Free The Mistletoe Promise by Richard Paul Evans Page B

had done with my life? I was not honoring her by retreating from the world—from life. At that moment I resolved that things might be different. That I might be different. That I might be better .
    Then my husband divorced me.

CHAPTER
    Twelve
    Even in the darkest of days there are oases of joy. And there’s usually pie.
    Elise Dutton’s Diary

As a rare gesture of magnanimity, Mark closed the office two hours early on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. On the way home from work I stopped at the grocery store for pie ingredients. It had been years since I’d made pies. I unearthed the old cookbook my mother had written her pie secrets in; that cookbook was one of the few possessions I got after my mother’s death.
    Before settling in to bake I put the Mitch Miller Holiday Sing Along CD on my stereo to set the mood. The truth was, I was already in a good mood. It seemed that I always was when I was about to see Nicholas.
    Nicholas arrived at my apartment a little before six. I had finished making all the crusts, and the cherry and apple pies were in the oven, along with a baking sheet spread with pecan halves.
    “I got here as soon as I could,” he said apologetically. He carried a paper coffee cup in each hand, and a large white plastic bag hung from the crux of his arm. He breathed in. “It smells heavenly.” He handed me a cup. “I got you a salted caramel mocha.”
    “How do you always know what I want?”
    “It’s easy. I find the sweetest thing on the menu and order it.”
    “You’ve pretty much got me figured out,” I said.
    “It’s probably sacrilege, but I brought us Chinese for dinner. I got wonton soup, sweet and sour pork, walnut shrimp, and pot stickers.”
    “Which will all go nicely with pumpkin pie,” I said. We walked into the kitchen. Nicholas set the bag of Chinese down on the table.
    “So, I’m making apple, cherry, pumpkin, and pecan,” I said. “The apple and cherry are already in the oven. They’re just about done.”
    Nicholas examined the latticework on my apple and cherry pies through the oven window. “Those are works of art,” he said. “Where did you learn to make pies?”
    “My mother. She was famous for her pies. Well, about as famous as you can get in Montezuma Creek. She won a blue ribbon for her cherry pie at the San Juan County fair. It was the only prize she ever won. She hung it in the living room next to my father’s bowling trophies.” I opened the oven and took out the pies, setting them on the counter to cool. “I don’t have a lot of happy memories from my childhood, but when she made pie, life was good. Everyone was happy. Even my father.”
    “My mother always made pies at special times,” Nicholas said, “like the holidays or special family get-togethers. But my favorite part of pie making was after she was done andshe would take the leftover dough, sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar, then bake it.”
    “I know, right!” I said, clapping my hands. “Piecrust cookies. They’re the best. Which is why I made extra dough.”
    “You’re going to make some tonight?” Nicholas asked.
    “Absolutely,” I said. “When the pies are done.”
    “So, what fat do you use for your crust? Butter, shortening, or lard?”
    “My mother was old school. She said that lard made the flakiest piecrust. She thought butter was lazy and shortening was a sin. She was religious about it.”
    “People get a little fanatic about pies,” Nicholas said.
    “I’m just getting ready to mix the pecan pie filling. Would you mind getting the pecans out of the oven? The mitts are right there.”
    “On it,” he said.
    While he brought the baking sheet out of the oven, I mixed the other ingredients.
    “Where do you want the pecans?” he asked.
    “Go ahead and pour them in here,” I said.
    “The pecans rise to the top?”
    “Like magic.”
    In the end I made four regular-size pies for Thanksgiving as well as two tart-size pies—one pecan, one pumpkin—for us