Page 68 of The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
“Junior is making Mama tired and ready to sit down.”
“Here, you sit. Doctor’s orders.” Rory led me to a seat by the freezer case and pulled over another chair so I could prop up my aching feet.
“Did you save me a piece?” he asked hopefully as he pushed the chair in at just the right angle to support my legs.
I nodded. “In the back, safely hidden behind the tray of pansies in the fridge.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, and I could hear the girls’ squeals of joy when they saw him. A few minutes later he came out holding a pie plate and fork. On the plate was a tall, glistening slice of lemon meringue pie, vivid yellow and fluffy white. He pulled up a chair opposite me and straddled it backward, eagerly digging his fork into the tremulous tower of meringue. “You know I dream about this slice of pie all week long, right?” he said, taking a big bite.
“And me. You also dream about me,” I teased him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Of course I dream about you... giving me this pie.”
I rolled my eyes at him, and he grinned, mouth full of pie.
Every Saturday I made two lemon meringue pies and served them to the first lucky handful of customers through the doors of our flagship Tampa location. The last piece of pie I always saved for Rory. I’d modified my mom’s now-not-so-secret recipe, adding an element all my own—a lemon drop melted into the lemon-sugar mixture. I wasn’t convinced it changed the taste that much, but Rory said it was the best pie he’d ever had. He swore the lemon drop added a touch of kitchen magic, but I knew better. It wasn’t magic at all. It was revelation.
Every Saturday morning I rose early while Rory and the girls still slept, put on some classic country music, and started rolling out crusts. I did it partly for fun but mostly to remember. I never wanted to forget where I’d been and what I’d learned along the way. I used Meyer lemons and good French butter. I zested and stirred and thought of my mom as I worked. And to every hot, bubbling pan of lemon pie filling, I added a single lemon drop. As I watched it melt into the sugar and lemon juice mixture, I reminded myself of the truth I now knew. That you don’t need magic to change your life. You just need to follow your bliss as best you can. If you follow the light, no matter how dark the circumstances, things will come out right in the end. That’s the true recipe for joy in this life. That’s the true magic of lemon drop pie.
“We’d better get the girls and go feed them some dinner.” I leaned forward with a groan.
“In a minute, but first...” Rory licked his fork clean, sprang from his chair, and sauntered over to the old juke box sitting in its place by the door. Dad had stashed it in our garage when the Eatery sold, and we’d dug it out and had it rehabbed after I bought this place. Rory fished a quarter out of the bowl sitting on the lip of the jukebox andpressed a button. I knew what he’d chosen before I heard the first chords. F4. “I Will Always Love You.” A moment later Dolly Parton’s unmistakable quaver filled the room. “I will always love you,” she sang. I smiled, closing my eyes, transported back over twenty years—same room, same song, now a brand-new chapter of our lives.
Rory came toward me and held out his hand in invitation. I hoisted myself up, and he slipped his arms around my waist, pulling me as close as he could. It was awkward, like dancing while balancing a basketball or a water balloon between us, and I giggled. From the kitchen I could hear the sound of the girls chattering to my dad. I glanced out the window at theLolly’s Pops Coming Soonbanner and thought about the strange and wonderful path that had brought us here, to this moment.
Somehow, miraculously, everything had fallen into place as it was supposed to all along. Through heartbreak and sorrow, sacrifice and drudgery, through hope lost and hope regained, I’d learned little by little to be honest. To pay attention. To seek joy. And through all the ups and downs, the tears and bittersweet lessons, my lemon of a life had gradually been transformed into this—the most deliciously sweet, perfectly imperfect second chance I could ever imagine.
“Happy?” Rory asked, swinging me very carefully away and then twirling me back slowly.
“Blissfully,” I answered instantly, leaning precariously forward so I could nestle my head against his shoulder, right where Ibelonged.
