Lemon Pies and Little White Lies (20 page)

Ella Mae returned to the stage, feeling slightly dazed by the Shermans’ demonstration of fealty and by the number of people filling the auditorium.

I hope I’m worthy of their trust
, she thought, and gazed out at the sea of faces before her. She wondered how many of the audience members were magical and how many she could count on to join her in breaking their centuries-old curse.

“Welcome to History in the Baking,” she said once every seat had been taken and an expectant hush had fallen over the room. “Food is magical. It nourishes our bodies, but it also feeds our souls. It connects us to other people. Our memories are, forgive the pun, peppered by food.”

“I get it!” exclaimed an elderly man in the front row. “Peppered! Like salt and pepper!”

The crowd laughed, and Ella Mae gave him a thumbs-up
and continued. “Our mental scrapbooks contain images of a father carving a Thanksgiving turkey, a mother baking chocolate chip cookies, a grandmother pouring a cup of tea, and a grandfather frying the fish he caught that morning. We’re more communicative when food is present. How often do we chat with friends over a cup of coffee? Or gather around the family dinner table, passing the breadbasket or the mashed potatoes, to share something about our day? And of course, we celebrate with food. We mark milestones with food. And we mourn our losses with food.”

There wasn’t a sound in the room. Every eye was trained on Ella Mae, but she wasn’t nervous. She’d wanted to be a pastry chef ever since she could remember, and here she was, living her dream. With or without enchantment, she’d become a skilled pie maker. Amid the craziness and confusion of being magical, she always had pie to keep her sane. Pie was her tether to a normal life, and she was overjoyed to be able to share her passion for it with others who understood its importance.

“Pie has existed for centuries. It’s been a part of our human culinary narrative since the ancient Egyptians rolled out the first dough and cooked it over hot coals. The Greeks and Romans made meat pies. For hundreds of years, the piecrust was merely a container to hold the filling. The crusts were often called coffins and were typically discarded.” She grinned at the audience. “Piecrusts have come a long way since Plato’s day. I’ve seen examples of some amazing recipes on your websites.” She made a sweeping motion with her arm to include the whole of the room. “Crusts made of cheddar cheese, pistachios, fennel seeds, dried onions, cinnamon buns, pretzels, potatoes, cookies, cereal, and, of course, chocolate. Any chocolate lovers out there?”

A round of clapping, several whoops, and a few shouts of “Me!” greeted this question.

“Fortunately, Wednesday’s agenda includes several demonstrations involving chocolate. Thursday is the Best in the Nation event, in which our judges will taste samples from states around the nation and then bestow prizes on the top three entrants. We have an incredible number of states being represented. After trying a bite of Kentucky Chocolate-Nut Pie or a Hoosier Pie from Indiana, you can decide if a sweet cherry pie from Iowa can truly trump Michigan’s famous tart cherry pies.”

Several boisterous cries of “Iowa!” and “Michigan!” followed this remark.

“Today’s highlight will be the Pie Through Time presentations. And on that note, I’d like to offer my warmest thanks to Bill and Linda Sherman from North Dakota. They’ve generously re-created one of the oldest recorded pie recipes. This Roman savory pie has a rye crust and a goat cheese–and-honey filling. The Shermans, skilled bakers and beekeepers, have samples of this special pie for everyone. The resort waitstaff will now distribute your tasting plates as well as small cups of honeyed wine, in keeping with our Roman theme.”

The curtains behind Ella Mae parted to reveal a row of waiters dressed in togas and sandals. The audience burst out in appreciative applause and whistles. The waiters marched off the stage with as much dignity as they could muster and collected forks, napkins, and small plates bearing two-bite pies from the buffet tables lined up on both sides of the auditorium.

Waitresses in more modest Roman-style robes streamed in through the rear doors carrying small glasses of honeyed wine. Murmurs of anticipation rose from around the room, and Ella Mae was thrilled to see the responses as people took their first bites of goat cheese–and-honey pie. She suspected the Sherman’s honey was unlike any honey in the world, and she invited
the couple to stand so that they might receive a well-earned round of applause. Next, she informed the audience that it was time for the presentation on the history of pie.

“This entertaining and informative video, called
The Pie Chronicles
, was produced by one of my dearest friends, Suzy Bacchus. Suzy owns The Cubbyhole Book and Gift Shop, one of my favorite places in all of Havenwood. Make sure you stop by while you’re in town, and Suzy can show you her collection of rare cookbooks.”

Suzy was out of sight, no doubt making last-minute adjustments to the projector, so Ella Mae signaled for the lights to be dimmed and left the stage. A large screen was lowered from the ceiling, and the audience tittered in excitement.

The first slide featured a cartoon of a flock of blackbirds bursting from inside a baked pie. This was followed by a series of facts on pies and pie makers from the ancient world. Suzy had used Photoshop to add slices of pie to famous works of art. She’d inserted a wedge of a pecan pie into an Egyptian tomb painting, a lemon meringue into a Chinese scroll, a chocolate silk into a Greek amphora, and Michelangelo’s David statue appeared holding a slice of cherry pie in his left hand. A checkered napkin covered his private parts.

Laughter resonated throughout the large space and intensified with the introduction of medieval pie baking. A portrait of Henry VIII filled the screen and included a very contemporary buffet table loaded with a cornucopia of pies. Suzy had somehow managed to place a dollop of whipped cream on the tip of the corpulent monarch’s beard.

As the show continued, Ella Mae watched the light from the screen flicker over the faces in the crowd. The darkness and the brief flashes of illumination gave everyone an alien appearance. Ella Mae felt a prick of unease, and she had to remind herself that she didn’t know any of the audience
members, whether locals or visitors, well enough to trust them.

On-screen, the image changed to the famous painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware. Suzy had enhanced the blue and gray tones, and the colors seemed to ripple over the spectators like water. The effect reminded Ella Mae of Joyce Mercer. She looked out into the crowd and saw Joyce’s face, eerily still and pale, submerged in the water of Fiona Drever’s bathtub.

Unable to focus on the slides highlighting the importance of pie in American history, Ella Mae’s eyes darted from row to row. Having seen the clover in Fiona’s bathroom and burned into Dee’s lawn, Ella Mae was positive that Joyce’s murderer and the arsonist were one and the same. She couldn’t help but wonder if that person was in the room. Was he or she sitting in the dark, watching her?

Tonight, I’ll ask the others to help me find this person. The villain must be brought to justice before anyone else is hurt.

The Pie Chronicles
came to an end to the sound of raucous applause. The lights came up, and Ella Mae stepped behind the podium once more. She outlined the rest of the day’s events—a lobster potpie luncheon and chef’s demonstration in the resort dining room, a walking tour of Havenwood, and the World’s First Pie Makers presentations—and then thanked Suzy again for treating them to such an entertaining film.

“I hope you enjoyed this introduction to History in the Baking and that this week will be a memorable one. If you should need me for any reason, I’ll be attending most of the morning and evening events. In the afternoon, I’ll be in the kitchen of The Charmed Pie Shoppe, so feel free to come by for tea and a bite of something sweet. Thank you, everyone. Have a wonderful rest of the day, and I look forward to seeing you later on.”

She replaced the microphone in its cradle and smiled at
the crowd. They returned her smile and then, in swift unison, several people in every row raised their hands in front of their hearts and formed the clover symbol the Shermans had shown her. With this brief, covert movement, men and women of all ages honored her with the silent gesture.

Tears burned in the back of Ella Mae’s eyes, but she blinked them away. These people needed her strength and courage. They’d traveled far from home in hopes of finding a worthy leader, and she would not disappoint them. Raising her chin, she stood tall and proud, accepting their wordless homage.

Ella Mae remained in this posture until the last person left the room. When she was finally alone, she released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding and glanced down at her right hand. The clover-shaped burn on her palm was glowing. Like a star trapped beneath her skin, it shone with a blinding light for a long moment before abruptly winking out.

When Ella Mae lifted her gaze again, she saw someone sitting in the first row. Someone who hadn’t been there earlier. Someone she’d been longing to see since he’d gone away.

Hugh.

Chapter 11

Hugh had barely gotten to his feet when Ella Mae threw herself into his arms.

“I can’t believe it!” she cried. “You’re really here!” She buried her face against his neck, anticipating the scent of damp sand and cool, fresh water, but he smelled different. Almost brackish, like he’d just emerged from a salty tidal pool.

Hugh put his hands on Ella Mae’s shoulders and pushed her away.

“Let me look at you,” he said, and smiled.

She smiled back and waited for the intense, exhilarating feeling of bliss to bubble up inside her. When it didn’t come, she searched Hugh’s handsome face in confusion. Something about him had changed; she could sense it before she saw it. But when she met his curious stare, Ella Mae went rigid in shock.

Hugh’s eyes had always been a brilliant Aegean blue.
Guilelessly clear and beautiful. Now, gray mottled the blue, like storm clouds moving across a summer sky.

The tenderness she’d always found in his eyes was missing too. His gaze was friendly, but lacked warmth. Hugh seemed solemn, which was also atypical. He was known for his easy laughter and his unfettered playfulness. Now, his mouth was set in a firm line, as if he were reluctant to speak.

“You’re . . . different,” she said, a knot of dread forming in her belly.

He shrugged. “They say traveling changes a person.”

Ella Mae was frightened by the sound of that. “In what way did it change you?”

“Leaving Havenwood allowed me to become myself again.”

Ella Mae lowered her arms and stared at Hugh. “You did it? You found a way to restore your powers?” She looked him up and down, wondering if there was an obvious sign that he was a water elemental again. “I thought your quest was impossible, but I’m glad you succeeded. I really am. You have to tell me everything.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Hugh said, visibly relaxing. He reached for Ella Mae’s hand. “What I’m about to say will be difficult for you to hear, but I’m asking you to listen to me. To
really
listen.”

Hugh’s tone put Ella Mae on guard. Why was he being so stiff? Why hadn’t he kissed her? This was not the reunion she’d imagined.

“A woman named Nimue helped me,” Hugh said.

Ella Mae felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. The floor tilted crazily and she leaned to the side and grabbed the back of a chair.

“Are you all right?” Hugh asked.

Unable to speak, Ella Mae closed her eyes and
concentrated on the simple act of breathing for several seconds. “Go on,” she said weakly.

“I ran into her in Ireland. She heard from the locals that I’d been asking them to share their stories about objects of power.” Hugh spoke casually, as if estranged couples chatted about such things all the time. “Nimue tracked me down and offered to lend me her sword. She told me that the sword had all the power I needed to reclaim the other side of myself.” He paused and waited for Ella Mae to speak. When she didn’t, he continued.

“While she looked on, I walked into an Irish lake until the water closed over my head. For a moment, I actually thought I might drown, but then the sword started to glow, and I could see and breathe and swim just like I used to! I could race alongside schools of fish, moving through that dark and secret world—a world that has more beauty and mystery than an ordinary person could ever imagine.”

“Ordinary?” Ella Mae’s feelings of hurt and betrayal were rapidly morphing into anger. “If you’re referring to the non-magical, then let me remind you that those people run your business, grow your food, and fix your car. They stand beside you fighting fires and trust you with their pets. Just because they can’t hold their breath for twenty minutes doesn’t make them inferior. Is this
her
influence?”

Hugh let loose a dry laugh. “How can you say that? You of all people? I know who you are now. Nimue told me everything
you
should have told me.” A strange light gleamed in his eyes. “You’re the stuff of fairy tales. You are your family and friends. Was I the
only
person who didn’t know the truth about you?”