Pecan Pie Read online

  Pecan pie

  A Hap-pie-ly ever after story

  Katelyn Brawn

  The Omnibus Publishing

  Baltimore, MD

  Copyright © January 2022 by Katelyn Brawn.

  Wendy Butler Dean, Acquisitions Editor and Anna Virgillio, Junior Editor

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Cover Design by The Omnibus Publishing

  Ordering Information: Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the address above.

  Pecan Pie/ Katelyn Brawn. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-7335985-7-6 Library of Congress Number Contact publisher

  The Omnibus Publishing is a division of Reading Pandas, Inc.

  To Nannie and Honey, two women who did so much to form

  the person I am. I wish you were here to see this.

  Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.

  ―Confucius

  Chapter one

  The concept of giving flowers as a romantic gesture is something of a mystery to me. It’s like someone saying, “Here, darling, I’ve bought you this bunch of decaying sex organs of what may as well be weeds. Please love me forever.” And women buy it, actually swoon over it! I consider it my life’s work to find the perfect love story. In the beginning of my literary romance journey, I read every dime-store, smutty novel there was on the subject. Ripped bodices and quivering members every day. But let’s be real; the girl who wants the quivering member doesn’t need the flowers. That was my early teen years, hiding books under my mattress from my mother so she wouldn’t find them and consider me scandalized. My tastes evolved later to the pages of Brontë, Austen, and Hardy. I ended up with more of a thrill from a stolen glance or touch of the hand than any steamy sex scene. If anything, the convoluted variety of stories has left me only more confused as to what constitutes a great love. One thing remains however. No flowers. Flowers are stupid.

  My mother is one of the swoony women who believes, with her whole heart, that all problems in a relationship can be solved with daisies and violets. Shocking, because I consider her otherwise the world’s most level-headed woman. No matter the size of the indiscretion, my father could apologize for anything with a well crafted arrangement. Julio, of the sole Harpersgrove flower shop, brings bouquet upon bouquet of flowers to our door after every argument. Mom can forgive anything with enough chrysanthemums.

  Imagine my surprise this morning when Julio shows up at my front door with an absurd number of flowers. There was no need for Dad to continue the charade. The cat was already back in the house after their most recent fight. “Sure you have the right place Julio?” I ask as he heaves the pile into my arms.

  “Oh yes Miss Southland,” he whistles through the sizable gap between his front teeth. His S’s turn to high pitched bird calls. “Your father called them in last night.”

  “Is he already apologizing for something new?”

  “No Miss Southland, these flowers aren’t for your mother. They are for you,” Julio says, turning away and back to the bright yellow van he drives around town. Every woman holds her breath in anticipation when it pulls in front of their house or workplace. Every girl hopes that inside that beat up sunflower of a car is a gift for them. I don’t get it. If a guy wants to impress me, he should buy me a book.

  “Dad!” I call into the open house. No immediate response.

  My brother, Jonah, rounds the corner and notices the flowers on my arm. “Have you seen Dad?” I sign to him with my free hand, shifting the weight of the vase to my hip.

  “In his study with earbuds in,” he responds with his hands. Pointing to the bouquet, he questions, “What did he do now?”

  I place the flowers onto the counter so I can use both my hands to talk to my brother. “Julio said they aren’t for Mom. Dad got them for me.”

  Jonah’s dark eyebrows knit together. “What did he do to you?” he asks after grabbing a crisp, green apple off of the top of the fruit pile. He takes a loud, crunching bite, chewing with smacking lips. Decorum is not my brother’s strong suit.

  “I can’t think of anything. I’m a little worried I missed something.”

  As if on cue, my dad appears in the kitchen doorway. His shiny, bald head reflects the light from the bulbs in the ceiling. He catches us staring, then he signs, “What?”

  “Julio was here.” I sign and speak. “He said that they’re for me?”

  What is he up to? What did he do? What did I do?

  I motion to the flowers on the counter.

  He pulls the buds from his ears, tucking them into the pocket with his phone. “Oh yeah?” he remarks, a few octaves too high.

  “Yup,” I snap, a little sharper than I mean to, but I’m agitated and uneasy. I fiddle with the fraying hem of my lavender sweater. I know I shouldn’t be wearing pastels. They do nothing to help girls with round waistlines like mine. Unfortunately, it’s the only clean thing warm enough to handle the arctic, premenopausal temperatures Mom keeps the house at these days.

  “What are they for?”

  Dad shrugs. “Can’t a father do something nice for his daughter?” he asks. My weight shifts between my feet and I can feel the bones click in my big toes. I can’t seem to get comfortable.

  “Sure, except when he has a daughter who doesn’t like flowers.” I catch the blossoms again out of the corner of my eye and see red in more ways than one.

  “What’s going on, dad?”

  Pinching the space between his eyes, the cool and casual mask drops and he replies, “Okay, the flowers were your mom’s idea.”

  Now here I sit in my car, driving up the highway at speeds that are by no means safe. The flowers my parents thrust upon me to apologize for their betrayal mock me from the passenger seat of my old car. Mounted to the dashboard, my phone shakes against the rattling of my heater. My friend, Rosie, is on the screen as I try to explain what happened. Something about watching her head bob up and down with the shaking of the phone is making me queasy.

  “They’re the most selfish, inconsiderate people in the world!” I shout, blaring my horn at a minivan driving five miles under the speed limit in the fast lane. I’m definitely getting a ticket on this trip. If I do, it will be my parents’ fault and they can pay the fine.

  Rosie sits in her black pleather pants on the kitchen counter in the pie shop. Her short and curvy body can pull off a pair of leggings in a way that’s a crime against nature. However, it skeeves me out when she sits on the counter. She makes food there for goodness sake!

  Tossing a mix of berries in a l
arge, ceramic mixing bowl, she says, “You’ve said that four times since you called me and I still don’t know what’s going on.” Placing the bowl aside, she crosses her legs and gives me her full attention.

  The entire group of girls I work with at Hap-PIE-ly Ever After are my best friends, but I’m the closest to Rosie. I function as the shop manager, running pretty much everything for our boss, Beattie. Rosie runs the kitchen. When she’s not sewing a button on a sweater that I’ve popped, or hemming pants for our friend, Blanche, she bakes. She creates all the delectable pies that people travel from all over to try. Between the two of us, we keep the shop standing. The dream team.

  Rosie’s red lips purse as she waits for a real answer.

  “My parents have exiled me.”

  “Start talking,” I demand of my father as the front door swings open at the most opportune of times. Jessica Southland owns every room she walks into, no matter the situation. In the lifetime I’ve known her, she’s never had a single hair out of place or a wrinkled article of clothing. She was a prestigious college professor until she decided to stay home to teach Jonah and me. My brother and I have been homeschooled all of our lives. It’s what made it possible for me to graduate high school months ahead of any of my friends.

  Mom switches her attention between us then settles on Jonah. She raises her slim fingers, finished with perfectly manicured nails, to sign, “Can you get the bags out of the car, please? Just a few groceries.”

  Jonah, oblivious as always to any tension, shrugs and heads to the door. He pulls his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans, which are at least two sizes too big. His hair flops over his eyes in sandy curls. It’s only when he passes Mom that I realize how much he’s grown. He can look clear over her head now.

  She waits until the door closes before returning her gaze to Dad and me. “What’s up?” she asks, her tone far too chipper for ten o’clock in the morning.

  “Flowers are here, Jess,” my dad remarks as he rubs the back of his neck. For all the skill and experience he has with Mom, my Dad hates confrontation with either of his children.

  “Yes, Jess,” I mock in a way I know my mother won’t appreciate. “The flowers are here and Dad was about to tell me why. I, for one, know that flowers in this family are only given as an apology. What are you apologizing for, exactly?”

  Her expression never breaks. She pushes her sleeves up her slender arms to bunch at her bony elbows. I’m the only member of my family that isn’t a gangly piece of asparagus. Maybe I’m adopted.

  “Why does it have to be an apology, Isabella? Can’t we do something nice for our daughter?” Her words are almost identical to Dad’s.

  My fists cement onto my round hips, standing nose to nose with my perfect mother. Truth be told, she’s the person I’m closest to in the entire world. Growing up, I could tell her anything. She never gave me a hard time about my weight. She did try to make me healthier and push me toward clothes that flattered me more, but never with an ounce of malice to it. I think the closeness we normally share is what makes the secrecy so unsettling.

  “Dad already said that. Please tell me what’s going on. You’re scaring me.”

  Mom chuckles before tousling my hair like I’m five years old. “Oh, my dear, sweet Isabella, don’t be dramatic. It’s nothing bad.”

  Jonah chooses this moment to barrel through the front door. His arms lined and weighed down with grocery store plastic bags. I can feel my father cringe from across the room. Hopefully he’ll refrain from chastising mom for not using the reusable totes. After watching a documentary about dying seagulls caught in plastic grocery bags, he had insisted we stop using plastic. Breathing heavy from his exhausting trip from the car, Jonah exclaims aloud, “Just a few groceries?”

  I always wonder how he thinks he sounds, or what he would think if he could hear his own voice. While it’s normal for us, we are not immune to the stares we get in public when Jonah speaks. Knowing my aloof little brother, though, I’m sure he wouldn’t care anymore than he already does. I’m really the only self conscious one of the family. Of course it doesn’t hurt that Jonah is the epitome of cool with his tall, lean body and fashionably shaggy hair and perfect face. I am an amorphous potato.

  My mother, completely unfazed by his distress, says, “Put them away

  for me.” No hint of a question. Mom has this way of demanding things of you that makes you believe they’re your idea. To me and my father she voices, “Let’s take this into the living room.” Again, no question.

  Mom smooths out her ivory skirt as she takes a seat. She pats the space beside her, inviting me to sit. Dad already took the armchair for himself. Unless my plan is to sit on the floor, the couch is my only option. I tuck one legging covered leg under me and pull the other knee up to my chest. When I say to my chest, I mean as close as I can get without my belly or boobs getting in the way. The resistance is like shoving together the same poles of two magnets. I’m trying my best to guard myself from whatever’s coming. The lump in the back of my throat refuses to settle.

  “Okay,” I begin, refusing to let them push this off any further. “My most beloved parents, start talking. What is going on?”

  As she is prone to do, Mom takes the lead. “First of all, your father and I want you to know how proud we are of you. All the hard work you’ve done to finish your studies early hasn’t gone unnoticed. You’ve been incredible.”

  “And we’re sure your college acceptance is coming any day now,” my dad chimes in, considering himself a part of Mom’s conversation.

  “In keeping with that spirit,” my mother continues, barely registering that my father had spoken. “A very interesting opportunity has arisen that your father and I have decided you need to pursue. It’s going to make a huge impact on your future. We couldn’t let it pass by. We had to accept it for you-”

  “Whoa.” I hold my hands up in a time out position, trying to pause her for a second. “You’re like ten steps in front of me. What opportunity are you talking about?”

  Now Mom looks to Dad to pick things up. He sits forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his navy blue slacks. “Peanut, have you ever heard of Baxter Industries?” he asks.

  “Yeah, they make everything.” By everything, I mean from batteries and toys to firearms and genetically engineered food. “What about them?”

  “Well,” Mom begins again. This conversation is like a tennis match with its back and forth. “The CEO and founder of the company, Lionel Baxter, is an old classmate of mine from college. He’s currently in a predicament and reached out to me to see if I was still teaching.”

  “What kind of predicament?” I ask.

  “He has a son who suffered some severe injuries in a horrible accident about a year ago,” Dad explains.

  I pull my knee a little closer to my chest, my back screaming at me in protest. It’s a protective stance I’d taken on as a little girl to guard myself against things I didn’t want to face. I have no idea what’s coming, but for some reason “arranged marriage” keeps entering my mind.

  “That’s awful, but what does that have to do with me?”

  “It’s a great opportunity,” my mother says again, and I wish she’d stop. “Mr. Baxter requires a live-in tutor to help catch his son up on his studies. I signed you on for the job.” The world drops to the floor and even if my life depended on it, I can’t find any words. Mom seems to sense my aversion to the idea, possibly by my slacked jaw and bugged eyes.

  “It’s the best possible thing for you. It’s not good for you to waste all your time for the next few months.” Months?! Does she really expect me to go live away from my family for months, plural?! “Working at that pie shop nonstop is not a good use of your talents or your brain.”

  This is not a new argument. She’s always made it abundantly clear that she would prefer I get an internship somewhere rather than waste my life in a
normal teenage job. I scrub my hands up and down my face, feeling like I’ve aged twenty years in the last five minutes.

  “It feels like you’re both speaking another language or something. This makes absolutely no sense. Why would you want to send me away? What did I do, exactly?”

  “Oh, honey,” Mom says, reaching forward and taking my hand. I have to resist the urge to pull away. “This is not about sending you away. It’s about providing you with a chance that doesn’t come around every day.” This is beginning to sound a lot like when she made me try ballet for “the experience.” I still have nightmares about it.

  “In addition to paying you extremely well,” Dad chimes in, his face hopeful and determined. “You already applied for the Baxter Industry’s scholarship. This might not gain you any favor, but you never know. It’s a lot of money.”

  “I don’t even get a vote on this?” I ask. Until now, the Southland family has always been a democracy, not this dictatorial nonsense. My parents grow silent and my mother starts to run her thumb back and forth over her lower lip. It smudges her perfect, rose pink lipstick. I secretly enjoy that something about her is off balance now that she’s completely knocked me off my feet. She squares her body to me, hands folded in her lap.

  “Sweetheart, there are certain things you won’t understand until you’re a parent.” And there it is. My mom and I have always had a very open and honest relationship, but there have been occasions where I’ve backed her into a corner and she’s not been willing to submit. She’ll say something along the lines of, “You won’t understand until you have children of your own.”

  And that’s it. The conversation is over. I run my fingers through my tangled brown hair, letting out an alien sound too generous to call a sigh. “I don’t want this!” I exclaim to the floor, tugging on the roots. The tiny hint of pain keeps me grounded.

  “Sometimes the things that are best for you are the things you don’t want to do,” my father muses in his very Confucius, all knowing voice

  that makes me mad. Always the man with a resolution.

  “The two of you made this decision without even consulting me. I have a job. I have friends and something resembling a social life. And the two of you pull the rug out from beneath me? This is not like you at all.” They both look down to the floor. Probably formulating further ways to work around the issue of ruining my life. My mother sighs and shakes her head, looking, dare I say, disappointed?