Page 12

12

SUNNY

“Y ou know,” he says, after I feed Miss Sassy and we head out the door towards The Pie Shop . “ If I’m going to stay here, I need to get some new clothes. These are the only ones I have.” He nods down at himself.

“Oh, I can help you with that,” I say. “ I mean, I don’t have a whole lot saved up right now and I try really hard not to live on my credit cards, but?—”

“Hey—no!” He gives me a horrified look. “ I’m not saying I want you to buy me some clothes— I have some money saved up. In fact, I’m going to pay you rent while I’m staying with you.”

“You will not!” I say sharply, frowning up at him. “ Kane Michael Black , you are not going to give me one dime! You’re family— I wouldn’t dream of charging you rent!”

He looks taken aback by my vehemence.

“Well…at least let me fix a few things around your house,” he offers at last. “ I mean, you’ve got some warping around the front door and some of the windows. If you’d let me replace the wood there, it would be a lot less drafty inside.”

“Hmm, I like the sound of that.” I know that he worked in the prison’s wood shop for most of his time there. It’s an assignment that only the most trusted inmates can get because they have to handle power tools and sharp objects you could use to hurt somebody with. Kane told me in his letters that they accounted for every tool multiple times a day—just like they counted the inmates all the time, to make sure none of them had escaped.

We get to The Pie Shop and I let us in through the back entrance. Most people know we don’t open until seven, but if you turn on the front house lights, people will start showing up regardless of what the sign on the door says.

The kitchen is small, but neat as a pin. Cookie spent some time in the military and he’s a stickler for keeping things clean. The Pie Shop has never once failed a health inspection—a fact that we’re all really proud of. And when I say “we” I mean me and Cookie and my best friend, Annabelle , who’s the other full-time waitress. We have a few other girls who pick up shifts occasionally and up until last week we had a dishwasher/busboy but he’s gone now—he got a scholarship and moved away for college.

I wish I could afford to go to college full-time— I’ve said as much to Kane in my letters to him. He’s always very encouraging, telling me he’s sure I’m a great student. As a matter of fact, I am, but it’s nice to hear that someone else besides me thinks it.

As soon as we get situated and wash our hands, I put on an apron. I put one on my big brother too.

“You sure about this?” He looks uncertainly down at the frilly pink apron. I have to admit, he looks funny—a big, muscular, hardened ex-con in an apron. But he has to wear it.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say firmly. “ You don’t want to get flour all over yourself—you’re going to help me make pies.”

He looks interested.

“Never made pie before. Most of the stuff I cooked in prison was freeze-dried and disgusting.”

I know all about the prison food—he wrote about it a lot. That’s how I knew he needed a good meal when he showed up yesterday. The poor man has been eating slop for the past three years! Well , that ends now. From now on, I’ll be making sure he eats good food. But he’s also going to have to learn to make it.

“I have faith in you,” I tell him and go to the walk-in freezer to get out my prepared pie dough. I frown when I see there isn’t much of it. I usually make a double batch but this time we used more of it than I thought. Probably because the Blueberry Bacon pie was a hit, so I kept on making more.

“Can I help with anything?” Kane asks when I come back with an armful of flat dough disks wrapped in plastic.

“Sure—you can help me make more dough—this isn’t nearly enough,” I tell him. “ I need to drag that big container of flour over to the mixer,” I say, pointing.

This is one of my least favorite parts of the job. Not that I mind making dough— I could do it in my sleep. But those huge drums of flour are heavy . And the metal mixing bowl of the industrial mixer is almost as big as I am—it can be really difficult to deal with. I can’t lift it, of course. Usually I just scoop out the pie dough until I get it all out—a time-consuming chore.

But my big brother makes it look easy. He lifts the 55 gallon drum of flour like it weighs nothing at all and brings it over to the mixer.

“Okay—how much?” he asks as he puts it down.

I tell him and then nod at the scoop on the wall.

“That’s the one you want—just start scooping it in while I get the butter ready.”

Really good pie dough can be made with lard or shortening or butter—to me, butter tastes the best. It costs more than using the shortening but the name of the diner is The Pie Shop so the pie has to be perfect. As Cookie says, we don’t skimp on ingredients.

I get the butter out of the freezer—we have these huge blocks of it—and start grating it into fine pieces. The secret to flaky, tender pie dough is to freeze the butter and use ice water. Everything has to be as cold as possible. You also don’t want to knead it too much and overwork the dough.

I explain all this to Kane as I dump the butter in and get the mixer started. Once the butter is incorporated into the flour, I start adding ice water from a huge pitcher I keep for this purpose.

“Wow—it’s really coming together,” he remarks, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the mixer.

“Yup—and this is where we stop. We don’t want to overwork the dough.”

I turn off the mixer and the dough hook stops revolving. I unhook it and clean the excess dough off. Now comes the tiresome part—getting the dough out.

“Now what?” Kane asks, looking honestly interested.

“Now we need to get this dough out of the mixer and onto that table.” I point to the stainless steel worktable where I roll out the dough for all my pies.

“Okay.” To my surprise, he reaches down and unhooks the mixing bowl. Then he lifts it like it weights next to nothing and asks, “ Should I just pour it out onto the table then?”

I stare at him in surprise. I mean, I knew he was strong—he’s got all those muscles and he lifted me last night and carried me to bed like I weighed about as much as a feather pillow. Which is not the case, by the way. But this is really impressive—that metal bowl is heavy enough on its own, let alone filled to the brim with dough!

“Yes, the table,” I say faintly, watching as he carries the big mixing bowl over and pours out the doughy contents like it’s no big deal. His muscles bulge as he works and I try not to notice. “ Great —thank you,” I say.

“Should I wash the bowl now?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. I like how good he is at offering to help. Lots of men won’t do that. Charles certainly won’t—he won’t lift a finger around the house because he says it’s “women’s work.” If I’m being honest, that’s one reason I’m not in a rush to marry him. It’s also the reason I haven’t asked him to move in with me, even though he’s been hinting he’d like to for some time now.

I show my big brother the sink and he gets to work on the bowl while I start sorting out the crust. I keep some for today’s pies and wrap the rest to put in the cooler for tomorrow. Then I start making the fillings.

Today I’m making three kinds of pies. Banana cream, since Cookie bought a load of bananas that need to be used up, Lemon meringue, since we also have a lot of lemons, and a new one I just made up called, “ Do Me Dirty Pie .” It’s a variation on a whiskey butterscotch praline pie that uses Kahlua instead of whiskey and has chocolate instead of butterscotch. It’s going to be really good— I just know it.

Kane finishes cleaning the mixer and asks what else he can do. I’m still making fillings on the stove, so I ask him if he knows how to roll out pie crusts.

He shakes his head.

“No, but I can learn.”

“Here. I’ll show you.”

I put the vanilla pudding for the banana cream pie to the back burner to cool and come over to the worktable. I take out a rolling pin, flour the surface, and begin rolling, talking as I do.

“Roll up and down twice, then rotate it and do it again. Keep it up until you have a perfect circle about ten inches across,” I tell him. “ We have nine-inch pie plates, but we need some extra to crimp on the edges.”

Kane watches me do one more and then tries one himself. It’s a little lopsided, but not bad. The next one he does is even better. By the third, I know I can leave him alone and go finish the fillings.

We keep going this way. With my big brother’s help, it takes me a lot less time to get the pies done. I make the yeast rolls with dough that’s been rising overnight and I even have time to whip up a batch of honey buns—which happen to be Cookie’s favorite.

If you’re thinking I’m going to try and sweeten him up before I ask him if he’ll give Kane a job, you’re absolutely right. I don’t care if that sounds manipulative— I finally have family back in my life and I’ll be damned if I lose my brother again so soon!

Cookie comes in just as the honey buns come out of the oven, all fragrant and gooey. His eyes get wide as he sees the delicious treats…then narrow as he sees Kane standing there in his pink frilly apron.

“Well, well…what’s all this about?” he grumbles. “ I thought your brother was leaving after you two caught up last night.”

“He’s not leaving—he’s decided to stay a while,” I say, rather breathlessly. “ But he needs a job and I thought since Cedric left and you need a dishwasher maybe?—”

“Now hold on just a second. Hold on.” Cookie puts up a hand to stop me. He frowns up at Kane . “ This true? You want a job?”

“Yes, Sir ,” Kane rumbles respectfully.

“I know you’re an ex-con,” Cookie tells him. “ I won’t ask you what you went in for—that’s your business. I don’t tolerate any shenanigans around here, though.”

“I understand.” Kane nods.

“I can’t pay more than minimum wage,” Cookie warns. “ And it’ll have to be under the table.”

“Works for me.” Kane nods again.

“You’d be washing dishes and bussing tables mostly,” Cookie says. “ Do you mind that kind of work?”

Kane shakes his head.

“I worked in the prison kitchen for a year and a half. I know my way around an industrial dishwasher and I’m not too proud to buss tables.”

“What about a parole officer?” Cookie probes. “ You have to report to anyone?”

Kane shakes his head.

“No, I was released free and clear. I did my time. Now I’m just trying to turn my life around.”

“He helped me make the pies this morning,” I chime in, smiling at Cookie . “ We got done so fast I had time to make your favorite—honey buns.”

I slide one of the warm, gooey pastries onto a plate for him and present it with a smile.

Cookie gives me a stern look.

“You wouldn’t be trying to butter me up now, would you, girl?”

“ Maybe .” I give him my cutest grin. “ Please , Cookie — Kane’s a good hard worker. I’ll vouch for him.”

“I wouldn’t hire him otherwise,” he says.

He takes a bite of the honey bun and his eyes roll up for a second. I know that look—pure ecstasy. I love it when people get that look after taking a bite of my food—it never gets old.

“All right,” Cookie says at last after swallowing and licking his fingers. “ We’ll give it a one-week trial to start with. You do good, and we’ll keep it up. Are you going to be coming in with Sunny every morning?”

“Absolutely.” Kane nods.

“All right— I’ll pay you a dollar extra an hour then,” Cookie says, nodding. “ I’m glad you’ll be with her— I don’t like the idea of her being here alone in the mornings but I’m getting too old to come in every morning myself.”

“You’re not too old—you’re ageless.” I drop a kiss on Cookie’s cheek and he gets red and waves me off.

“Go on, now. Better check those rolls in the oven— I can smell them so they must be almost done.”

I skip off to the oven, my heart light as a feather. My big brother can stay! He has a job and a reason to stick around. We can really get to know each other now, not just by letters but in person!

You mean the way you got to know him this morning? Showing him your breasts and hugging him while you were topless? whispers a guilty little voice in my head.

I push it to the side. I don’t give a damn what I have to do to keep Kane here— I just know that I have my big brother back at last and I’m not going to lose him.