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And they were too many to count.
28
GOD BLESS BETTIE
DAISY
I tried not to cry on my way home from Bettie’s. I really did. But somewhere between Main Street and the county road I lived on, I failed.
Whatever I’d imagined it would be like to see Keaton, it was so much worse.
I held myself together long enough to get the pies and get in Dad’s truck, but when I was in the silent cab, the walls I’d erected eroded and washed away, made of nothing more than cardboard and papier-mâché in the first place. But when I pulled into our long driveway, I did my level best to put that soggy wall back in place with my tears, hoping it would hold better when it dried.
Sniffling, I parked the car, checking the rearview. I looked like hell, which was to be expected. It was how I felt. Only problem was, I didn’t want to talk about it. And on seeing me, my sisters would want to talk about it.
So I took a breath, steeling myself before climbing out of the truck, a stack of pies in hand. I wore a passable smile, and since my face was bare, I didn’t have mascara to contend with. I thanked God for small miracles and headed inside, hoping everyone was gone.
I didn’t know why I bothered. When I hoped for it, it never happened. Pretty sad metaphor for my life, truth be told.
They were standing in the kitchen, smiling when I entered. But the second they saw me, they knew. Jo leaned into Grant and whispered something—with a kiss on her forehead, he made an excuse and headed out.
I set the bag down and began unpacking the pies, grateful for something to do.
“Bettie gave us an extra pie—chocolate mousse,” I said.
“Bless that woman,” Poppy said, sifting through the stack of pies as I set them on the table.
“What should we eat first?” Jo asked. “I vote lemon meringue. Which do you want, Daisy?”
“I’ll get some plates,” Poppy informed us.
“A little too early for pie, don’t you think?” I asked.
“No such thing,” Jo noted.
I sighed. “Lemon meringue it is.”
There was coffee on already, so we busied around the kitchen until we all had a cup and a plate and were sitting around the breakfast table.
I’d taken the responsibility of cutting the pie, divvying it out slice by slice.
“How was Bettie?” Jo asked with impressive will, considering that wasn’t at all what she wanted to know.
“She was fine. Keaton and Sophie were there,” I admitted. No point in dragging out the inevitable.
They glanced at each other in my periphery.
“How’d that go?” Poppy asked gently.
“As good as can be expected.” I handed her the plate. “He looked good. A little too good, if I’m honest.” I chuckled, but everything about me said sad.
“Well, I wish he’d looked like shit,” Jo said.
I agreed and said so.
Once my own pie was on a plate, I sat, lifting my fork. But I couldn’t seem to bring myself to eat anything. I set the utensil down with a sigh.
“I’m still mad at him,” Jo noted, stabbing her pie. “I can’t believe he just abandoned the project. Nothing about it makes any sense.”
“It was just about money,” I reminded her. “Nothing personal.”
“My ass,” she scoffed.
“You know if he could do it, he would.”
“And how about you? If he could stay with you, would he?” Poppy asked with an edge to her voice.
I shrugged. “The timing was just bad, Poppy. Nothing more.”
“Didn’t seem bad to me.” She was practically pouting until she forked a rude bite into her mouth. After that, she moaned. “Damn, Bettie knows how to make a pie.”
“Listen,” Jo started. “We respect your privacy—”
A laugh burst out of me. “Iris Jo, you liar.”
“Okay, fine, but I want to respect your privacy. Does that count?”
“Maybe in points for effort, but otherwise, no,” I said.
“What happened?” Poppy asked simply, gently.
“Like I said, it was bad timing. Bad luck.” I worked on destroying the meringue with my fork, sliver by sliver. “I’m all right,” I lied. “I just need some time, that’s all. And by time, I mean y’all quit asking me.”
“I just hate it, that’s all,” Jo said, wearing a twin pout to Poppy’s.
“Well, I don’t love it either, but we all have to accept it, don’t we?” I noted.
“I just—”
I set my fork down with a clank, my emotion flaring into anger. “But that’s just it. It’s not about you. I’m the one who lost Keaton. I’m the one who cried all the way home from the diner. And here I am trying to make you feel better? It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.” Tears sprang, my words choked off.
With pained faces and much apologetic cooing, they rose and converged on me, wrapping me up in their arms, a knot of teary Blum girls, comprised of dark hair and a whole bunch of appendages.
