Pie Crust

• 1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter
• 1 cup unbleached all purpose flour
• 1/2 cup graham flour
• 1/2 cup toasted pecans, finely chopped
• 2 Tbs sugar

Every perfect pie begins with a perfect crust. And there’s no such thing as a single perfect crust, no matter what anyone might tell you. Each crust has to complement the pie it supports, and only the eater can really know for sure what the perfect combination is.

Well, the eater and me, of course. Because I have a “thing” for pie. A sixth sense. It’s just a little quirk I have.

My sister says I’ve had it all my life. Maybe she’s right. She remembers a time when I made her cry for a week because I baked her a birthday pie right after I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me. I was upset when I made the pie, so my sister became upset when she ate it. According to her, she cried inexplicably for a week. I actually don’t remember that. The her crying part, I mean. I remember the boyfriend. His name was Bryan. With a “y”. I should have known he would be trouble.

Pie Filling

• 1 cup powdered sugar
• 8 oz. cream cheese at room temperature
• 1 cup Cool Whip

Honestly, I think it’s cheating to use Cool Whip in a homemade pie recipe, but sometimes you have to cheat. Like the time in college I was too brokenhearted after a devastating car accident to finish a term paper and had to ask a friend to finish it for me. My professor found out, but she took pity on me and didn’t report me to the dean. I’m sure I would have been expelled. Instead she failed me in the course.

But it worked out all right. You don’t need a degree in sociology to become a pie baker.

Though having a knack for people helps.

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 375.
2. Combine the ingredients for the crust.
3. Spread the crust mixture into a 9 inch pie pan. (I prefer metal. You can use glass. If you’re not a purist.
4. Bake for 20–25 minutes. (This is a guesstimate. The crust should hold its form and not release crumbs when touched. But honestly, this isn’t how I know my crust is ready. I know the crust is ready when I can smell it from thirty paces and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I realize this isn’t a useful measurement for most bakers.)
5. Remove from oven and let cool completely. On the porch if you’ve got one.

My mother didn’t bake. Doesn’t bake. She drinks a lot, which I guess has always been her hallmark. She didn’t bother too much with my sister and me, preferring to leave the child rearing to Matola, our housekeeper-cum-nanny. But I don’t resent my mother for that. Her inattentiveness and self-absorption is just who she is. She left Tiny and me to far more loving hands than hers, and Matola’s kindness taught me to love myself, to care for myself, and to be the woman I grew up to be. Could my mother have offered me the same stability and self-assurance? I doubt it. Those weren’t her strong suits.

No, I don’t resent my mother for the things she couldn’t help. I resent her for the things she could have helped but didn’t. I resent her for never once trying to be a better mother. I resent her for making alcoholism look glamorous. I resent her for turning Tiny out of the house when all she did was get pregnant too young and out of wedlock.

Which was stupid of her, yes. Every modern woman knows about birth control. And it’s not like she couldn’t afford it.

But what do I know? I haven’t had a man, or a reason to use birth control, in years. And it’s not because of my thighs.

Directions for the filling:

1. Combine all the filling ingredients in a mixer.
2. Pour the cream cheese mixture into the crust.
3. Refrigerate for at least an hour or until the cream cheese is firm.

“Firm thighs,” my mother said in her evaluative tone as I descended the steps in my prom dress. It was black and A-line with fluttery sleeves and a flattering V-neckline. I had preened and primped in the mirror for 30 minutes before trusting myself to come downstairs. I was brimming with confidence and joy until my mother stopped me dead in my tracks with an analytic stare that blatantly read, “Does not measure up.”

“That’s all your dress is missing, darling. Firm thighs.” My mother sighed, brushing her platinum blonde hair from her eyes. “Why you couldn’t spend a few hours at the gym I just don’t know. Boys don’t like fat girls. That’s probably why you’re going stag.”

The idea that I was fat at 16 should have been ridiculous to my ears. I was a size 10, and at 5’6 that was perfectly normal and healthy. I was a pretty girl, and in that dress I looked like a million dollars. Besides, the dress came just to my knees. You couldn’t even see my thighs. I was going stag because I’d caught my asshole of a boyfriend making out with Meaghan Florence who wore a size 6 and had firm everything.

My mother would approve.

I should have told my mother to go jump in a lake. But teenaged girls are not models of self confidence, and my mother’s words rang like a bell inside my head, sending me into a downspiral of self doubt and insecurity.

The thing is, I don’t think she said it to be cruel. She really, truly, thought it was the appropriate thing to say.

Lime Curd

• 3/4 cup Key lime juice (I haven’t met anyone who can tell the difference btween limes and key limes, but for posterity’s sake, use key limes.)

• 1 tsp. lime zest

• 1/2 cup superfine sugar

• 3 eggs

• 3/4 stick unsalted butter

Directions for the lime curd:

1. Cream the butter and the sugar until fluffy
2. Add the eggs one at a time, scraping down the bowl as you go. Ensure each egg is fully absorbed before adding the next.
3. Add the lime juice
4. In a double boiler, gently heat the lime curd mixture. Whisk constantly until the curd thickens.
5. When the curd is nice and thick, pour into a ceramic or glass bowl, cover, and refrigerate.

I was in college when my father died. It isn’t much of a story. He died unexpectedly of heart failure. I was sad, but not overly so as a daughter should be, because my father and I were not close. I would love to tell you that we had a classic Daddy’s Little Girl relationship, but the truth is he wasn’t around very much. Though when he was around, he clearly preferred Tiny to me. That was okay, as most everyone preferred Tiny to me. It was hard not to. Conventionally beautiful, smart, and brimming over with personality, Tiny could wrap anyone around her little finger, and did, most of the time. Give her and inch and she’d take a mile. But you couldn’t hold it against her. It was just her way.

Baking key lime pie always makes me remember the more sour parts of my life.

I’m working on it.

Whipped Topping

• 2 cups heavy whipping cream
• 1 Tbs powdered sugar
• 1 tsp Madagascar vanilla

Directions for topping:

1. Beat the whipping cream with the sugar on high speed until it holds stiff peaks.

Putting it all together:

1. Once the cream cheese is firm (unlike my 16 year old thighs) pour the lime curd over top of the cream cheese layer.
2. Spread the whipped topping over the lime curd.
3. Garnish the whipped cream with the lime zest.
4. Refrigerate at least 2 hours but preferably over night before serving.
5. Be prepared for comments about your delicious pie’s unconventional coloring.

“This key lime pie isn’t green,” Mama said, her eyebrows drawn together like curtains on a too warm day. “Why on earth is this key lime pie yellow?”

It was Thanksgiving, the last Thanksgiving Daddy was with us. “Real key lime pie isn’t green, Mama,” I said, my voice even. I was used to her criticisms by then. “If a key lime pie is green, it means they added food coloring. Real key lime pie is the color of butter and egg yolks,” I said, sliding a hefty slice onto Daddy’s plate. I was proud of myself for knowing these things, and excited to be able to share my knowledge with my family.

But Mama wasn’t impressed. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time in college if all you seem to be learning is how to bake unconventional pies,” she said, pushing her slice away from her without even taking a bite. “I grew up eating key lime pie and it’s always been green and quite good, too, I might add.”

If that was a test, I’d failed. Tiny and I had exchanged looks, finished off our slices, and gone in for seconds.

I should have taken the whole pie and shoved it in Mama’s face. I wonder what Daddy would have done. Would he have laughed? Would the laughter have relieved the pressure that was building up in his heart? Could shoving my mother’s austere face into a whipped cream covered pastry perfection have saved my father’s life?

Pie can do amazing things. It can make people laugh, or sing, or purr. But I don’t know if pie can save a life.

But I’d be willing to try.

Love & War hadn’t seen a violent crime in over a decade, so news of Rubio Bautista’s murder spread like wildfire. The news even caused a stir in the Badlands, where town news that didn’t involve free food or free showers and haircuts at the You Look Nice Salon was seldom worth discussing.

No one knew how to respond to the murder. Some families left the carefully hung Christmas lights that trimmed their homes dark out of respect for Rubio and his widow. Others put on brave faces and tried to carry on as normally they could, but parents were loathe to let their children too far out of sight, and lovers held each other closer and tighter than was usually their wont. The murder came as a hard blow to the town, striking at its very heart. The steel gray skies of winter did nothing to ease the deep sorrow.

Tiny watched her sister pull a pie out of the oven as she turned the event of Rubio’s murder over in her mind. Everyone else was talking about it, but Gracey had hardly mentioned it. Although Tiny hadn’t known Ines or Rubio Bautista well, Gracey knew everyone, and the tragedy must surely have affected her. That her sister had said little of Rubio’s death worried Tiny.

Climbing up on the sideboard, Tiny crossed her ankles and pushed a wild lock of red hair behind her ear. “Gracey,” she said, “Rubio’s funeral is tonight. You haven’t said anything about it, and I wondered if we were going.”

Gracey placed the pie on the cooling rack, shook her hair off her forehead. “The funeral’s at St. Benedict’s in Placerita,” she said.

Tiny waited. When Gracey said nothing else, she said, “Okay…?”

Gracey threw her sister a sideways glance as she pulled a bag of pie dough from the refrigerator. “You know I won’t go into a Catholic church.” She emptied the dough onto the counter.

Tiny rolled her eyes at Gracey’s back. “How long are you gonna carry that grudge?” She said the words with an inflection intended to raise Gracey’s ire. She braced herself for it.

But Gracey wouldn’t be roped into an argument. “Long as it takes,” she answered simply. She began beating the pie dough with a rolling pin. “No reason I can see you shouldn’t go, if that’s what you want.”

But Tiny only shrugged. “I’d feel weird going by myself. But even if we don’t go to the funeral, we’ll go the wake, right?”

“Planned on it,” Gracey replied. “Why, Tiny? You want something just say it.”

Tiny frowned at her sister. “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

Gracey turned, gave her sister a cold stare. “Somebody brought murder to my town,” she said. “And I’m a little bent outta shape about it.”

Tiny cut her eyes at her sister. “I’m not an idiot, Gracey.”

Gracey gave the dough an extra slap with the pin, and let out a long sigh, shaking her head. “I got a letter from Mama,” she said.

Tiny bit her lip, stopped kicking her feet. Gracey and Annette hadn’t spoken in over a year, ever since Tiny had left home to live with Gracey. There had been bad blood between them for longer than that, thought Tiny had never known why. It was something no one saw fit to speak to her about.

But that Annette had broken the silence with a letter could only mean something bad.

“What did she want?” Tiny asked.

Gracey rolled the dough out with more force than was needed. Her mouth was an angry slash across her face. “To let me know she wrote me out of her will.”

Tiny blinked in surprise. “She did what?”

Gracey laughed, mirthless, hard. “You heard me right,” she said. “She wrote me letter—couldn’t even face me over the phone, I guess—to tell me she no longer considers me family and that she sees no reason I should inherit any of the family’s wealth.” She threw the rolling pin, turned to face her sister. “It’s funny—Daddy was the Daylittle, not her. I’m an actual Daylittle by birth. What right does she even have to write me out of the family?”

Tiny didn’t know what to say. She could see the hurt in her sister’s face, hurt that was even greater than the anger at her mother’s self-centered audacity. “Are you going to be all right? Financially?”

Gracey nodded, waved away her sister’s concern. “It’s not the money,” she said. “Daddy left me plenty when he died. It’s just…it’s just so goddamned petty. And self-righteous. I don’t even know what else.”

“I’m sorry,” Tiny said, knowing it wasn’t enough. “But I have to mention…you probably shouldn’t be baking right now.”

Gracey turned to look down at the pie crust she’d been rolling out. She wondered how much anger and resentment she’d kneaded into the dough. Frantically, she began pulling the dough off the counter, throwing the pieces into the trash as they came up. “Jesus, you’re right,” she said. “The way I’m feeling I could poison the whole goddamned town.”

Tiny sighed. “Damn, this is really bad timing, too.”

Gracey looked over her shoulder, raised an eyebrow. “Why, were you going to ask for a loan?”

Tiny scoffed. “No. I…I was hoping we could bake a pie for Mrs. Bautista. An anti-grief pie.”

Gracey hrmmed, scraped the rest of the pie dough into the trash. She placed her palms against the edge of the counter, leaned her weight onto her arms. “Even if I were up for it, and I’m clearly not, people have to grieve, Tiny. It’s part of the healing process. Believe me, I know. I know a little something about loss.” She hesitated a moment, then continued. “When I lost Gabe in the accident, I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. Some days I didn’t even want to wake up or get out of bed. It just felt like the world wasn’t even worth being present for anymore. After he died, I just gave up.”

It was strange hearing Gracey talk about the accident. Tiny had been just a girl when Gracey and her fiance had been in the car accident that killed him and left Gracey in the hospital for weeks. She had never met Gabe, only heard his name mentioned in passing. The one thing she did know about him was that for whatever reason, for reasons Gracey had never spoken to Tiny about, their engagement had disintegrated what was left of Gracey’s relationship with their mother. Annette had never even visited Gracey in the hospital when she was hanging onto life by a thread.

She could see the grief in Gracey’s face. Tiny wondered which part of the ordeal she was remembering.

“When you lose someone you love, happiness seems impossible,” Gracey was saying. “There’s no magic in the world can take that pain away.”

Then, she smiled. “On the other hand, they’re showing The Sound of Music at the dollar theater.”

Tiny made a face. “That movie sucks.”

“It’s my favorite.”

Tiny sighed, hopped down off the counter. “If it’s for a good cause. I’ll go with you. Afterwards, maybe put on some Happy Gracey music and see about that pie?”

Gracey shrugged. “I’m not saying I can make her want to dance the Macarena, but maybe we can at least help her want to get out of bed. Help her find a reason to keep going. See that life isn’t…such a waste.”

They locked up early. For a good cause.

Five hours, a bottle of Layer Cake pinot grigio and a food fight later, Gracey, wrapped in the post-alpine glow that seemed to have pushed all angst about their mother aside, pulled from the oven a beautifully browned, bubbling cherry pie. Tiny had insisted on a playlist— “Just to be sure”—that would keep Gracey’s spirits high while they baked. Tiny put the playlist together while Gracey assmbled the ingredients, adding only songs that made Gracey feel glad to be alive. The playlist had included Walking On Sunshine, Favorite Things, Perfect Day, Life Is Wonderful, and Wonderful World. Though Tiny had found some of the songs a bit on the corny side, she could practically feel Gracey’s skin humming with a golden joie d’vivre, and she knew, as she watched her sister lay the latticework for the cherry pie, that the magic was flowing.

The townsfolk began pouring in to the Bautista home around 7pm that evening. Many of the old families who, like the Bautistas, had lived in Love & War since the town was founded, had come early to help Ines receive her guests. They brought her casseroles and cornbreads, soups and salsas. They offered condolences, many of them with faces nearly as full of sadness as her own. Amid the gathering of friends and family, Ines Bautista sat like a crying Madonna, still and alone amid dozens of warm, vibrating bodies.

As Gracey came through the door with her pie, she saw Inés, recognized the grief she wore like a mask. It stabbed at her heart, and for a moment Gracey wondered if she’d made a mistake in coming. But that was what funerals were for, she remembered. For sharing in grief, not running from it.

With Tiny close behind, Gracey carried the pie to the kitchen. She sat it on the counter and glanced around. She pointed toward a drawer and said, “Tiny, bring me a fork, please.”

As Tiny hunted for the silverware, Gracey opened the cupboard and retrieved a small sandwich plate. Using the pie knife she’d brought, Gracey cut a generous slice, slid it carefully onto the plate. Tiny presented the fork, and Gracey placed it on the plate alongside the pie. As she headed for the living room, Tiny asked, “Should I put the pie away? So no one else will eat it?”

Gracey smiled, shook her head. “One slice should do the trick.”

Avoiding the other guests was no small feat in a house this size, but Gracey managed to make her way to Inés without jostling her plate too much. She sat down next to the widow, who barely flicked her eyes to register Gracey’s presence. Gracey put a hand softly on her elbow. “Inés, I’ve brought you something. Something to…something to help.”

She didn’t wait for Inés’s permission. Gracey pierced the pie with the fork, breaking off a small bite. She lifted the fork to Inés’s lips. “I want you to taste this,” she said.

The widow caught Gracey’s gaze then and in a moment of understanding, opened her mouth. Gracey fed her the small bite, watched as the woman swallowed it. After a moment, Inés blinked, then nodded. Gracey fed her another bite, and then another. Before long, Gracey fed Inés the entire slice. When she was done, Inés took the plate from Gracey and pressed her thumb against the final crumbs and licked them off. She set the plate aside and, with a fresh wave of tearful emotion, gathered Gracey into her arms and hugged her tightly. “God bless you,” she whispered.

When they pulled apart, Gracey leaned in and kissed the widow on a wet cheek. “It gets better,” she promised. The widow gave a brief nod of thanks, and Gracey took her leave.

The cold air outside was a sharp contrast to the crowded warmth inside the house. As she stepped into the evening, away from the stifling emotion indoors, Gracey pulled her coat tight against her chest and looked up into the night sky. Even after a decade of living here, the desert sky still filled Gracey with a  deep sense of calm and wonder. She breathed the cold air in deep, let it burn all the way down her lungs, and when she exhaled, she watched her breath condense and dance in the cold air.

A shadow warned her of another presence, and Gracey turned to see Simon St. Laine approaching her from the house. He was dressed more casually than the last time she’d seen him; the top hat was missing, and he’d tied his long, black hair away from his face. The violet spectacles were gone. His skin was white against his mourning clothes—not just pale, but sickly, with purpling circles under his eyes. He offered Gracey a small, stiff smile by way of salutation. “It’s Gracey, if memory serves?”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

The magician’s smile settled in, became a little less awkward. “I hope you don’t mind my following you out here,” he said.

Gracey shook her head. “Escaping the grief, too?”

The corners of the magician’s mouth quirked. “Something like that. It might seem strange, my being a performer, but I don’t much like crowds.”

Gracey smiled, nodding. “I know what you mean. I’m a people person myself, but I can understand needing your space.” She nodded toward the sky. “Especially on a night like tonight. Seems a pity to be holed up indoors.”

Simon followed Gracey’s gaze upward. After a moment, he realized she was looking at him, expectant. She knew he hadn’t come out for idle chatter. He held out a hand, made a small, sweeping gesture, palm up. An invitation. “Would you mind walking with me a moment?”

Gracey shrugged and followed the magician’s lead as they walked slowly down Yucatan Road. He seemed, if not more comfortable, at least less uncomfortable than the first time she’d met him; some of his formal strangeness had been replaced with an air of weariness. The night was quiet; Gracey could hear coyotes howling in the distance. She was loathe to be the one to break the silence, but stealing a glance at the magician she could tell something was on his mind. “Are you doing all right, Simon? You look…unwell. Hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

Hands clasped behind his back, the magician walked with his head down, but Gracey could see the small downward turn of his mouth. “I don’t mind. I’m getting on,” he said. “As well as can be expected anyway. The past several days have been…very hard on me.”

Gracey raised an eyebrow. “You knew Rubio well?”

The magician shook his head. His hair gleamed black in the moonlight. “Not well, no. But death…it’s a funny thing. When it touches one of us, it touches all of us, don’t you agree?”

Gracey breathed in deep thorugh her mouth, stifled an urge to sneer. She couldn’t agree, not after having seen first hand how some people could utterly disregard another’s grief. In her mind she was ten years younger in her hospital bed, having heard for the first time that Gabe hadn’t survived the crash. She remembered asking for her mother, and being told Annette refused to see her. She’d begged, pleaded, cried, “I just lost my fiance!” but her mother still refused not only to visit but to speak with Gracey at all.

Her mother’s refusing her had cut her to the quick. They’d barely spoken in the intervening years; in fact, had Tiny not been living at home at the time, Gracey would have cut off all familial ties completely. But for better or for worse, Tiny had kept her tethered.

Still, the magician didn’t need to hear any of this. She shook off the reverie, breathed the night in deep. “I do, yes,” she said. “It’s a somber time for everyone.”

They said nothing else for a while, letting the silence fill the space between them. They listened to crunch of the dirt under their feet, the occasional screech of a bat, the sound of wind whistling through bare tree limbs. Finally, Simon broached the real reason he’d asked Gracey for a walk. “I saw you with Inés,” he said. “She’d been nearly catatonic all evening. Even at the funeral she hardly moved. Several people tried to get her to eat; it was like she didn’t even see them. Then you came in, fed her a piece of pie, and she…hugged you.” He looked at Gracey, a puzzled expression on his face. “How did you get her to do that? To…” He cast about for the right expression. “To…wake up like that.”

They’d stopped walking without realizing it. Simon was looking down into Gracey’s eyes. His were narrow and piercing, questioning. That stare filled her up with a thousand responses, answers to questions he hadn’t even asked, but she was unsure where to begin. Or if she wanted to begin. Something about that look, those eyes, made her want to talk for hours, and if she started she didn’t know if she could stop. Looking up into those eyes, she felt she could pour herself into him, could tell him the story of her life, and he’d listen to all of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

But the words caught in her throat, and her desire to tell him everything—about her magic, her mother, how she ended up in Love & War—turned sour in her stomach. She didn’t know this man at all. And the fact alone that she wanted to tell him everything made her uneasy.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said after a long pause. She was biting her lower lip, arms wrapped around her torso to ward off the cold. “You’re new around these parts—new by small town standards, anyway—so I guess you haven’t heard tell about me.” She smiled then, awkward, but honest. “I just…I have a way with pie,” she said. The words sounded ridiculous as she said them, and as soon as she spoke them she wanted to take them back and find a more elegant way of putting it, a way that wouldn’t make her sound like some no-account backwoods diner operator.

But that was just the problem. There wasn’t a more elegant a way to put it, because what she did wasn’t elegant. She wasn’t elegant. She was the square peg in the round Daylittle family hole, a milkweed of a woman who wore her hair wild all over her head and baked pies in the desert for a living. And now, standing with a strange magician under a star studded sky on a cold winter night, she was faced with the reality of what she’d been running from for quite a long time.

She wasn’t sure she knew where she belonged.

All of this ran through her head in a fraction of the second, and if the magician thought her words strange, he didn’t show it. He was still listening, his expression thoughtful.  “I wonder, Gracey, if I could call on you some time,” he said after a moment.

It took her a second to realize what he was asking. “Oh! I…are you…are you asking me on a date?”

The magician stepped back, lowered his eyes. “My apologies. If that was presumptuous of me, I—”

“No, it’s not that,” Gracey interrupted. “It’s just that…I haven’t…dated…anyone in a long time.” She offered a weak smile. “I don’t even think I remember how it’s done anymore,” she admitted.

The magician nodded. “I understand. It was a silly thing; I’m sorry.”

But Gracey pressed on. “I’d be happy to have dinner with you some time,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

They stood in silence, looking up at the sky. A wind blew and Gracey shivered. “We probably ought to get back,” he said.

Wordless, Gracey nodded, followed the magician back the way they’d come. It might have been the cold, it might have been her imagination, or it might have been a thousand other things, but Gracey thought she saw the smallest bit of color return to the magician’s face as they stepped back across the Bautista threshhold. It was improper, and Gracey felt ashamed for it, but she couldn’t help, as the house’s warmth thawed her from her bones outward, smiling.

Mornings begin early at most bakeries, and Want Some Pie? was no different. At a quarter past four, Gracey found herself up to her elbows in flour as she guided a tray of single-serving Chocolate For Breakfast pies into the oven.

Mitsuo sauntered through the back door, disheveled as usual, but with confidence in his step and his chin lifted so that you could actually see his eyes. Gracey tried not to smile as he pulled his apron on over his black hoodie. He was practically a different kid from when she’d found him camped out in her barn.

“What’s the special today, Gracey?” The teenager tossed a stray lock of hair from eyes that just missed making contact with Gracey’s.

Hooking her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans, the pie baker leaned back slightly, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A litany of ingredients ran through her mind as though to an internal beat, a private form of meditation she’d practiced as long as he could remember. Rocking back on the heels of her boots, Gracey opened herself to the energy of the morning, let the subtle vibrations and gentle workings of the town fill her from her toes to the crown of her head. Breathing in, she could almost smell the sleeping residents of Love & War, could almost infiltrate their dreams, see what they were seeing, feel what they were feeling. They smelled of spice, of flours, of myriad different ingredients that shifted subtly each morning. Her meditation was an essential part of her magic, though she would never have described it that way. To her, it was simply part of her process, part of how she decided what pies to make that day. It was as much a routine as brushing her hair and teeth.

“Something unusual today, I think,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Apple, cranberry, rosemary. We’ll call it Fourth Thursday Pie. We’ll add a bit of cornmeal to crust.” Opening her eyes, she smiled at her assistant. “You okay to go down to the market? I’ll make you a list.”

“Sure,” Mitsuo said, pulling off the apron he’d just tied on. “And, Miss Gracey, if I haven’t said anything, I really appreciate you giving me this job.”

Gracey waved away the gratitude, ignoring the “Miss” she’d asked him a million times to drop. “I gave you chance; you earned being allowed to stay. It’s not like I could have you squatting in my barn forever,” she said, throwing him a teasing look. “How close are you two to being able to move out of the Badlands?”

Mitsuo shrugged, withdrawing into himself just a little. “I’m sorry you found us out there,” he said. “We weren’t trying to take advantage.” When Gracey didn’t say anything, he continued. “We don’t have enough for rent just yet; you need money for deposits and stuff. The Badlands is fine for now. I was raised in a trailer,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted. “But thanks,” he said.

Gracey was about to interject that there was a difference between living in a trailer and squatting in an abandoned one when the bell over the entrance jingled. Gracey always came in through the front door in the mornings and rarely locked it behind her even though the bakery didn’t open until six. She knew the townsfolk and they knew her; locking the door just seemed an unnecessary bother. So she was surprised to see the Prime of Darkness striding into the bakery, his pink salon smock tied awkwardly around his pauldrons. Gracey had to stifle a smile.

“Darkness! What on earth are you doing up so early?”

The Prime of Darkness sank into a seat near the door, his expression troubled. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, popping a handful of Smarties into his mouth.“You got any day old pie? Blackberry, maybe?”

“‘Course I do,” she said, “but that’s not what you want today.” Reaching into the refrigerated case, Gracey pulled out two plates of caramel pecan pie and set them before him with a napkin and a fork. She watched him take a healthy bite before asking, “Was I right?”

The Prime of Darkness set his fork on the edge of his plate and looked up from his plate in wonder, eyes wide with disbelief. He couldn’t hide his smile as he nodded slowly, still chewing. “It’s brilliant,” he breathed. “It makes me feel …” He cast about for a moment, making groping motions with his hands before settling on, “Happy.”

Gracey nodded.  “I thought it might,” she said, without even a hint of self-doubt. “Anything on your mind you wanna talk about? I got some coffee brewing in the back; Mitsuo ain’t gonna drink any.”

The demon gave her a hard, evaluating look before shaking his head, heavy locks of black hair falling into his face. “No. Just couldn’t sleep.” He cast a sidelong glance at Mitsuo, who watched them discreetly from behind the counter. When he noticed the Prime of Darkness noticing him, he quickly looked away.

The Prime of Darkness motioned for Gracey to come closer, which she did without hesitation. He lowered his voice, looked her in the eye. “You knew about the pie, didn’t you? That it would make me feel good? How did you know that?”

Gracey shrugged. “I always know,” she said simply.

Moving away, she pulled a rag out of her hip pocket and began wiping down tables. “If you don’t have anything to do for the next few hours, you could go down to the turtle pond and look for Old Leviathan.”

The demon looked up from the pie, confused. “Old Leviathan?”

“Bigass turtle,” she said, without looking up. She was scrubbing furiously at a smudge only she could see. “Old Leviathan is the gigantic turtle that lives in the old pond at Bigsbee Park. Way I hear it,  he only comes out at night. And though it’s technically morning, it’s still dark. He’s probably still out.”

The Prime of Darkness took another bite of pie, his expression dreamy as he finished off the first slice. “How big is it?”

Gracey shrugged. “Real big. I haven’t seen him in years. But if I remember correctly, he’s got to be, what, twenty, thirty pounds? We’re talking huge.” She held her hands far apart to demonstrate size, and gave Darkness a bright smile, her dark eyes alive with laughter.

The Prime of Darkness polished off his second slice and pushed himself away from the table. “Okay. I got nothing better to do.” Remembering his manners, the Prime of Darkness nodded in Mitsuo’s direction. “How’s it going?”

Mitsuo lifted his chin in return. “What’s up.”

“Do you need a flashlight?” Gracey asked, her voice respectably level.

The Prime of Darkness gave Gracey a quizzical look. “You know I can see perfectly well in the dark. Thank you for the pie, Gracey. It was really great. Are you cooking dinner tonight?”

Gracey shook her head. “Sorry, cowboy. It’s Tiny’s night.”

The Prime of Darkness made a face. “Tiny can’t cook,” he said. It was almost a whine.

“Well, I’m sure you can still take Irma Flores up on her offer to have you over for dinner,” she said. “Irma cooks the best Mexican food this side of Juárez.”

The demon seemed to think a moment, then nodded his head. “Maybe. See you,” he said. He gave Mitsuo a lame wave, which the teenager ignored, and ducked out the front door. Gracey waited until she heard the rumble of his motorcycle starting before breaking into laughter.

Mitsuo nodded towards the doorway. “That guy really likes to eat, huh?”

Gracey shook her head, her hand to her temple. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“That was cold,” Mitsuo said, not disapprovingly. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone to pull the Old Leviathan on anyone,” he said.

“Even I like a good joke,” Gracey said.

Mitsuo grinned. “You pull it on your sister?”

Gracey shook her head. “Naw, Tiny’s heard my snipe hunting story too many times to fall for that.”

Mitsuo raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You went snipe hunting?”

Laughing again, Gracey gave Mitsuo a kiss on the forehead, much to his mild horror, and slapped him on the back. “Go get my ingredients,” she said. “Sun’ll be up before we know it.”