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I do love being part of the family business—Sweetie Pies has been a Brooklyn tradition since 1915, when my great-grandmother started selling her now-world-famous caramel apple crumble off a cart near her Park Slope brownstone—but my parents are old pros at making mountains out of business molehills.
Pete and Barb laugh more than any couple I know, but they also worry—a lot—about everything, from the price of eggs to the cleanliness of the sidewalk outside the shop to whether selling day-old pies is an affront to the Sweetie Pies commitment to quality or just good business sense.
The one thing they haven’t seemed to worry about is me.
From the day I woke up in the hospital after the accident, aching all over and not sure which pain was worse—the agony in my legs or the keening in my heart when I learned my best friend was gone—my mom and dad never doubted that I would make a complete recovery. I would not only walk again but run and dance and play hopscotch in the alley behind the shop with my kids someday, the way Mom did with Cousin Gigi and me when we were girls.
Their faith carried me through so many dark days.
They mean everything to me. I love them so much I can’t imagine a fate worse than disappointing the two best people I know.
And why am I worried about disappointing them?
I don’t freaking know.
That’s the problem.
That’s part of the dread. Cue the creepy music. Turn on the soundtrack. Ruby has dread. Welcome to life as a twenty-seven-year-old, buttercup. Now get over it.
I toss my lollipop into the trash can by the shop’s back door and push into the storage room, still unsettled, and it’s . . . strange.
Strange enough that I’m too distracted, too caught up in my own thoughts to realize my father’s shouted warning to, “Duck, baby!” is meant for me.
The heavy weight of something warm and sticky slaps me in the face and I gasp, sucking in strawberry filling and coughing as the rest of the pie slides down my nose and chin, oozing over the front of my white cotton tank top before plopping to the floor.
Ugh. How could I have forgotten Pie Toss Day?
“Oh, honey, are you okay?” My mother rushes across the room as I swipe strawberry from my eyes and swallow the filling still in my mouth. “Why did you come in the back on Pie Toss Day?” she asks, echoing my thoughts.
“I forgot,” I say, licking my lips. Mmm . . . still delicious, even two days old, proving my parents shouldn’t stress about the day-old section in the bakery case. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Mom rubs my back. “We’re sorry. It’s your big day. We should be celebrating your accomplishments, not hitting you in the face with Strawberry Splendor.”
“Though red’s a great color on you,” Cousin Gigi calls from the line of staff and family members on the other side of the room, waiting for their turn to hurl an old pie at the target on the door—the employee with the most bull’s-eyes wins season tickets to the Coney Island amusement park, and the people who work here love fun, roller coasters, and beers and hotdogs on the boardwalk almost as much as they love sugar.
I smile, trying not to think about my ruined tank top or the dread still floating around in my chest. “Thanks. You too. Cute dress.”
Gigi twirls, sending the circle skirt of her red-and-white polka-dot vintage bombshell dress swinging around her.
“Thank you,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest then gesturing to the arrangement of red balloons in the corner of the room. “I wore it to match your balloons. Congrats on finishing therapy!”
“We bought them to bring to the restaurant tonight,” Dad says, coming to stand beside Mom and reaching one big arm around both of us. “We didn’t think you were going to be able to make it this afternoon.”
“Steve and I finished early, and I thought I’d swing by and see if you needed help closing up,” I say, blinking gloppy eyelashes. I’m definitely going to need a shower before dinner.
Do I need to shower before I see Jesse?
A small smile tugs at my lips. He’d probably get a kick out of pie on my face. Evidence of Sweetie-Pie-related insanity always makes him laugh.
“No, but we need help over here,” Hank, the oldest member of our kitchen staff, booms. “These pies aren’t going to throw themselves, sweetheart.”
My heart softens at the genuine affection in his voice. I’m so lucky to have a great family and a great work family. I shoot Mom and Dad a brighter smile. “Can’t argue with that.”
“No, you can’t.” Mom hugs me tight to her side, whispering, “So proud of you, baby.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I hug her back and cross the room to claim my missiles of choice—coconut cream, because they’re light and my throwing arm isn’t built for distance.
