“And you’re sure that was your ring you saw?” Chelsey has switched from sit-ups to spiked sparkling water, as one does when there’s hot tea being spilled. “Maybe he just had something made to look like your old ring?”
“How would that be any less creepy?” Jackie throws her hands in the air. “I mean, what kind of juice box would pull that ducking spit?”
Jackie’s six-year-old niece Aubree has joined the chat, so our swearing is extra creative.
“It was definitely my ring. It’s an art deco solitaire. The stone isn’t even a diamond. It’s a moonstone, which will probably mean nothing to Sarah, but it meant everything to me. It was his mother’s ring, which is why I gave it back in the first place.” I take a heavy breath. “I guess it never occurred to me that he’d someday give that ring to someone else.”
“Maybe you can ask him to give you your ring back,” Aubree suggests in between bites of pumpkin bread.
Jackie mouths Sorry, but I don’t mind. There’s something kind of sweet about having a kindergartner help troubleshoot my problems. Maybe if I’m lucky, she’ll be able to tell me how to bake a pie.
“I can’t, sweetie.” I smile. “It doesn’t belong to me anymore.”
“Maybe you can ask his mom to give you another ring.”
“Oh.” A wave of emotion catches me off guard. Maybe it’s muscle memory, but without thinking, my head turns toward the dining room window and I allow myself to look at Smith’s house. “I wish I could, but she passed away.”
“That happened to my hamster,” Aubree commiserates. “I accidentally fed her too much chocolate and she died.”
“That’s how I’d like to go,” Chelsey says. “Or in bed with a guy built like a—”
“Shut up, Chelsey,” Jackie mutters.
The front door creaks open. Ozzie gives a half-hearted bark from his spot under the breakfast table. My father’s voice carries through the house, and I can make out the tail end of a conversation about Madagascar.
“Fudgesicle. I’ve got company,” I say. “Looks like I’m going to need to cut this meeting short.”
“You’re going to be fine,” Chelsey says. “Even if the pie sucks, I know you’re going to be able to get your dad on board. I can feel it.”
“But to be clear, on board does not mean your dad is going to be the unofficial fourth member of the Smut Coven.” Jackie points her finger at the screen. “Foursomes never work. Look at Destiny’s Child.”
“What’s Destiny’s Child?” Aubree asks.
“Good lord, educate the children, Jackie.” Chelsey sighs.
“I’ll check in with you guys later.” I wave before signing off.
“Something smells good.” My father’s voice booms from the living room. “Are you in need of any taste testers?”
“You’ve already had a jelly doughnut this morning,” I say as he shuffles into the kitchen.
“That was supposed to be our secret, Penelope.”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell Mom, and if you’ll notice, Mom’s not here.”
“I’m actually noticing that nobody’s here. Where is everyone?”
“Strip club.” I shrug. “Nana’s really into that whole Thunder from Down Under group. I’m in charge of making the pie.”
He points at my laptop. “What’s that for?”
“YouTube,” I reply. “I can learn how to do anything on YouTube.”
“Oh, no, you can’t do that.” My father rolls up the sleeves of his tracksuit. “My mother knows exactly what her pie is supposed to taste like. It’s a recipe that’s been passed down for over one hundred years.”
I watch in semi-shock as my father collects flour, shortening, and vinegar. He asks me for a cup of ice water, an egg, and measuring spoons, commanding the kitchen as if he’s done it every day of his life. To be clear, he hasn’t. To be crystal clear, I’ve only ever seen my father make toast and the occasional sandwich.
“What’s going on?” Martin takes a seat at the breakfast bar. “I didn’t realize your dad moonlighted as a chef.”
“Not as a chef.” My father chuckles. “But when I was putting myself through school, I spent a little time working in a B and B as a baker.”
“Wait. If you’re a baker, then why does Grandma make the pies every year?” I ask.
“I might be the baker, but she’s the executive chef.” He scans the kitchen counter. “Penelope, can you get me the pastry blender?”
“Sure,” I say. “First, just tell me what a pastry blender is.”
“I’ve got it.” Martin strides across the kitchen and grabs a wire contraption with a wooden handle that looks like a torture device. “I’ll flour the countertop for you too.”
“Whoa now.” I hold up my hands. “You bake too? Is this some secret skill set that all engineers possess?”
“I grew up eating a lot of potpies.” Martin takes a handful of flour and dusts a small section of the counter with it. “The key to a good potpie is the crust.”
“I haven’t had a good potpie in years,” my father says. With a big smile on his face, he slices into the flour and shortening with the pastry cutter. “I’ve forgotten how good it feels to work with your hands.”
He beats an egg with a fork and drizzles it over the flour and shortening. With a spoon, he ladles the ice water and vinegar into the dough along with a teaspoon of salt. He stirs the dough by hand and then separates it into two balls. I watch the whole thing like it’s a carefully choreographed show, completely in awe. I’m not necessarily amazed that my father can make pie dough. I’m amazed that he seems to be enjoying doing it.
Right now, in this moment, he’s not Carter Banks, the CEO of United International Engineering. Right now, he’s just a dad on Thanksgiving. For the first time, possibly ever, he’s family first, not business.
“Stick these in a couple of plastic bags and put them in the freezer for fifteen minutes.” My father dries his hands on a hand towel. “Martin, I trust I can leave you in charge of the lemon filling? Penelope, you can handle the meringue?”
“Not without YouTube.”
“Looks like the entire weight of dessert rests on your shoulders, Martin,” my dad says, slightly out of breath. “I’m going to lie down for a bit. Try not to burn the place down.”
I consider taking a page out of Nana Rosie’s book and getting in a little pre-Thanksgiving nap too. I wash my hands and grab my mimosa.
“Good luck,” I say over my shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Martin asks.
“Probably hell, but I’m OK with it.”
“Banks, we’ve got work to do,” Martin says. He grabs a handful of lemons and lines them up next to the sink. “Let’s work on that pitch, OK? I can help you structure the arrangement with your father, but you’ve got to sell him on the heart of your business. Do you have anything tangible to show him?”
“I have an email with a presentation,” I say. “Does that count?”
“You tell me.” He rolls up his sleeves, revealing forearms that look more perfect now than they did in his TikTok videos. “Does your dad strike you as a PowerPoint kind of guy?”
“Technically, it’s Google Slides.”
“Is there a difference?” He slices a lemon in half. “Never mind that. You know, you do a very good job at avoiding direct questions.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Pretend I’m your dad.” He squeezes the lemon into a bowl, straining the seeds with his fingers. “I’ll give you honest feedback, and if you’re able to sell me on the idea, I’ll even let you zest my lemons.”
I really don’t want to imagine Martin as my dad, but it doesn’t look like there’s any way out of this little role-playing exercise. And truthfully, I need the practice. If I’m going to take up space, I’m going to be sure to make the most of it.
“OK, so the whole idea is—”
“No.” Martin slices another lemon in half. “Not a chance in hell.”