Page 16 of Last Slice of Pie

Firefly Kitchen is known for its five core pie fillings: black cherry bourbon, Meyer lemon shaker, strawberry rhubarb, honey balsamic blueberry, and the perfect peach pie. Outside of these five, we occasionally sell seasonal fillings based on what we have, how busy we are, and what kind of creative concoction we can come up with. I love having pecan filling in the shop for general retail, but some years the harvest holds us back, and I’d rather offer it as an extra than always be out of stock.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, she walks over to the rolling garbage can and empties her pecan picker. No, we don’t use it for garbage, just pecans. It makes transporting them back to the barn or house easier.

“This is true. The handyman did a good job on the ceiling in your old room last week. You can’t even tell there was ever a leak.”

Ugh. That leak was another unexpected pain in the rear.

“Yeah, he did. I was also so relieved he didn’t find any mold.” Mold might have tipped me onto the crazy side. Fortunately, the leak was new, not one that’s been slowly dripping into the house all summer. I’ve quickly discovered that sometimes it really sucks being a homeowner.

“Can you imagine?” she asks.

“No.”

I don’t remember GiGi ever having these problems with the house. Sure, things came up here and there due to wear and tear, but over the last six months, I feel like the hits keep coming nonstop.

GiGi’s house, which is now my house, is on a large piece of land in central Florida that she inherited from her father. The house can be found in the middle, on top of a hill, and it faces northwest. It’s white, three stories, and complete with a wrap-around veranda and four white columns that adorn the front. Some would call it a plantation home, but to me it’s just my house.

Most people think Florida is just plain old hot and flat, but I’ve got news for them: they are wrong. The town we live in is covered with rolling green hills and pastures filled with horses and cattle. Sure, it can get hot during the day—like right now—but each afternoon the skies open up with a quick rain shower, causing the temperature to drop. GiGi always said God made it rain to water the grass and the trees, and to keep the cows’ feet cool from the burning ground. She had an answer for everything, and we loved her.

“How long do you think it will take us to gather these pecans?” Marie asks, as if we don’t do this every year.

We’ve already been out picking them up here and there over the last week. A few dropped in September, but boy oh boy have they been raining down lately. Marie hates manual labor, which is why she’s perfect for the corporate side of our business, but it is what it is. If we don’t get out here early, we end up competing with the squirrels—the thought of that makes me shiver—deer, and other elements.

“I guess it depends on how many jars we want to make.” Really, the more the better. Sure, pecan pie is a great fall pie, but it’s a big seller for Easter too. I’m down for the work of jarring it, and we need to capitalize on it when we can. She knows this.

I think maybe tomorrow I can get out here super early and get a head start. We’ll finish sooner, and I can get on with doing something else. I watch as Marie lets out a sigh and eyes all the trees we still have to do.

My great-grandfather did an amazing job laying out how different things are planted around the property. To the north we have two rows of pecan trees, black cherry trees, peach trees, kumquat trees, and avocado trees. To the east, just behind the house, we have produce crops with strawberries, tomatoes, strawberry onions, blackberries, blueberries, herbs, and different varieties of peppers. To the south we have all of our citrus trees. I’ve been lucky they haven’t been hit by any diseases and I’m still able to commercially sell the fruit. Believe it or not, those oranges make a nice bit of income for me, especially after last summer and the water pump problem.

As I roll over a few more pecans, my phone rings. Pulling it from my pocket, I freeze as I stare at it. Reading the name on the screen, I blink several times to make sure I’m not seeing things.

This can’t be real.

I’ve spent what feels like my entire life waiting to see his name flash across my phone for an incoming call, and now that it has—it finally has—my heart thunders in my chest. In fact, I’m so flustered, I jerk back and almost trip over the picker.

Two rings. Three rings.

When he left last week, he said he would call, but I didn’t actually expect him to. Now here it is and I feel like I don’t know what to do.

Taking a deep breath, I answer, doing my best to sound as if this isn’t a life-changing moment for me.

“Hey, Bryan,” I say, my voice chipper. From the tree next to me, Marie gasps, drops her picker, and races over as quickly as possible. I swear not even ten minutes after he left last week she was calling me to find out how it went, and every day since she’s badgered me to see if I’ve heard from him.

“Hey, you.” His voice is deep, just like I imagined it would be, and all the air in my lungs leaves me.

“Why—why are you calling me?” I tried not to stutter but failed. Marie, who’s standing in front of me, starts tugging on my arm and silently begs me to put him on speaker. I pull away and harshly mouth the word, “No.” No way am I sharing this. It’s irrational, I know, but I’ve waited so long for it.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess this call is a little out of the blue.”

Ya think?

It’s been a week since he left here saying he would speak to me soon. I didn’t think it would be this soon.

“Not that I mind you calling. You can call me whenever you want.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. I’m an idiot.

“What are you doing?” he asks. I can hear music playing in the background; he’s either at home or in his car.

“Picking pecans with Marie.” Does that sound stupid? It probably does to him. He plays for hundreds of thousands of people, and I’m a farm girl.