Doro met my gaze over the rim of her wineglass. It seemed like we were thinking the same thing. That it was a strange hobby. That he might be interested in what else could be found up at the mission.
I rolled out a better pastry this time—thin and flexible and floury. A badass pastry. A poetic pastry. A pastry for the ages. I followed, as best I could, Mama Peg’s complicated instructions of creating a kind of jam concoction out of half the blackberries and folding in the rest of them whole, with an extensive list of sugars and spices. I had the distinct impression that there was an easier way to produce a decent pie than following Mama Peg’s instructions, but I dutifully forged ahead.
When I pulled the finished product out of the oven, Doro, Esther, and Laila did an impromptu celebration dance. I took a couple of bows, then carefully laid it on the counter.
“Sure is pretty. Hope it tastes good,” Doro said and filled my glass all the way up to the top with wine.
We lifted our glasses and something caught my eye in the settling twilight of the backyard. Koa. He was standing by the fountain, watching us, a phone pressed to his ear.
Doro and Laila weren’t kidding about Pie Night. My blackberry pie was appetizer, first course, entrée, and dessert, all in one. That and a couple more bottles of wine made for an interesting, if one-note, meal.
Before we dug in, Doro stood, her glass lifted.
“To Meg,” she said. “A true daughter of Bonny Island.” Her eyes flashed. “Charmer of horses, high priestess of pastry.”
I felt my breath catch in my throat.
Then, “A Native. One of our tribe, our own special tribe. Praise to the Maker of Breath.”
Koa cleared his throat and looked at his plate. I thought I caught something pass between Laila and Esther, a subtle exchange between the two. But the moment passed, and everyone lifted their glasses, chorusing, “Hear, hear.” I decided I’d imagined it.
“We’re so thankful you came, Meg,” Doro said.
For a moment, while her words still hung in the air, I couldn’t seem to breathe. It was the heat, probably. The oppressive heat and humidity, and the hours writing about my childhood and my mother. I was overcome.
Or maybe it was that Doro was looking at me in a way that made me feel like I belonged. Because I did feel that. I also felt teary and soft and maybe a little drunk too.
And happy. I felt happy.
“Pie’s getting cold,” Koa said. I tried to catch his eye, but he seemed thoroughly engrossed by the feast laid out before us.
We demolished the whole thing, layering the thick, crusty wedges oozing bluish-purple fruit with ice cream or whipped cream or both, in Koa’s case. After everybody had dispersed, I convinced Laila to leave the kitchen cleanup to me. She finally, reluctantly, went out to the porch with the others, and I stacked the dirty dishes, bundled up the tablecloth and napkins, and lugged the whole thing back to the kitchen. I found Koa in front of the fridge, door flung open. His arms were loaded with sandwich makings. He froze.
“I was craving some protein,” he said. “No offense.”
I ran the water and pulled open the dishwasher. “None taken. Go for it.” I thought of the way he kissed Laila after every meal. He hadn’t attempted any such thing with me.
“You want a turkey sandwich?” he asked.
“No. The pie was plenty.”
For a moment or two we worked side by side—me at the sink, him at the counter—in silence. Then we both spoke at the same time.
“You first,” I said.
“Doro said you were going to write a book about your mother. About what she did to the Kitchenses.”
“Yeah.”
“She said you were going to set the record straight. Put the truth out there for all the world to see.”
“I’m going to try.”
“That’s great. Really brave of you,” he said, his expression dubious.
“Yeah, you don’t approve. Clearly.”
“I just . . . think you might be poking a hornet’s nest, that’s all.” He went back to his sandwich, tore a bite out.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shook his head. “Just that it seems a bit naive to think you can come down here and get the truth by being friendly and charming and asking what happened.” He took another wolfish bite.
“Okay.” I laughed in disbelief. “Wow.”
He swallowed. “I mean, have you considered you may not like what you find out?”
“Yes. Have you considered that you’re being sort of a condescending dick?”
He frowned. Two deep lines appeared between his eyebrows. “I didn’t . . . I just meant Doro could stand to lose a lot, if she tells her story. Her real story. I mean, depending on what that actually is.” He shook his head, like he might want to say more. I was glad he didn’t. I was fighting an urge to grab a handful of that luscious hair and yank it with all my strength.
“Koa,” I said loftily. “Why don’t you consider this? Maybe I’m being friendly and charming because I like being that way. Because that’s the kind of person I really am.” It was a load of BS. But I was on a roll, pissed off and not ready to back down.
“Maybe,” I continued, “I actually like Doro and want to be her friend. And”—I jabbed a finger in his direction—“and maybe I am an adult, and it’s none of your business how I handle things.”
We stared at each other, locked in a breathless, churning standoff. Part of me was pissed. The other part, forlorn. He was so goddamn cute, standing there, a crestfallen look on his face. I wanted to kiss him in the biggest way.
He turned away first. “Look, forget it. I don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re right. I’m a dick. I’m sorry.”
“Fine.” I sighed.
He picked a wedge of turkey from the bread and dropped it in his mouth. Focused on some spot on the wall behind me.
“Why don’t you tell me what really brought you to Bonny Island from Texas? And then I can decide how valid your reasons are.”
He sighed. “I said I was sorry.”
“No. I actually want to know why you came here.”
He finished the sandwich in two bites, then swiped at a stray shred of lettuce at the corner of his mouth.
I groaned. “Come on, do it. Just tell me your stupid story so we can move on and be friends already.”
He swallowed and grinned. “Okay, fine.” He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “I was a physician’s assistant in Texas. And I had a bit of a habit. Just a recreational thing, nothing earth shattering, but it was a little too easy to keep it going in a cancer center with lots of pain pills and scrip pads lying around. Anyway, one day they brought this old guy in from an assisted-living facility. Midseventies, in shitty health. He was alone, had to admit himself, sitting there in a wheelchair, spitting up blood.” He shook his head. Looked out the window into the black backyard like he’d gone into a trance. “No one in the world gave a damn about whether he lived or died. It wasn’t like he was a bad guy. He was nice to the staff. Patient, even when he was having a bad day, which every day seemed to be. Lung cancer. Might be common, but it’s still the worst way to go.”