Walter looked at him.
“My parents don’t care what car you drive.”
“I know.”
“They don’t care about a homemade pie.”
“I know.”
“My dad would probably eat half of it.”
Walter laughed quietly.
“I believe that.”
Ethan looked toward the main garden.
“I think some people have been trying to impress my family with things my family never asked for.”
Lily glanced at him.
Ethan continued.
“My parents like nice things.”
“So do I.”
“But I didn’t ask for today to feel like a product launch.”
Walter smiled despite himself.
Lily did too.
Then she wiped one eye.
“I want Grandma’s pie.”
Walter’s smile disappeared.
“Sweetheart.”
“I mean it.”
“There is a cake.”
“I saw the cake.”
“It looks expensive.”
“It is.”
“Then whoever bought it should be proud.”
Lily said.
“But Grandma isn’t here.”
The three of them became quiet.
A string quartet began playing softly somewhere behind the hedge.
Lily looked at Walter.
“When I was little, Grandma gave me the first slice.”
Walter nodded.
“Every time.”
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew.”
“She made me promise not to tell you.”
“She was a terrible criminal.”
Lily laughed through tears.
“I thought I’d never taste it again.”
Walter looked away.
He had not realized that.
He had thought the pie was memory.
For Lily, it was retrieval.
Something lost being made briefly reachable again.
“I messed the crust up a little.”
He said.
“I don’t care.”
“One side collapsed.”
“I don’t care.”
“The leaves look like deformed birds.”
“Grandpa.”
“Okay.”
She linked her arm through his.
“Show me where it is.”
They returned to the service table.
Walter lifted the cloth.
The box was gone.
He froze.
Lily noticed.
“It was here?”
“Yes.”
Walter looked underneath again.
Water boxes.
Linens.
Trash bags.
No pie.
A caterer passed.
Walter stopped him.
“Excuse me.”
“Was there a round cardboard box under here?”
The young man frowned.
“I’m not sure.”
Another employee overheard.
“Oh.”
“The pie?”
Walter nodded.
“Someone moved it.”
“Where?”
“She said it couldn’t stay near service.”
“Who?”
The employee glanced nervously toward the garden.
“I don’t know her name.”
“Green dress.”
Lily’s mouth tightened.
“My mother.”
The employee looked trapped.
“Where did you put it?”
“In the storage room off the lower hall.”
“Sorry.”
“She said it needed to be completely out of sight.”
Lily stared at him.
Walter closed his eyes.
Something inside him hurt in a way he had not expected.
Putting a pie under a table was one thing.
Moving it into storage so nobody could even see the box felt different.
Like somebody had decided the memory itself was unsightly.
Lily squeezed his hand.
“Show me.”
The employee led them through the side entrance.
Down a short corridor.
Then six steps into a lower service level.
The storage room contained folding chairs, empty beverage cartons, tablecloths, and cleaning supplies.
Walter’s pie sat on a metal shelf.
Alone.
Lily stopped in the doorway.
Nobody spoke.
She walked toward it.
Opened the box.