves. With the thermoses in hand, he heads back out after dropping a kiss on the top of his wife’s head.
“How’d you know he was tasting the soup?” I ask her with a smile.
She peers over her glasses at me. “After this many years, there are no surprises. I know what he’s thinking before he even thinks it.”
At that, I snort because I believe it with these two. “That’s amazing,” I say in awe because it’s only hit me in the last few months–after seeing Beck with Beau–that I want that.
I always thought I wanted to be half of a power couple in the city, but Beau has made me see that we don’t really know what we want until it crashes into us, and it usually looks nothing like we thought.
We’ve talked about cooking, chopping, baking, seasoning, grilling, Martha Stewart, and the Pioneer Woman. But when Edie puts the pies in the oven and returns to the table with both Brandy and a carafe of coffee, somehow, I know we’re on the cusp of a real conversation.
“Tell me, Goldie, darling, what are your parents like?” Edie asks as she tops off our mugs, leaving an inch for what I assume will be Brandy. Unscrewing the amber bottle, she indeed adds the liquor, and I take a sip, surprised at how good and warm it makes me feel.
Though in this woman’s presence, it feels like anything is possible.
“Well, my parents are divorced. My dad, Ken, is a stockbroker in the city, and my Mom is…” I sigh because I don’t want to disparage my mother to anyone, but I really am at a loss to describe her in any way that paints her well. How sad is that? “She enjoys the finer things, social events, and keeping up with the Joneses” I say, feeling like that is as accurate and kind as I can be.
Edie wraps both weathered hands around the ceramic mug, bringing it to her lips but stopping before she sips. “And do you? Enjoy the finer things and feel the need to keep up with the Joneses?”
If anyone else would have asked me this, I’m pretty sure my defenses would’ve come up. And I know exactly why. Because I am the type to care about appearances and what people think, and I’m so uncomfortable with that truth that it would’ve definitely spiked my nerves.
I hate how likeherI am.
But Edie asks with such delicacy, and her heart is so pure that she pulls the realest answers from me, completely unaware of how therapeutic it all is.
“I do.” I stare into the steaming liquid a moment before meeting her soft, kind eyes. “Or I did? I don’t know. I think I’m trying to shift away from that mentality. Moving to Oakcreek has certainly helped me come to some hard realizations.”
“Where did you live before?” she asks, sipping her mug. The smell of homemade pie bakes into the air around us, making my stomach rumble. Noticing, Edie rises but keeps her focus on me as she pulls things from the fridge, sliding them onto the table between us. “Keep talking, and we can fix sandwiches to go with the soup.”
Peering into the pot, she stirs the soup with a wooden spoon before deciding, “it could simmer twenty more. Potatoes need to soften a bit, still.”
We begin assembling sandwiches, and I find the distraction of making food allows my truths to spill out more easily. Or maybe that’s Edie. It kind of feels like both, and it surprises me that food can be a positive distraction, not something I’m achingly trying to avoid.
“I lived up in the city; I was the Public Relations manager for the Brutes, the baseball team.” I grin at her as I pull romaine leaves from a plastic container. “I heard Harry’s a fan.”
She winks, but I can tell she wants to hear more from me rather than talk about her husband’s baseball fandom. Her focus on me and my story make me feel… important. I refuse to let my eyes get warm, so I turn them to the Dutch crunch hoagies in front of me. Sliding a knife into the bread, I continue.
“Anyway, I left the Brutes and the city about six months ago when I lost my job. Beck, Beau’s girlfriend, has been my best friend for years and years. I decided to come to Oakcreek because she was here and… well, she’s all I have, really,” I say with a smile I don’t mean to be sad but just… is. God, how pathetic.
“You talk to your parents?” Edie asks with a dip of confusion in her brows. Of course, a mother like Edith would be confused as to why a child would say her friend is all she has if her parents are alive. Atticus would never say that because look at them. They’re a real fucking family.
“Yeah,” I say, “but we’re not close. I mean, I talk to my Mom frequently, but that doesn’t make us close. Do you know what I mean?” I ask, trying to say what I want to say without having to actually say it. Imparting to her that my mother isn’t the mothering type, and she seems to understand because she smiles a little sadly before reverting to the topic of my job.