How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (6 page)

This guy seems all business—his attire and his attention. He’s tapping away at his phone. Even though I’m taking my time, taking him in, he is completely oblivious to my full body inspection. Business button-down smoothly pressed shirt with dark pants, snug where it matters. Even with my strappy heels, he towers over me. He must be at least six feet tall.

“Let me check,” the broom guy says. He’s probably happy to have an excuse to get away from me.

I nod at the broom guy and clear my throat to Mr. Business. “Ahem.”

He’s unobservant of my throat clearing and apparently me. I bend at the knees in my most ladylike way as I pick up my pecans. As I am standing back up, my heel slides on the floor, and I grab at the only thing in arm’s reach to stabilize—Mr. Business’s legs. I cling to them with my life as I try to prevent myself from falling. Mr. Business, finally aware of my presence, grabs a hold of my wrists and slowly pulls me to my feet. His strong embrace loosens as his hands make their way to mine. Our eyes meet and I let out a small laugh. His irises are blue with flecks of green.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Business asks.

“Uh…yes.”
Way to be eloquent, Lauren
.

He lets go and stares at me, waiting for me to speak. The broom guy walks over, interrupting our moment of silence and penetrating stares. Stares that push through the irises and beyond the tendons to the core of where feelings form—the brain. I can
feel
him trying to get there. But the broom guy is here, standing right next to us. I break first and give my attention to the intruder of our shared, silent stares.

“I’m sorry, miss. We’re all out,” he says with his eyebrows raised. The expression of “is there anything else I can help you with” is written across his face, but his lack of words gives the impression of “please leave me alone.”

My vocal cords are constricted. I manage to push out a “Thank you.”

What else can I say? The line has dissipated to three people: a woman, Mr. Business, and me. Mr. Business has his back to me. His basket is full of pecans. There’s no way he needs all of those pecans.

I tap my heels for a second. Mr. Business turns around and sighs at my shoe. My foot tapping is bothering him? His gaze moves from my sandal to my leg and finally to my face. I smile and he turns back around, pulling out his phone from his pocket.
Humph.
That’s odd.

I run my fingers through my hair. Scratch that. I
try
to run my fingers through my hair. Yikes, it’s ridiculously tangled. Patting my hair down as smoothly as it will go, I reach up to tap on his shoulder. A little electric current zaps my finger as it makes contact with his crisp, pressed shirt.

“Wow. Can you believe they’re completely out of pecans?” I say to Mr. Business as he faces me.

His right eyebrow is raised. His face is clean-shaven with strong bone structure. Maybe his family tree hasn’t been in America for too long, or he has some strong definition-in-the-face genes. What type of definition would he have in some blue jeans, classic Levis or maybe Diesel, with or without a few tears from hard work?
Ah, Lauren, pay attention. The guy is speaking to you!

“Yes, well, they’re the
best
in Texas,” he says with a bit of annoyed inflection on the operative word.

He turns back around and taps on his phone while holding the basket in the crook of his elbow. I guess he’s not excited to be here or to purchase the pecans. Clearly, he doesn’t want to small talk with me. I need another bag of pecans, so I’m not going to let it go.

“You must have grabbed the last one.” I peek into his basket with pecan envy. I want to grab one of his bags, throw some cash on the register, and run out the door.

“I think you took the last bag,” he says without even a glance in my direction. He swipes his finger across the face of his phone and turns his attention to the register.

The woman in front of him is having a colorful conversation with the employee. She’s flailing her arms from side to side, and the two are laughing like they’ve passed the two drink minimum requirement at the local comedy club, several rounds ago.

“Maybe.” I draw a circle with the toe of my shoe against the floor. “But I actually need two bags, not one.” I motion a peace sign, and then tuck my middle finger, hoping he will comply with the Thanksgiving spirit and hand over a bag.

I’m trying my best to bat my lashes. I know my hair is a disaster, which might be why he’s avoiding any eye contact. Or maybe he feels such a strong attraction that he doesn’t want to show all his cards right away, so he’s playing the
elusive
role.
Yeah, that’s probably it
. I shake my head and hold in a laugh, knowing that isn’t the situation. It’s not like I really care if he is interested in me or not. I’m only concerned about the pecans. Making the pecan pie is my number one priority and I’m working on a deadline. I don’t have time for errors.

“That might be the case.” He turns and pauses as if he is trying to come up with the right words. “However, the amount of pecans you need is of no more importance to me than the reversal is to you.” As he’s speaking, he points at me and back at himself. His gaze drops back to his phone. I want to take that finger and bite it.

Not to be a Stephanie Tanner, but
how rude
. This guy isn’t budging. Where are his southern gentleman manners? Can’t he see I’m a lady in distress? He’s most definitely not a local. Although, I wouldn’t mind seeing him in some chaps and boots.
Hmm.

“You must not be from around here,” I say, hoping this will jolt a memory from his childhood days of being advised of good manners and he will politely pass a bag to me. I might not be in a petticoat and waving a fan, but I’m in distress.

“No, I’m not,” he says with his eyes back on the register.

One of the customers is having trouble swiping their card. After three tries, they hand it to the cashier who types in the numbers.

I tap him on the shoulder to gain his attention once more before my chance is gone and he’s purchased all of the pecans. “Would you be willing to sell me one of your bags for twice its value?”

Since my female charm is not working, I decide to try a different route and go for the language that everyone speaks: money.

“Its value?” he asks with his head cocked to the right. He then turns toward me. “Value is in the eye of the beholder.”

A sly grin comes across his face. Is this guy a pecan scalper? Does he show up at pecan farms on Thanksgiving Eve and buy all the pecans so he can price gouge them to helpless people trying to make pies for their families? That’s shocking, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Who knows, he might even post ads on Craigslist selling the pecans at double the price of Tibor’s Farm. I might need to alert the authorities, or at the very least, the storeowners.

“I think you’ve got the saying wrong. It’s beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Value is what something is worth.” My right leg is flexed. I’ll be unwavering, as if I’m Crazy Horse in General Custer’s Last Stand. “I’d be willing to pay you twenty dollars for one of your bags of pecans.”

My chest rises as I take a deep breath. I’m self-assured, remembering moments in my life when I won a battle of wits with co-workers and my siblings. The gauntlet is thrown and a price is named. All that needs to happen now is for this statuesque guy—who does not resemble General Custer—to kindly pass over a bag of his pecans, and then we can move on with our lives like two shoppers, passing in a store with nothing more shared than a few verbal exchanges and a twenty-dollar bill.

“I disagree, and I need all my pecans. Thank you for the offer,” he says with a condescending smile, and turns around. How many bags does he have? Perhaps, if I slide one out of his basket he won’t notice. The sides of my mouth turn downwards. My grandmother would be thoroughly disappointed if I snagged a bag of pecans from another customer to use in our pie. And I’ve never stolen anything in my life, now is definitely not the time to start.

The employee calls, “Next,” and Mr. Business places his basket and its contents in front of the register. He unloads his basket like a professional. I blow the hair from my eyes and resort to tapping my heel. Mr. Business ignores the clicking against the floor and gives his credit card to the cashier.
Aargh.
Why is he so determined not to be the nice guy? I count his bags as the cashier puts them in a bag. Thirteen bags.
Seriously? Thirteen bags?
And he can’t spare one?
I’m like the poor Little Match Girl sitting in the cold. I twiddle my fingers against my mouth to avoid any tears.

“Um, sir, this card isn’t going through,” the clerk says and delivers the plastic rectangle back to him.

The label is visible. It belongs to one of our competitors.
Tsk
. Seems that my company isn’t the one creating issues. Well, actually it could be that his credit card company isn’t the one creating the issues either, it could be the computer server of the pecan store. Maybe even the wind from earlier knocked a cable line or something. Or maybe someone isn’t paying attention to the difference between their credit limit and balance. I tsk my tongue maybe a bit too loud.

“Damn credit card companies always causing problems. Here, try this one,” he says and slides the clerk another card from his wallet. He glowers back at me, yes I suppose my tsk was too loud.
Oops.
He sure is grumpy, maybe the pecans are a late lunch for him and he is super hangry.

“Next, please,” the apron guy calls.

I secretly wish the man’s second card doesn’t go through, thus giving me the perfect opportunity to buy both bags of pecans that I need. From the corner of my eye I see Mr. Business signing the credit card slip.

Oh well
. And honestly, I’m not sure how happy I’d be gaining from his misfortune. I’m not a big fan of schadenfreude. But then again, if he’s maxing out his credit cards, maybe he can’t actually afford the pecans.
Ah, Lauren, you’re on vacation. Drop the credit counseling mantra.

Disappointed, I give the clerk my minuscule, not-enough-pecans-for-my-grandmother’s-recipe bag to the clerk. On the back wall is a sign “Tibor Pecan Pie Festival Winners” and underneath rows and rows of black plastic framed photos of the winners with their pies. On the third row, my grandmother is holding her pecan pie and wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. I blink my eyes. My chest tightens. I wiggle my card out of my faded brown leather wallet.

The possibility of me being able to bake the same prized pecan pie as my grandmother is fading away. The clerk hands me back my card. I pick up the pen from the counter and try to sign my name. My hand is damp. I wipe it on my skirt and pick up the pen again.

“Are you alright, miss?” the clerk asks.

“Yes, thank you.” I snatch the pecans off the counter and rush out of the store. Except I’m not alright. I’m stressed and depressed. I’m all things essed. I’m a mess. Outside, I kick the gravel as I walk to my car. My toe brushes some of the dirt. I bend down to wipe it off. Dirty feet,
yuck
. I try to walk more carefully and avoid kicking up any more dust as I make it to my mother’s car. This day is not going well. Letting my grandmother down is not an option. I’ll think of something. I blow the hair from my eyes as I unlock the door.

I slide into the car seat and switch on the ignition. Immediately, I’m bounced back to my current situation. My head makes contact with the car’s roof.
Ouch!
I rub my frizzy, larger than Texas hair, pushing it down to find the source of the pain, which isn’t only coming from the injured spot, but also my ears.

Chanting and odd, silverware-sounding instruments are blaring through the speakers. I roll the windows down and pull out of the parking lot as fast as I can. Dust kicks up in my rearview mirror as my mom’s car makes contact with the paved road. I wish the puffy smoke in the parking lot was a visual of success and not a reminder of my failure.
Dammit. Not enough pecans
. My phone reroutes my trip. The directions flash on the screen. But that’s not important. I’m shocked to see the thin line next to the battery icon.
Two percent left? What?

I stare at the empty adapter plug. Obviously, there’s no phone charger.
Deep breaths.
I inhale and slowly exhale. I bet all the unanswered text messages from Megan were draining on my phone’s battery. Who knows what degree of power is used to keep the little red circle with the white number in the upper hand corner of my text app.
Arg.

My memory typically serves me well. I’ll try to memorize the directions.
This is going to be a fun adventure.
To conserve the battery, I darken the screen. I’ll only look at the map when I truly need it. A plan is created. I’m almost like MacGyver.

I’m halfway home when the car begins to drift over to the side of the road. The thumping from beneath the car doesn’t sound good. Even over the chanting from the stereo, I can clearly hear it. I’m doing my best to align the wheel back to center but it’s not giving. The car is tugging to the right accompanied by offbeat vibrations from the road and that sound…that unforgettable sound. This equates to one thing. Something I do
not
want to deal with right now. Well, to be honest, I don’t ever want to deal with this—who would? I’m sure it’s a flat tire.

As I pull the car over, there’s a tiny part of me deep down that hopes I’m incorrect. I don’t like being wrong, even in a situation like this. I step out of the car with optimism. It pays off, as both right tires are A-OK. I take a deep breath. I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of being wrong and maybe,
maybe
I’d be okay with that this one time. Of course I’m okay with it. In fact, I’m ready and willing to be wrong.

Unfortunately, this is not one of those times in my life where I’m wrong. The back right tire is not A-OK. There’s no hope in this matter. It’s completely shredded.
Did I do something wrong to the universe
?

I kick what remains of the back tire. Ouch! Another stupid move on my part. Lesson learned: don’t kick a hard surface in high heel, open-toed shoes. I rub my toes, and then walk back to the front of the car. I lean in and turn off the ignition. At least I don’t have to listen to that garbage.