“You better not be lying,” she growls at me. I hold the cane out to her and she snatches it from my hand.
“I am not,” I assure her.
She turns and hobbles very slowly back towards her home, which faces Winona’s. She’s so wobbly I’m afraid she’s going to face-plant into the asphalt and knock her dentures out. I’m dying to get to Winona’s house, but I’ve promised myself that I’ll stop rushing everywhere.
I hold out my arm. “Here, allow me.”
“Don’t you try to mug me, now.” She glares at me suspiciously. “I know how you city slickers are. I’ve still got a few moves.”
“I’m sure you do,” I assure her. I leave my suitcase in the middle of the street, clutch the box in one arm, and help her make her way to the sidewalk. When we reach it, she whacks my leg with her cane again, but not as hard this time.
“You’re the one who put up the billboard?”
“Yes, that was me.”
“Dumb Yankee. You better go apologize right now.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I sprint across the street, grabbing my suitcase without even pausing, and a minute later I’m on the front porch. Her mother flings open the door, clad in a floral blouse, jeans, and sneakers.
“I’m–”
“Sorry, we know.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t tell me, tell my daughter.”
I set my suitcase down just inside the doorway. She glances at the box I’m still holding.
“Gift for Winona.”
“Is it? There’s something rattling around. It sounds like something’s broken in there.” The air in the house is warm and carries the smell of baking and the sweet, golden scent of peaches. She waves at me to follow her. “It’s Saturday. It’s pie day. Move along, we’ve got work to do here.”
I follow her into the kitchen, and stop in my tracks. I pause to take a breath and quiet my suddenly pounding heart. It’s been weeks since I last saw Winona, and now here she is, five feet away from me, carefully dusting powdered sugar onto a pie. There are rows and rows of pies on an old scarred wooden table.
She has flour on her nose, an old frilly granny apron covering a baggy sweatshirt, and curlers in her hair. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
“He helped the Widow Baudelaire walk across the street after she dropped her cane,” Anna Lou says to Winona, raising her voice as if to give her words extra emphasis. Not sure why; I mean, at the speed that woman was going on her own, we’d have entered a new ice age before she reached the sidewalk. Of course I helped her. It was that or leave her to be made into road pizza by the first passing turtle.
I walk over to Winona and set the box down on the table, and I pick up one of the pies and hand it to her.
She looks at me, with hurt and warmth and sorrow shining from her eyes.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, my voice hoarse with emotion. “You cannot imagine how much I’ve missed you. I didn’t mean to yell out all that stuff about your parents and the peaches like that. I promised you I’d never tell, and I meant it. I had no idea they would overhear it. And I’m sorry about the billboard, it was a dumb idea. Will you please just pie me? Right in the kisser. I deserve it. And I wore my all-time favorite suit for the occasion. It volunteers as tribute.”
The corner of her mouth twitches up in a smile, and my heart does a leap of joy. She’s smiling.
“Are you kidding?” she says, trying to sound huffy. “My mom worked on these all morning.”
“Here, give that to me. You’re going to drop it, butterfingers,” her mother says. She takes the pie from Winona – and whams it right in my face.
I just stand there, blinded, gluey peach pie running down my face, dripping onto my suit. I reach up, swipe at my face, and wipe off enough pie that I can see – sort of. I’m peering through an orange, gluey haze. Then I stick my tongue out and lap up a chunk of peach. It melts on my tongue, tasting like a sun-warmed orchard.
“So sorry about that, son! Here, let me help,” her father calls out. He hurries over – and picks up a pie from the counter. He also splats me