Then I heard Leo come in through the front door.
“Butter’s soft, but not too bad. Fridge?” he asked, carrying in my bags and pie pan. I nodded. “Did you stay put?” he asked, his back to me.
“Yes, I stayed exactly where I was told to.”
He turned from the fridge, his expression warmed up some since he’d left. “Roxie, I—”
“Dad? My laundry is sorted. Can I go play now?” a voice called down from above.
“Come on down,” he responded, eyes still on me. He offered me a sheepish grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back. That grin always got to me.
“I want to go see the pigs, see how big they got while I was gone, and—what’s that?” Polly had come running down the stairs, flew into the kitchen, and was now staring at the baking supplies.
“Roxie brought those with her. Something about a pie?” Leo answered, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh yeah—a pie,” I said. “Someone was promising me strawberries, so I thought I’d—”
Polly burst out, “I love strawberry pie. Can I watch you make it? Is it hard? Do you make your own crust? Sometimes strawberry pie has rhubarb, will this one? There’s a diner in town that makes cherry pie, but I really like strawberries better. Daddy has a new variety of strawberries this year called brown sugar strawberries. I haven’t tried them yet, but he told me all about them. Are you using those? Can I help? Can I—”
“Hold on there, Pork Chop, you’re talking a mile a minute. Let’s slow it down a little, let Roxie catch up,” Leo interjected.
He called her Pork Chop.
“Catch up to what?” she asked, totally unaware. “I can help, you know. After all, I’m seven years old.”
“Well, then, you’re practically driving,” I joked.
She looked at me seriously. “I can’t drive for another nine years.”
I blinked. “Of course.” I looked to Leo for help, but he was unpacking my bags. “Wait a minute—baking a pie here obviously isn’t the best idea.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why not?” Polly echoed.
“Um, well . . .” I looked around wildly. “The sink! It’s out of commission, and you can’t bake without having running water. Beside the fact that . . .”
Leo had grabbed some tool, disappeared under the sink for thirty seconds, popped back up, and turned on the faucet.
“Right. Well—”
“You need strawberries, right?” Leo said, lifting a small bag from the counter and spilling the world’s sweetest, juiciest, most perfect brown sugar strawberries into a bowl.
“So, pie?” Polly asked, bouncing a little as she clapped her hands.
Oh, for Pete’s sake . . .
“So, pie,” I said, squashing my flight reflex.
Leo’s phone rang and he raised his eyebrows.
“Sure, go ahead,” I answered, climbing down off the counter and testing my leg. It barely hurt.
Leo had gone into another room, so I asked Polly, “Where does your—” Good lord, I can’t call him Daddy. “Where does he keep the mixing bowls?” She was only too happy to show me.
In minutes, we had an assembly line going on the countertop: bags of flour and sugar, measuring cups I’d brought from home, a cutting board, and my best paring knife. I decided to start with the crust, and put Polly to work.
“You know how to measure flour?” I asked as she dragged a step stool over to the counter.
“I know fractions.” She didn’t say duh, but it was implied.
“Right.” I may have also implied a duh. A point for her, though, for not rolling her eyes.
“Can you hand me the apron hanging next to Daddy’s?” she asked, pointing toward the hooks by the back door.
There was indeed a small apron and a large apron. All that was needed was a medium-sized apron to make it the perfect Three Little Bears house.
I limped over to the apron, realizing after a couple of steps that I didn’t need to limp. That baking soda had really done the trick. Since Polly was watching me, I turned the limp into a little sashay.