Walter laughed.
Lily sat beside him.
For a while, they watched the garden.
“Are you still hurt?”
She asked.
Walter considered lying.
Then decided against it.
“Yes.”
Lily nodded.
“Good.”
He looked at her.
“That sounded cruel.”
“I mean I’m glad you’re not pretending you’re fine just because everybody apologized.”
Walter smiled faintly.
“You sound like your grandmother.”
“I’ll take that.”
She ate another bite.
Walter looked toward the house.
“You know your mother isn’t a bad person.”
“I know.”
“Your father either.”
“I know.”
“They behaved badly today.”
“I know.”
“That distinction matters.”
Lily nodded.
“I was really angry.”
“I noticed.”
“I wanted to embarrass them.”
“I noticed that too.”
“But you stopped me.”
Walter shrugged.
“Humiliation doesn’t become moral because you aim it at the guilty person.”
Lily stared at him.
“Did Grandma teach you that?”
“No.”
“She was very good at humiliation.”
Lily laughed so hard she nearly dropped the plate.
Walter smiled.
“Your grandmother once told a man at church that his personality was proof God gives everyone a challenge.”
Lily covered her mouth.
“She did not.”
“She absolutely did.”
“Why?”
“He insulted her casserole.”
“That seems fair.”
“Exactly.”
They laughed.
Then Lily rested her head against Walter’s shoulder.
“I miss her.”
Walter stared across the lawn.
“Me too.”
“I’m scared I’ll forget things.”
“You will.”
Lily lifted her head.
“What?”
He looked at her.
“You’ll forget some things.”
“So will I.”
“That’s normal.”
“That’s terrible.”
“No.”
Walter said.
“It just means memory changes.”
“You won’t keep everything.”
“But sometimes somebody will make a pie.”
“Or you’ll hear a song.”
“Or smell her hand cream.”
“And something comes back.”
Lily looked at the final slice.
“That’s why you made it.”
Walter nodded.
“I didn’t want to bring a dessert.”
“I wanted to bring her.”
Lily’s eyes filled.
“As much as I could.”
She leaned against him again.
“You did.”
The sun dropped lower.
The garden lights came on.
One by one.
Warm bulbs strung beneath the trees.
Walter watched guests begin saying goodbye.
Richard stopped beside him before leaving.
“I’m serious about the Buick.”
He said.
“If you ever sell it—”
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
Richard nodded approvingly.
“Cars like that die only when owners get impatient.”
Walter smiled.
“Same with a lot of things.”
Caroline hugged him.
Then whispered:
“Thank you for the pie.”
“Thank Evelyn.”
“I think we just did.”
That stayed with Walter.
By seven, most guests were gone.
The caterers packed equipment.
Flowers remained scattered across tables.
The once-perfect lawn now held napkins, abandoned glasses, and the harmless evidence of people having a good time.
Walter found the empty pie tin near the dessert table.
Almost empty.
One tiny piece of crust remained.
He wrapped it in foil.
Habit.
Evelyn never wasted crust.