They laughed.
Vanessa’s dismissal was not about ingredients.
We all knew that.
It was power.
She could erase something I made because she believed I had no standing in her house.
That afternoon, I went outside to get the mail.
Margaret Bell was walking down the sidewalk.
She lived three houses away.
Seventy-two.
Retired librarian.
Sharp eyes.
She waved.
“Walter.”
“Margaret.”
She crossed the street.
Then smiled.
“I heard about your apple pie.”
I laughed.
“How?”
“My grandson was here yesterday.”
“Ben?”
“Yes.”
“He stole a slice.”
“Borrowed.”
“With his mouth.”
She laughed.
“He brought half of it home.”
“Half a slice?”
“Apparently he was full.”
She pointed at me.
“I tasted it.”
“And?”
“It tasted exactly like my grandmother’s.”
Something in her voice softened.
Then she said.
“I’m hosting a garden luncheon Saturday.”
“Would you make one?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll pay fifty dollars.”
I laughed.
“For one pie?”
