Pumpkin Pie Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Katelyn Brawn.

  Holli Friedland, Editor and Wendy Dean, Co-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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  Pumpkin Pie/ Katelyn Brawn. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-9986811-3-9

  This novel is dedicated to two people who always had faith in me and my dreams. Making me believe in my happily ever after even when I couldn’t see if for myself.

  Andy and Jackie Brawn, my incredible parents, none of this would be real without you.

  This one’s for you.

  “You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection”

  — BUDDHA

  Chapter One

  There are a finite number of crystals inside a shaker of salt and yet I know I will never be able to count them. There’s something unsettling about not having that kind of control, even over a thing so inconsequential. I play with the tab of the industrial sized container of table salt as my eyes flick between the salt shakers lined up like soldiers in front of me. My chin’s resting on the edge of the checkered table of the booth I’m sitting in, and I try like crazy to ignore the tacky substance that’s sticking to me there. It’s taken me almost ten minutes to remove the lids from the shakers at my banana slug pace. Truth be told, I have the easiest of all closing jobs, refilling the salt and pepper shakers. I always get through the pepper pretty fast, but my brain majorly slows down whenever it comes to the crystals in the salt.

  “Hey dumb-dumb, poor the sodium chloride,” a voice exclaims from across the room as a rag hits me in the head. It soaks my face with the three day old water we use to clean the tables. I look up to see my friend Rosie smirking at me from behind the counter. She wipes her hands on the white lace apron she wears around her waist. Her red painted lips curl up into a smile as she piles a few empty pie tins on top of one another to take back to her kitchen.

  “How about you worry about yourself?” I mumble as I bang one of the shakers against the counter to break up the clumps. I hate clumps. Not that she’s wrong. I only have one thing I need to do while everyone else does the hard cleaning. I flip open the tab of the wholesale salt and pour about a tablespoon of the crystals into my palm and rub my hands together. I focus on the feeling of coarseness cutting into my hands.

  “Darling, I will always worry about you before me,” she says with a smile as she makes her way back through the swinging doors into the kitchen with her pile of empty pie dishes. The clinking and clanking of the metal and ceramic pans against one another, mixed with the harshness of the salt in my hands pushes the rest of the room, including my responsibilities, away.

  Bella pops up from behind the counter as Rosie finally exits. “How is my ray of sunshine?” she asks me as she begins her nightly fight to count out the money from the register. Bella’s black framed glasses slip down her nose as she turns to the ancient money machine that Beattie, our boss, insists on keeping. It’s older than all of us combined and barely ever works, but it’s Beattie’s prized possession and it’s not going anywhere. She lugs an oversized toolbox from under the counter and fishes around inside for the pieces she needs to conquer the beast. Victoriously she emerges with a flathead screwdriver to wedge the cash drawer open. It screeches and screams in protest as metal rubs against metal, but Bella doesn’t seem to hear it.

  I remember moving that massive eyesore in here months ago, my back still hurts at the thought. It’s crazy for me to think that this place hasn’t always been here. It’s hard sometimes for me to remember how I survived without it for the first sixteen years of my life.

  Allow me to welcome you to Hap-PIE-ly Ever After Pie Shop and Restaurant! Where all we serve is, you guessed it, pie, pie and MORE PIE! We make everything from my favorite pumpkin pie to your traditional apple and cherry to crazy things like Midnight Madness (a chocolate cookie crust with a dark chocolate and caramel cream, yum). Breakfast quiches and pasta pies (you haven’t lived until you’ve had lasagna in a flaky crust). It’s one of the most popular places to eat in our small town. Especially considering it’s us or the questionable diner. For years mystery meatloaf and week old cannolis were the only option in our little corner of the East Coast, but that’s all changed now.

  Beatrix Cod, whom we call Beattie, moved to our town a year before and bought the old place that used to be a hardware store. She’d covered the windows in newspaper and I swear no one ever came or went. The only inkling to there being people inside were the sounds of saws and hammers. Walking by, we were overwhelmed by the smell of wet paint and sawdust, but we never heard voices. Being the nosy people that we all were in Harpersgrove, Maryland we couldn’t NOT know what was going on in there, so we did our best snooping at all times. When you think of the gossipers in a small town you probably think of little old women sitting under dryers in the local hair salon. Not so in Harpersgrove. In our town it’s everybody, from the principal of the elementary school to the captain of the high school football team and even us, the girls who would come to work here. We’re all guilty of spreading gossip about what was going inside the shop of mystery. The rumors stretched in every direction the imagination could go. My neighbor thought it was an S&M shop, my English teacher thought it was day care, and my sisters thought it was a vegan cupcakery.

  So, the day came for the opening and Beattie, being her normal secretive self, hung the sign outside, under the cover of darkness. Then she actually covered it, like with a sheet. In front of the door stood Beattie, a woman about twice my age even though you couldn’t tell by looking at her. Her dark red hair piled up on top of her head in a messy ponytail with pieces flying loose across her eye. Her flawless, freckled skin showed no trace of makeup. She wore paint splattered and ripped jeans and a tee shirt that actually read, “Frankie Says Relax.” Beattie was not a woman for the pomp and circumstance of appearance and I loved that about her. The people in town, I was sure, expected her to be in a dress or suit. I know they assumed she’d be in something quasi-professional, anything but what she was wearing. And yet she was the most strikingly beautiful person I’d ever seen. I can’t tell you what it was about her, but she looked like a goddess or something. Maybe it was the eyes. She has amazing blue eyes, like a cloudless sky in the middle of summer.

  The mayor had insisted on doing a grand opening. He wanted an event when the library bought a new set of shelves. The opening of a new business was a must for pomp and circumstance. Everyone in town showed up for this. I mean, we barely filled Main Street, but everyone was there. I was standing with my mothe
r and younger, twin sisters. Two truly annoying thorns in my side who spent the entire time complaining that they had to be there at all. The mayor gave a little speech about something that to which I wasn’t paying attention. When Mayor Byron got talking you tuned him out after about a minute. It was a necessity for your sanity. The man could talk about nothing forever in his monotone and boring voice that sounded like a fog horn assaulting your ears. I was still looking at Beattie. She seemed as annoyed by this as I was. Her head thrown back in a way that if I hadn’t known better I would have sworn she was sleeping. I did my best not to laugh, but it wasn’t working and I let out a giggle. My mother reached over and pinched my arm, actually pinched me, and hissed, “Stop that, pay attention!”

  To what? I wanted to ask her, but I kept my mouth shut and looked back to the stage. My mother stiffened beside me. My very existence annoying her as the Bobbsey twins, squawking beside me, bickering over who would get to have the sparkly pink phone case. I was in hell.

  “Now I would like to welcome the woman of the hour, Miss Beatrix Cod,” and finally Old Byron loosened his death grip on the microphone and handed it to Beattie as the sound of feedback hissed through the speakers on either side of the shop. Everyone in attendance cringed.

  “Thank you,” she said pushing the loose curls of red hair away from her face. “I appreciate your welcoming me into the community. I’m incredibly happy to be here.”

  She seemed sincere enough, the town was pretty idyllic. Since we’re so small we’re virtually untouched by chain stores. An ideal spot for a small business. She reached up and grabbed the end of the sheet over the sign and continued, “I’m sure you’re all curious as to what I’ve been doing. You’ve done pretty much everything besides break the door down.”

  It sounded like a swarm of angry bees as a hum of mumbles and grumbles settled amongst the crowd. It was of course, completely true, but that wasn’t something people in my town wanted to hear.

  “Anyway, this is what I’ve been doing.” She pulled the sheet down and we all stared at the sign she revealed. It had a huge, round pie in the left corner and read, “Ha-PIE-ly Ever After” in a pretty black script. She threw the sheet off to the side and shoved her hands in her pockets.

  “I like pie, I make pie. That’s all. I don’t serve anything else, but this is the fourth place I’ve opened and I’m good at it.” I knew to everyone else she sounded cocky, but to me she just seemed honest.

  “So, I’ll be opening in seven days and my door will be open all week for interviews. Thanks.”

  There was some applause, but it was forced and sporadic, like something you’d hear at a fourth grade piano recital. Beattie disappeared back into the shop and the crowd slowly dispersed, disappointed in the lack of any type of show. My family was among the few left.

  “Who on earth would work for that vile woman?” my mother mumbled as she tried to operate her expensive cell phone that she had no idea how to work. The clicking of her acrylic fingernails against the screen matched perfectly in time with the tapping of her stilettos against the asphalt in a way that was almost hypnotic. I shrugged as I walked behind her. My sisters were fighting over a tube of lip gloss that was actually mine as they filed in line behind mom.

  “I wouldn’t mind working for her,” I said, more to myself; but who respects those boundaries anyway? Not my mother, Eleanor Conner, that’s for sure.

  She stopped dead on her designer pink pumps, my sisters nearly falling over her as they slammed to a stopped and grabbed each other for balance.

  “What did you say Michelle? You’d actually want to work for that woman?”

  The look of horror that flashed across her perfectly winged eyes was worthy of a Hitchcock leading lady.

  I really hadn’t wanted her to hear me, mainly so I could avoid this conversation. My mother was quite a difficult human being to handle most of the time, and that was when she was making effort to be pleasant. Otherwise I couldn’t even be in her presence. She made it her constant mission to change me into something she could be proud of, it wasn’t something I was any good at accomplishing on my own. At the age of nine she’d enrolled me in charm school to make me a lady and I’d begged my father to leave after two lessons. I found no joy in learning how to set a proper table and walk with a book on my head. I don’t think she ever forgave me for that.

  I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket and rocked back on my heels.

  “I don’t know mother. I think she seems kind of cool. Plus you’re always saying I should get a job.” My being an irresponsible and freeloading teenager was one of her favorite subjects of discussion.

  Her left eyebrow, nothing but pencil now as she’d waxed the real one to smithereens, arched, meaning that I had made a valid point but she wasn’t going to openly acknowledge it.

  “Well, that is true, it’s about time you start taking on some responsibility.”

  As though I didn’t already do the mountain of housework she and my sisters refused to do.

  “But I don’t think I want you working in a place like that.” She had such a superior attitude, it was disgusting. I knew it was because of the way that Beattie looked and she made me so mad. But I knew how to deal with her.

  I shrugged and said, “Well, I mean I could always work for you.”

  My sisters, Megan and Tyler, glanced up from their phones to see how she’d react. The idea of me going to work for my mother at the posh boutique she owned in neighboring New Shiloh was probably the worst thing she could imagine. She flat out told us all, on many occasions, that the only reason she went back to work in the first place was to get away from us. Well away from me anyway, she worshiped the twins. My entering her dome of solitude would put a major damper on that. After thinking about it for a good long moment she rolled her eyes and said, “Just do whatever you want.” In other words, “Don’t even think about stepping a foot into my place of business!”

  She started to walk a little faster towards her car, her heels clapping like a galloping show horse as she called over her shoulder, “And do something with your hair! We’re in public and you’re embarrassing me.”

  I smiled and pulled up my long brown hair into a smooth ponytail, if that wasn’t good enough she’d have to do it herself.

  “I swear to God,” Bella exclaims as she hoists her foot onto the register, still trying to force the drawer open. Rosie, who stands beside her, giggles and offers no real form of support, moral or otherwise. Classic Rose.

  “If anyone ever tries to rob us they’ll be sorely disappointed when I can’t get into this thing for an hour!”

  Thank God we’ve entered the technological age where most people pay with a credit card and we don’t have to rely on the dinosaur as much. I mean, our credit card system still uses a dial up connection, but it’s at least a little faster than the register.

  “You’re hanging around for testing tonight right?” Rosie calls as she swishes her way back toward the kitchen. I’m not into girls, but if I was it would totally be over a girl like Rosie. She’s petite, definitely under five foot five, but curves in every direction, windier than a country road. She channels this aura of Slutty Sandy from the ending of “Grease.” Total rockabilly. She sprays and curls and teases her naturally platinum blonde hair high on her head. Usually in barrel rolls or a bun. She covers her olive skin in thick, white pancake makeup that she doesn’t need. Most girls would kill to be that naturally tan. Her eyes are always painted the same black as her nails and she keeps her lips a bright red. I’ve always been jealous of her fearlessness. Rosie Peters will never be anyone but herself.

  I turn around and shrug. “Depends. Are you going to try and kill us all again?” I look up to see her glaring at me through narrowed eyes. Her blonde hair is plastered away with hairspray from her face and the pies she’s making.

  “Never going to let me forget that are you?” she growls. Rosie can be a little scary sometimes if you look at her the wrong way. I wouldn’t want to come up aga
inst her in a dark alley. She’d kick your butt and serenade you with show tunes while she did it.

  “You undercooked chicken and we all ended up in the hospital with salmonella poisoning. What do you think?” My stomach flips at the memory. I had never been so green, dehydrated, and sick in all my life.

  Rosie gnaws on her bottom lip, trying to come up with a quippy and Rosie-worthy comeback. When she finds herself unable to summon anything, she shrugs and says, “No, I guess not.”

  We both laugh as the door behind us swings open and in walks the self-proclaimed princess of this place. I already knew that Blanche was here after hearing her rickety orange VW bug make its way down the street. The poor thing is always hanging on by a thread.

  “Hey ladies!” Blanche exclaims with a smile, not caring who hears her, very Blanche-esque. My best friend has a larger than life personality. Her mom had been Chinese and her father is Irish and the result of Blanche is beautiful. She has thick, smooth black hair that she keeps cropped close to her chin. She has thin black eyes like her mother with a flutter of freckles across her pale nose that she definitely gets from her dad. She’s tall like her father and thin like her mom. She’s a beauty and a presence that can’t be ignored.

  I roll my eyes and give up on pouring the salt.

  “Hey Blanche, what are you doing here? You’re not working tonight.”

  Blanche looks at me like I’m nuts then she peers down at herself.

  “Do I look dressed to work silly girl?” she poses with a laugh. She’s in her regular running outfit. Blanche is the star sprinter for her school’s track team that’s just outside of our town. My guess is she’s just come from practice.

  She smiles and says, “No buddy, I came for the tasting. I mean as long as Rosie isn’t making pot pies again.”

  A loud bang sounds behind as Rosie holds up a carving knife, a murderous look in her green eyes. “I have apologized over and over. I officially hate you all.”