“I’ll buy one.”
Marjorie frowned.
“I didn’t say I wanted a store-bought disappointment.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
She pointed toward the kitchen.
“My recipe is inside the old green tin. You two are going to make it.”
Owen stared at her.
“I don’t know how to bake.”
“That has never stopped most people.”
With Marjorie calling instructions from her bed, Owen and I attempted to recreate the pie that had scented our street for years.
He rolled the dough too thin and tore it while lifting it into the dish.
I added too much cinnamon to the peaches.
We argued about the amount of sugar, spilled flour across the counter, and nearly forgot to preheat the oven.
When the pie finally emerged, the crust leaned to one side and the filling had bubbled over the edges.
We carried a slice upstairs.
Marjorie studied it with the seriousness of a professional judge.
