Daniel approached carrying Walter’s jacket.
“You leaving?”
“Soon.”
“I’ll walk you to the car.”
Walter looked at him.
“You think I can’t find it?”
“I know where it is now.”
They walked toward the front.
The Buick sat exactly where Walter had originally parked.
Daniel opened the driver’s door for him.
Walter stopped.
“Something wrong?”
Daniel asked.
Walter looked toward the windshield.
A small white envelope rested beneath the wiper.
He picked it up.
Inside was a note.
Lily’s handwriting.
GRANDPA,
THANK YOU FOR BRINGING GRANDMA TODAY.
PLEASE NEVER HIDE THE PIE AGAIN.
LOVE,
LILY.
Underneath, Ethan had added:
OR THE CAR.
Walter laughed.
Daniel looked over his shoulder.
“What?”
Walter handed him the note.
Daniel smiled.
“Fair.”
Walter placed it carefully inside his jacket.
He started to get into the car.
Then stopped.
“Daniel.”
“Yeah?”
“Come by next Sunday.”
Daniel looked surprised.
“For what?”
“I’m making the pie again.”
Daniel smiled.
“Really?”
“No.”
“You’re making it.”
His smile vanished.
“I don’t know how.”
“Exactly.”
Daniel laughed.
“You’re going to teach me?”
“No.”
“Your mother is.”
Daniel’s expression changed.
Walter tapped the recipe card in his pocket.
“I still have her handwriting.”
Daniel stared at him.
Then nodded.
“I’ll be there.”
“Ten.”
“Ten?”
“In the morning.”
“Dad, it’s Sunday.”
“Pie takes time.”
Daniel laughed.
“All right.”
“Ten.”
Walter drove home beneath a clear November sky.
The Buick hummed along exactly as it always had.
At a stoplight, he reached across and touched the empty passenger seat.
For one moment, he imagined Evelyn sitting there.
Not literally.
Walter did not believe in ghosts.
But memory could be vivid enough to borrow space.
He imagined her expression.
That small satisfied smile she wore whenever family conflict resolved without anybody needing an ambulance.
“You would’ve enjoyed that.”
He said.
The passenger seat offered no answer.
Walter smiled anyway.
The next Sunday, Daniel arrived at 9:42.
Walter opened the door.
“You’re early.”
Daniel shrugged.
“Apparently it runs in the family.”
They spent three hours making Evelyn’s pie.
Daniel rolled the dough too thin.
Walter criticized him.
Daniel reminded Walter his crust at the engagement party had been crooked.
Walter threatened to revoke his inheritance.
They argued over how much cinnamon the recipe meant by “enough.”
Then Daniel found a note on the back of the card he had never seen.
In Evelyn’s handwriting:
WALTER ALWAYS ADDS TOO MUCH.
Daniel laughed for almost a full minute.
Walter called the note defamatory.
When the pie went into the oven, they sat at the kitchen table.
For the first time in years, Daniel asked about his mother.
Not how she died.
How she lived.
What did she wear on their first date?
Where did they go?
Did she really hate country music?
Why did she keep the chipped yellow mixing bowl when she owned nicer ones?
Walter answered.
Story after story.
Some Daniel remembered.
Others he had never heard.
The pie cooled on the counter.
Neither man rushed.
A month later, Christmas arrived.