Page 150

“Did you call?”

“The number is disconnected.”

“Website?”

“Gone.”

“Social media?”

“Last post says thanks for thirty-seven wonderful years and shows the owners holding champagne. They retired.” Patty sounded absolutely betrayed by the concept of retirement.

“When do you need the pie?” I asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“For the birthday dinner?”

“Yes. Grandpa asked this morning. He said, ‘Pecan.’ Grandma translated that into the full request, but obviously I knew what he meant.”

Grandpa Alfonse rarely requested anything. When he did, it was almost always food. He had lived long enough to stop pretending material things mattered. Birthdays, holidays, and family dinners always brought questions about what he wanted. His answers were always food-related.

Biscuits.

Pie.

He preferred recipes made by the pack. He claimed he could taste the intention in homemade food.

The pecan pie from Briar House was the exception. The bakery used an old recipe from before commercial corn syrup became standard. Their filling relied on brown sugar, butter, eggs, and cane syrup, baked in a stone oven that Grandpa insisted mattered. He had loved it since the bakery opened decades earlier.

For years, family members took turns buying one for major dinners. Then people began forgetting. Not maliciously. There were too many rotating responsibilities, and everyone assumed somebody else had handled it.

Patty took over a handful of years ago. She hadn’t forgotten once.

“Can another bakery make something similar?” I asked.

“I’ve called four. They all use corn syrup.”

“Taro syrup?” I asked, remembering Grandpa’s regular complaint.

“Corn syrup. Grandpa calls it taro because he’s a hundred. Well, technically, he’ll be turning a hundred and one.”

I rubbed a hand across my jaw. “Could Julie make one?”

“She’s already making two birthday cakes, rolls, and chicken for thirty people.”

“Grandma?”

“She says her pecan pie tastes off.”

“Right. That’s true.”

“Aunt Karen offered,” Patty said.

“No.”

“What are we going to do?”

Sloane touched my arm. “What’s going on?”