Page 22 of Last Slice of Pie

“I might have suggested to people who know people who were at the party over the summer that your pie fillings would make the perfect Christmas gift, and they agreed!”

“Shelby, what does that mean?” An anxious current rips through me. Never in my wildest dreams did I think my little company would be featured in a magazine like this.

For. The. Whole. World. To. See.

“It means your company is listed in this year’s holiday gift guide!”

Rarely am I at a loss for words, but this . . . this has done it.

“Oh my stars,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say. Being given this kind of exposure—it feels like the possibilities are endless, and this just might be the answer I need to help me with the house.

“Go get it out of your mailbox, look at it, take it in, and then call me back!”

“Okay, I will,” I answer automatically.

“This is so exciting! Congratulations!” She blows me a big smacking kiss and then hangs up.

I come to a screeching halt, dirt flying up from my tires, and I reach into the mailbox, pull out the glossy magazine, and stare at the gorgeous cover. There’s a beautiful photo of a roasted turkey with a side of pecan-herb cornbread dressing, accent shades of brown and orange, and there in the upper right-hand corner is a decorated green holiday wreath with Holiday Gift Guide included, page 58 in the middle. I don’t think my heart could be pounding any harder in my chest. For someone like me, this is a dream come true.

Looking around, I see nothing has changed, but suddenly I feel like everything has.

Slowly, I open to page 58, and there as the fourth item listed is Firefly Kitchen with a photo I’ve never seen before. It’s all five of my pie fillings in jars, and they’re wrapped together in cellophane with a silver holiday bow tied around the top. Underneath it lists the average price per jar and our website.

I can’t believe this is real life.

My nervousness at the enormity of this opportunity quickly subsides as determination and elation set in. Firefly Kitchen is about to be known coast to coast for those who love gourmet products and pies!

Underneath the magazine, my phone, which is still in my hand, buzzes. Pulling it out, I look down, and there’s a single-line text from Marie.

Brace yourself. I don’t know what’s happening, but online orders are pouring in.

Pecan-Herb Cornbread Dressing

LOOKING OUT THE window of the plane, I see darkness, and off in the distance, lightning. Lightning makes me think of Lexi because she loves lightning, but then again, everything makes me think of her.

I don’t know why she likes lightning so much. When we were kids, she was fascinated. From the science of where lightning comes from to the compression of the air creating a shockwave or roll of thunder and the streaks that flash through the sky, she loved it all. I guess in many ways, she’s like lightning too, most specifically bolts from the blue.

Bolts from the blue are considered to be the most dangerous type of lightning. The lightning strike goes from a cloud to the ground, but it travels horizontally, sometimes for miles, before it turns down to strike. People often report that it’s as if it came out of the clear blue sky. It’s also a phrase that means something unusual that happens unexpectedly, kind of like my feelings for her. They set in out of the blue. One day she was James’s sister, a girl I saw every day, and then the next, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

A nudge to my shoulder has me looking over and finding Jack. He’s standing in the aisle, staring down at me. He’s never been one to sit still, so him pacing isn’t out of the norm. I pull out my earbuds and shift to face him.

“Hey, the guys have decided to cancel Wednesday’s dinner.” He tilts his head toward the o-line, who are sitting a few rows up.

I’m not surprised.

Every Wednesday night, the offensive line gets together for dinner. I’m not sure when this tradition started, but as long as I’ve been on the team, it’s something we’ve always done. Occasionally, one of the guys will host, but we usually go out. Rarely do we cancel unless it’s a holiday, like this week, and even then, those who are around will still get together. It’s what I’ve done the past few years, only this year, I’m not so sure.

“Sounds good,” I tell him.

“Did you decide what you’re doing for Thanksgiving?” Jack asks. His thumb starts thumping on the seat back he’s leaning on.

Zach invited a group of us up to his vineyard, and I’m certain Jack’s asking because he wants to ride together, but I don’t know. I love going to see Zach and Shelby—it’s so relaxing and nice where they live—but for some reason, I’m not feeling it this year.

“I think I’m going to pass this time,” I tell him.

“What?” He stands up straight. “Are you crazy? Shelby’s cooking, and my stomach is already growling. Just think, pumpkin pie . . .” He rubs it like it hasn’t had food in days when we just cleaned house at a little Italian restaurant an hour and a half ago.

“Shelby is an amazing cook, and I have no doubt she will go all out for Thanksgiving, but not this year. Maybe I’ll go next year.”