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I nodded.

Patty squeezed Sloane’s arm. “I’m proud of you.”

“For holding a hand?”

“For personal growth.”

Sloane turned her head in my direction. “She’s making this strange.”

“She makes everything strange.”

Patty released Sloane and inspected the pie dish. “Did it survive?”

“It survived the drive,” Sloane said. “Whether Grandpa will consider it acceptable remains unknown.”

“He’ll love it.”

“How can you be sure?”

Patty tapped the lid. “Intentions.”

Sloane glanced at me. I had explained Grandpa’s belief while we baked, though I remained unconvinced that she understood how seriously he meant it. Grandpa claimed he could taste when food had been made with resentment, obligation, distraction, affection, or fear. Most of us assumed a century of eating other people’s cooking had made him exceptionally good at reading quality and mood.

Then he correctly identified the year Grandma Ruth baked his birthday breakfast biscuits after discovering he’d hidden medical paperwork. He had taken one bite, looked at her, and said, “You used angry flour.”

Nobody questioned him after that.

I carried the pie toward the dessert table while Sloane stayed beside me, her hand locked in mine.

Grandma Ruth intercepted us halfway there, her silver blouse glittering in the light, which caught the pin shaped like the number 101. She took Sloane’s face between her hands without warning.

“You look better,” she announced.

Sloane blinked. “Better than what?”

“The last time I saw you. You were tired.”

Sloane laughed quietly. “I’m still tired.”

“But happier.”

Sloane’s eyes moved toward me before she could stop them.

Grandma noticed and patted Sloane’s cheeks. “Good.” Then she turned to me. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Grandma.”

She held up her hands defensively. “I’m only saying.”

I frowned. “I think you’ve said enough.”

She smiled and moved toward another cousin.

We placed the pie on the table beside two cakes, a platter of cookies, a bowl of banana pudding, and another pecan pie Aunt Karen had brought despite being told it was unnecessary.

Karen’s pie had a perfect lattice top, which made no sense for pecan filling and suggested she had approached dessert as a competitive event.

She sniffed at Sloane’s pie. “What recipe did you use?”