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“Tea lovers,” Harrison offers, so deadpan he should deliver the weekend updates on Saturday Night Live.
“Gag.” I dig into the pie, devouring another forkful before I add, “Tea lovers are the new men with parrots. But never fear. I have plans. Plans to hate him for all eternity. Mark my words.”
Harrison’s arched brow asks, are you sure you can pull that off, little sis? His brows have their own language, and I am fluent in it.
“Yes, I can pull it off,” I answer.
He snorts. “And how exactly do you plan to do that, Miss I Love Everything and Want to Give the World A Hug? And a piece of pie?”
I huff. “I do not love everything.” Though I admit he’s right about the pie. There are people going hungry every day. They deserve pie. For sustenance and solace in their times of trial.
Gram chuckles as she strokes the gigantic cat’s head, and Joan emits an appreciative purr, one that I believe translates as I permit you three more strokes of my royal fur before I leap off you, retreat to a window, and fastidiously lick the spot you touched. With her free hand, Gram scoops out a slice of grapefruit. “Says the girl who just expressed her love for plates and forks and everyone in this room, including the world’s most people-hating cat.”
“That,” I say, pointing to the offending citrus as exhibit A. “I do not love grapefruit. Especially with coffee. What are you doing to your tastebuds, woman?”
“I don’t mind it,” she offers mildly as she takes another spoonful. “And grapefruit is good for you.”
“So is kale,” I say. “And I definitely don’t love it. Come to think of it, I hate it, along with beets and turnips. Also, I’m deeply opposed to pears. They taste like sand, they’re the worst Christmas gift ever, and even I can’t make them work in a pie without drowning them in caramel sauce.”
Harrison removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, laughing. He raises his face, a smirk still playing on his lips. “Yes, I recall your third-grade presentation on the loathsomeness of pears. One of the few times I can remember you complaining about anything Mom put on the table.” He takes a beat and locks eyes with me. “And that’s my point.”
“You’re not a hater, sweetie pie,” Gram agrees as she runs a hand down the cat’s smoky head, and right on cue, the gorgeous beast leaps off her lap.
“But I am!” I press a fist to my chest. “I am full of righteous fury and indignation. Like Joan. Or maybe like Hellfire or Brimstone or whatever those comic book characters are. Ghost Rider? Something like that?”
Harrison lifts his hands in surrender. “Don’t ask me. I don’t read comics.”
“Nor do I,” Gram puts in. “If it didn’t happen in a salacious celebrity memoir, I didn’t read it. Speaking of, did you hear that when Patti LuPone was fired from Sunset Boulevard, she trashed her dressing room? Smashed her lamp and her mirror,” Gram says, sounding enjoyably scandalized by the Tony winner’s rage. “That woman has some serious chutzpah.”
“Idea.” Harrison sits up straighter. “You could name a pie after her during the Mrs. Sweet Stuff competition. Call it the Seriously Sweet Chutzpah, and be sure to use caramel for the sweet and something salted for the serious bit. But no pears.”
Harrison is great with plays on words for pies. He’s a book editor at Bailey and Brooks Publishing and has nabbed some big titles in recent years.
“It could work,” I say, shoveling in more pie. “Though I confess I’m not a huge fan of the diva thing. I keep thinking of all the poor people who have to clean up the mess after a famous person throws a fit.”
“And you prove my point again,” Harrison says. “You’ve hated three things in your life.” He counts them off on his fingers. “The aforementioned food items, bad fashion–”
“Well, bad fashion is unacceptable,” I sputter.
“And spiders,” he continues.
Gram chuckles and takes another bite of her sub-par citrus snack.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You don’t even hate spiders,” she says with a knowing grin. “Not really. Whenever you found one in your room, you’d ask Grandpa to catch it in a jar and put it outside.”
“Because I’m not a killer.”
“Our point, exactly,” Gram says. “You’re a sweet soul to the bone, pumpkin. I don’t see you managing to hate this man for all eternity, especially since he actually sounds… Well, rather delightful.”
My jaw drops. “You’re siding with the enemy?”
Harrison whips out his phone. “His name is West? His shop is Tea and Empathy?”
I scowl. “Yes.”
Ten seconds later, my brother swivels the phone around, revealing a smiling photo of West and a tiny sprite who has his nose and elegant brow in feminine miniature. His sister? “Weston Byron. Hmmm… I don’t know, G. If a man that hot took me home and tossed me up against—”
