How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (7 page)

I hit the home button on my phone. The map flashes on the screen, and then goes black. Pushing the buttons a kajillion times does not change it. The fluttering of wings from the panic attack fairy is swirling around me. “The Flight of the Bumblebee” begins to play. Beads of sweat are popping up all over my face as if I forgot to take my daily dose of Proactive.

Now I’m going to have a panic attack. Here it comes. I don’t even take deep breaths. I’m going to let this one happen. At this point, I don’t have anything else to lose.

I lean up against my mom’s torture-on-wheels. The hard metal is not comfortable. My body is plastered over the door, as though I’m trying to form a new type of art car. One that would be called “broken woman melded into car.” I lie there and wait for the panic attack fairy to make her delivery. I’m stranded on a lonely highway, my cell phone is dead, my back tire is shredded, and I’m not wearing comfortable walking shoes. Oh, and yeah, the whole point of my trip was to get pecans, and I didn’t get the right amount.
So come on fairy, bring it on.

I’m spent. I toss my head back and make contact with the window of the car. My Texas-size ball of frizzy hair saves me from further injury. I wait. Where is the little fairy? Where is my full-fledged panic attack?

It doesn’t happen. I move my fingers—no tingling. My breathing is steady and my heart is beating a normal,
thump thump thump
. No, my survival mode kicks in. I push myself away from the car and walk around to the back. I pop open the trunk and move nothing because the trunk is empty. Completely empty—there is no spare tire. This isn’t
entirely
surprising.
Ha
. No ho-hum situation can keep this gal from using a solid pun.

Most likely good ol’ Mr. Fix-it Brian took it out when installing my mom’s new CD changer and didn’t put it back. This is status quo.

I lean in the car and grab my purse and pecans. The windows are rolled up and the car is locked. I resist the urge to kick anything else. I take one last glance at the car—my only means of transportation on this lonely road. My chest heaves up and down. I pick up my feet and begin to hoof it.

There’s nothing like a Thanksgiving Eve stroll. I’m going to make the most of this. Overeating is on my itinerary for tomorrow. Because of this walk, I’ll be able to eat as much as I want sans guilt. I might even make this an annual pre-Thanksgiving hike tradition. Luke can have his registered races, but I’ll make unplanned walks my pre-Thanksgiving tradition.

The other thing I’m super happy about is my outfit. Probably the most ideal walking attire. One could only hope to aspire to this level of fashion and weather correspondence. My flared skirt and short-sleeved top, along with my strappy sandals, are providing the much needed comfort that I desire. Not only isn’t it as hot as it’s supposed to be, but I think it’s safe to say, sandals are underrated when it comes to long hikes. Oh wait, maybe that’s for romantic strolls on the beach, not on a vacant Texas highway.

The wind starts to pick up as I stride. I assume it’s because of the flat plains and has nothing to do with the tepid air and moisture I’m beginning to feel.

No, this is not a cold front coming in. The wind is blowing my skirt all around. The gusts are even blowing around my previously unmovable hair. I wrap my arms around my body, trying to warm myself up. That’s when the ice pellets start to hit. Like little chunks from a Sonic 44 drink, they’re coming down in handfuls, but that quickly changes to what feels like a large bucket of ice being dumped directly onto my head.

I alternate between covering my head from the barrage of ice and wrapping my arms around my waist in an attempt to keep warm. My shirt is soaked and my skirt is damp. Please tell me this is a nightmare and that someone has intercepted my dreams. That is the only answer.

The chunks have expanded into golf ball-sized pellets and are coming down at an alarming rate. Mother Nature is stoning me. The autopsy report will list cause of death: ice. This is unbelievable. I pick up my pace and force myself to glide along the road. At least I feel like I’m gliding at first until the glide turns into a slide. I lose my balance and fall. I’m like Bambi, spread-eagled on the hard, wet asphalt.
This is the worst
day ever.

I roll over onto my back and lie on the side of the road, letting the ice hit me. It hurts, but I don’t care anymore. I’m wet, cold, and my leg and arms are scraped. My hair is a mess. It’s a big ice ball. No, it’s a frizzicle. There’s no point of me getting up. I’m all alone. This is how I will die—of hypothermia and ice bludgeoning.

Nature is pulling out all the stops in this battle. The ice is burning my skin. I didn’t even think it was possible for ice to burn, but it is. I’m no longer inclined to remain frozen to the asphalt.

I pry myself up off the ground and begin walking. I am a survivor. I begin humming the song in my head as I carefully put one foot in front of the other, not gliding along the road. Through the pelting ice I scan the road for something other than empty fields… Surely, I’ll encounter a house or shelter.

I turn around. There’s nothing behind me. The road is desolate. My car is no longer in sight, so my best chance of rescue is to keep going. I make a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and keep my eyes set on the horizon, knowing at some point I will reach my destination.
Or die.

The ice and rain are loud. Over the patter against the road, I hear the noise of something else. Something with a motor. The sound is an engine accompanied by the crunching of something heavy rolling along. A car is to my left and it’s slowing down. It pulls up next to me.

I stop.
Could this
be a rescue or something else?

The window unrolls. “Do you need a ride?” the driver asks.

This is not the type of situation one would ever want to be in. I’m stranded in the middle of an ice storm with a dead cell phone. Do I get out of the storm, risking my safety, or stay in the storm, risking my safety? These are not the kind of options I would wish on an enemy. Without wasting any time, I vote for risking my safety in the warmth and shelter of a vehicle. I’m freezing and my open wounds are stinging.

Chapter Three

Sometimes life pelts you with ice, and instead of being defeated you keep on moving in hopes that the road gets better ahead. Maybe today is one of those days for me. Maybe my luck is changing and this driver will be a nice, southern gentleman.

I stick my head in the window to get a better look before accepting the offer to get out of this icy nightmare. At first glance, I’m surprised. This guy is hot and doesn’t seem like the type of man who would appear on a “Wanted” poster at the post office. My brain isn’t working at its normal speed today. I realize that the driver is none other than Mr. Business from the pecan farm. The guy who wouldn’t share his pecans with me.

Aargh
. Now I’m in a real crux, because after the pecan store, I don’t want to accept anything from this guy. I really don’t. Well, maybe I would still accept his pecans. Maybe this is my opportunity to get another two ounces. I can’t be two ounces short in the pecan pie. I cannot mess up the pie and I know measurements in baking are crucial. The window is warm. The arid heat from the car is drawing me in. It’s full of promises. Promises of being dry and toasty. Who could resist something so charming?

I pause for a second. “Um, please.”

I grasp onto the car’s wet handle and unlatch the door, opening myself up to who knows what. I fall into the seat and shut out the cold. I’m shivering. My legs squish along the leather. I wipe off the water droplets that have fallen from my body and onto the dashboard.

Our pinkies brush as Mr. Business presses the red arrow buttons up on the console, and warm air blasts my face. I retract my hand and drop it in my lap. A whiff of woodsy scented cologne blows in my direction, with notes of mint, sandalwood, and…what is that, apples? It’s so crisp and clean. I inhale, but the smell is gone. Somewhat disappointed, I exhale.

“You can adjust the heat on your seat with these buttons.” He points to the buttons on the dashboard.

“Thank you.”

I move the buttons to their highest level and hope to thaw my body. I can’t remember ever being this cold. I try and smooth out my skirt from its wrinkled, scrunched-up state but it’s frozen fabric.

An iceberg sitting on a charcoal grill best describes my predicament. Except I’m not melting, which is what an iceberg would most likely do on a grill. I hope I don’t have frostbite by the time this day is through. The seat is burning against my skin. I reach forward and turn the heat down a little bit. There, that’s better. Icicles are no longer hanging from lashes. It’s time to break a different type of ice and remedy the awkward silence.

“I must say, I’m surprised to see you again.” I peek over at him.

He smiles and doesn’t even take a peek in my direction. If I picked up a stranger, well I wouldn’t but if I did I would be bombarding them with questions.

I try to smooth out my skirt again. It’s not budging. My shirt is plastered to my chest. I probably should have chosen a more neutral-colored bra to wear under a white blouse. How was I supposed to know I was going to be soaked in an ice storm? I angle the air vents toward my chest, hoping my shirt will quickly dry.

“Was that your car a couple miles back with the flat tire?”

“Yes, that’d be the one.” I nod, and my lips stretch into a thin line because I know what he is going to ask next.

“Do you want me to take you back to it? I’ve got a tire jack.”

“No, that’d be of no use,” I say to the question I knew was coming.

“Why is that?” he asks, this time making eye contact. He isn’t exactly the chattiest guy. But those eyes—those pensive eyes that I know will change to a frown of some sort when he hears my answer.

“Because, I don’t have a spare tire.”

He breaks our gaze, nods, and turns his attention back to the road.

He most likely thinks I’m an idiot, driving without a spare tire and no cell phone. Well, actually, I
am
that idiot. Except, I didn’t know about the spare tire. And the cell phone – I do have it, it’s just dead, and that happens to everyone, right?

“Where are you headed?”

“My parents live outside of Cedar Park.” I rub my knees. The scrapes are small lines of dried blood.

“You still live with your parents?” He cocks his head to the right.

“God no. I live in Maryland.” My shoulders rise in disgust from the idea of still living at home.

His eyes are on the road. He’s gripping the wheel at exactly ten and two—very business, very protocol, very making me want to adjust his stern demeanor. The collar on his shirt is too tight. I want to reach over and unhook the top button. Maybe that would loosen him up. He’s just sitting in his seat, not responding. Does he live at home and I’ve insulted him? I don’t care. He is much too old to live at home, and besides, he wouldn’t share his pecans.

“Maryland. Do you like it?” His eyes drift over in my direction.

I take a deep breath before responding. “I love it. I love the four seasons of changing weather. The colorful leaves in the fall, the snow in the winter, the flowers in the spring, and summers at the beach. And I’m close to so many awesome things.”

I inhale and my chest rises a bit too high beneath my soaked, nearly translucent shirt. My cheeks warm up at the realization that I sound a little over-infatuated with my geographical location. I clear my throat. It’s dry. I could seriously use some form of liquid right now, preferably the kind you have to be over twenty-one to purchase.

“Where do you live?”

“Georgetown, at the moment,” he says.

Why is there uncertainty regarding his residence? What if he is a serial killer and I misjudged him like all those women did with Ted Bundy. I mean good looks do not equate to being a good person.
Arg.
I bite my lip and stare out the window.

“What brought you to Georgetown?”

“My brother died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say to this. I don’t know this guy. Speaking to someone who is grieving is difficult, especially when you don’t know them. Finding the right words to say is impossible, other than “I’m sorry”, and what else can one say?

He nods. “Yes, Lewis was a great man, lived a great life. He and his wife Sherry were co-running Vintage Estates. After Lewis died, Sherry asked if I would come and help out until she figured out what she wanted to do with the place.”

“Oh, that was nice of you.” I guess he does have some Southerly gentleman attributes about him.

“Sometimes I can be nice. Just not about sharing pecans.” He glances over at me and smiles. His icy blue eyes are flickering at me, trying to heat me with their glow.

Seriously.
I break the stare and focus on the windshield. It’s still sleeting. I’m glad to be in the warmth of this vehicle. But I’ll be damned if he thinks I’m getting out of this car without ten ounces of pecans. My grandmother’s prize winning pecan pie recipe depends on it. Even if Megan and possibly the rest of my family thinks I’ll fail. I refuse to give in to this possibility. I read the instructions and I am following them to a “P”. I trekked out to the middle of nowhere for the exact pecans. I’ve encountered a flat tire, been bludgeoned by ice and now have to sit with a guy who is sending so many mixed signals. It’s like he can’t decide how he feels about me. I don’t really care. I’m only home for the holidays. Even if I was interested in him, I definitely would not want to be in a long-distance relationship again. I made a vow to myself after Scott, the next guy in my life was going to have to be local. No more commuting and weekend trips. No thank you.

I inhale and exhale. I wish my phone wasn’t dead. I really want to call Brianna and unload about my day and Mr. Business, Mr. Mixed Messages.

Definitely a focused driver, he rarely takes his eyes off the road. His hands are not gripping the wheel as tightly as mine would be in this type of driving condition. Yet, he doesn’t appear to be relaxed. His shoulders are large and rounded, covered by his button-down shirt. He seems so formal, from his attire down to his uptight mannerisms to match. I want to make him lose his cool, in a fun way.