Lost Rider(22)

“Maybe I need to have a bib made up,” I joke.

We finish plating thirty or so pieces of the TIC pie and start to move them to the chill box display in the main room. I look around, seeing the lavender walls, black round tables scattered throughout the floor, vases of daisies perched on each one, and smile.

When I first opened the PieHole, I had a tiny shop right off Davis Street, not far from the center of town, but it was perfect for what I needed. Until the word started to spread about my pies, and the next thing I knew, I had to turn people away because I couldn’t keep up with the demand.

Having been wise with the money that I inherited over the years and living a frugal life, apart from the house remodel, I turned an already healthy chunk of change into a mountain of it. After being open for two years, I was able to move into one of the empty, larger shops on Main Street. You couldn’t go anywhere in Pine Oak without driving through Main Street, and it turned my already thriving business into a monster success.

The kitchen took up a good bit of space, but when I renovated the old BBQ restaurant, I made sure to use only the necessary amount of space for my kitchen, leaving an office that felt more like a large closet at times, but it was important to me that the main area be large and welcoming.

The back wall is lined with specialty made cooling and heating displays that lead to the register in the middle. At the end of each display there’s a small swing door that allows us into the dining area. The black hardwood and black tables are the only things in the room that aren’t a shade of purple.

It looks crazy, purple walls, plates, utensils, but when I decided to name my place the PieHole, I knew this was the only way it could be.

My mother taught me everything I know about pies. When I was little, one of the best pies she made—and her favorite one—was her purple sweet potato pie. When we would finish that last slice, I always begged her to let me lick the pie hole, which was what I always called the empty pan. So when it came time to create my own place, it was never a question that my purple home away from home would be called the PieHole.

I smile to myself as I move around the tables scattered around to go unlock the front door. The heavy wood is painted the most vibrant purple shade in the whole shop and never fails to brighten my mood.

“Leigh, honey?” Jana calls out from behind the counter.

Turning from the door—and my thoughts—I smile over at her. “Yeah?”

“I just wanted to ask you one more time if you were sure about the cookie dough pies. I can go dish them up lickety-split.”

“I’m sure. What’s with the sudden worry over the cookie dough?” I laugh.

“Well, Leigh, honey . . . well, I just figured . . . never mind, honey. My old mind sometimes just gets stuck a little.”

I cock my head to the side and furrow my brow in confusion. Old mind, my tail. I know for a fact that Jana’s got all her wits about her, and I would hardly call fifty-three old. “What are you trying to ask, Jana?”

She starts to fidget with the business cards near the register and I know I’m not going to like whatever has been on her mind.

“I just figured, well . . . with Maverick home and all, you might want to add his favorite too.”

Her words are like a punch to the gut. Cookie dough was always his favorite when we were all growing up. It was always one slice of pumpkin for Quinn, apple for Clay, and Maverick and me . . . always cookie dough. It was just another one of those stupid things I used to convince myself we were meant to be together. Young and dumb, I actually believed our shared love of cookie dough pie meant something.

“I doubt he’ll even show up, Jana. I didn’t make it for anything special. I guess I just let memories of us growing up together get the best of my mind this mornin’ and didn’t even notice I had added his to my prep. Plus, they always sell well when we have them out, so we can just use them tomorrow.”

I hate the look of disappointment that flashes in her brown eyes, like I’m doing something wrong, but I wasn’t kidding when I said I doubted he would show up.

I let out an audible sigh and reconsider. “I’ll tell you what: if Maverick shows up and asks for a slice, feel free to run back and pull some. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

Her face lights up and she gives me a small nod.

We continue our prep, making sure all the shades are up and the display cases are fingerprint-free. At a quarter till five, the front door opens and Quinn walks in. I rush around the counter and to her side.

“Hey, you,” I greet and give her a warm smile and hug.

“Hey, Leigh. You need any help?”

I pull back, clasping her shoulders in my hands like she always does when she’s offering comfort or support to me, and shake my head.