Free Pies and Prejudice by Ellery Adams Page B

tarragon, and sun-dried tomato and pesto torta, Ella Mae answered her mother’s question.
    “Our budget covers everything except the cost of painting the exterior.” She went on to explain the breakdown of expenditures.
    Verena helped herself to a generous hunk of the baguette from the breadbasket and then added three pats of butter stamped with the hotel’s crest onto her plate. She slathered the butter onto the warm crust and studied the pie shop’s floor plan. “What’s this here?”
    Leaning forward, Ella Mae pointed at a square in the center of the kitchen area. “That’s a pie press.”
    Sissy craned her neck so she could see the plans from across the table. “Ovens, double range, cooling shelves, dishwasher, sink with drainboards. Walk-in refrigerator and freezer in the rear corner. What’s that smaller square next to the prep area?”
    “A twenty-quart standing mixer. I’ll probably use that piece of equipment the most,” Ella Mae replied, accepting the breadbasket from Dee.
    “May I?” Sissy reached for the second page of plans. “Ah, the front room—complete with display cases, espressomachine, soda dispenser, cash register, rotating window display, and café tables. I can
almost
see it in my mind’s eye.”
    Dee pointed to a room set off down a narrow hallway at the far left. “Just one restroom?”
    Ella Mae nodded. “If there were two, we’d lose too much floor space. We need every inch for people who want to dine indoors. I’ll have tables on the patio as well, but during the winter and in the worst of the summer’s humidity, folks will want to be inside.”
    The women exchanged opinions about color schemes as the attentive waiter served them chilled soup or salad. Ella Mae paused before driving the tines of her fork into a soft grapefruit wedge on her spinach salad. She felt a wave of contentment sweep over her. In the soft light of the dining room, with the din of quiet conversation settling around her shoulders like a silk shawl and the glimmering expanse of the lake beyond the window, all felt right with the world.
    She watched the beautiful faces of her mother and her aunts as they argued over whether the laminate on the tabletops should be of a marigold or plum or periwinkle hue, and wanted to hold this moment in her heart forever, to lock it away for a time when she would need to cling to a treasured memory—one that could burn through a veil of sorrow and recreate a gilded flash of pure happiness.
    Even the slight stiffness her mother displayed whenever she spoke could not tarnish Ella Mae’s belief that she’d been destined to return to Havenwood. She hoped, in time, to be as comfortable in her mother’s company as she was in the company of her beloved aunts.
    Perhaps
I
need to make more of an effort,
she thought, recalling how her mother had gone out of her way to make the carriage house especially inviting. Every few days, Ella Mae came home from a meeting with the restaurant supply company, the contractor, or August Templeton to find a bouquet of colorful blooms from her mother’s garden arranged in a silver vase in the small kitchen.
    The heady scent of her mother’s roses mingled with fronds of fresh greens, lacing the air with a feminine perfume that Ella Mae had always associated with her mother.
    As a child, she’d waited breathlessly each night for her mother’s good-night kiss. She would tiptoe in the room, her white nightgown glowing in the moonlight, and kiss Ella Mae’s cheek. Stroking her daughter’s hair, she’d whisper, “I love you more than all the petals in my garden,” and instead of being envious, the signature of the thousands of roses in the yard would embrace mother and child in a burst of enchanting scent.
    Each night, Ella would fall asleep with the feel of that kiss on her skin and the smell of a wonderland of flowers on her pillow. Envisioning her mother entering the carriage house to plump the sofa cushions and deliberate over where to