Excerpt:

It was a beautiful pie. The best pie she could have dreamed of making. She had spent hours creating the dough by hand--flour, a little sugar, a healthy dollop of lard—and smoothed it on the kitchen table. It took a long time to smooth it out so it was even and thin enough to become a pie crust. The dust of flour on her hands felt good, like chalk on her hands in elementary school. Smoothing the dough out with her fingers, pushing it down and out until it was stretched like animal hide, felt like shaping a dream.

It was a beautiful fall afternoon. The sky lived up to its October reputation, blue and clear; the leaves were a brilliant rush and swirl of orange outside her window. There was a chilly breeze, but the warmth of the oven heating behind her soothed the goosebumps on her arms.

Sometimes, the dough stuck to the table, and she reached into the bag of flour, grabbed a loose fistful, and sprinkled it over the dough. Picked up the sticky portion, clawed the remainders on the table with a finger, and dusted it with her palms. Then pressed it down to the mound of dough. Eventually, the sheet of dough was big enough, and delicately she lifted the whole thing up, draping the dough over her arms and hands. She lowered it gently into the metal pie pan, pressed it down, and peeled off the excess around the edges of the pan.

She cracked open the can of cherries. They gleamed like fresh secrets, like joyous mouths—for the sheer physical pleasure of it, she turned the can sideways and delved into it with her fingers. The red, gooey mass fell out with a squelch, and she smoothed out the pile of cherries so it was even. Cherries! Red as fish eggs. Red as her lips.

In a spurt of spontaneous joy, she took a bottle of lime juice from the fridge and squirted it liberally over the cherries. They glistened. She dabbed her finger over the top of the bottle, licked the lime from her fingers, and grinned.

Last came the latticing. This was a snob move, she knew, but she wanted to try it, even though it was her first cherry pie. She had always admired the delicate, criss-crossing grace of the pies her grandmother had made. So working with the rest of the dough, now, she cut thin strips and laid them over the top of the cherry filling. She laid out five strips one way, then four the other way, to create the top crust of the pie. In the spaces between the strips, cherries winked and smiled, gave their scent out into the air. She pressed the ends of the strips into the edges of the bottom crust, and the pale dough sat there, practically asking to be embraced by the warmth of the oven. Like an Irish girl’s skin at the start of summer, wanting to take on that healthy, golden glow.

Independence was sweet, she decided, as, with a potholdered hand, she closed the door of the oven. She breathed in deep. She had a tiny studio apartment, to be sure—the tiniest apartment you could imagine, all corners. And so many wood shelves. But as she stood there, in the quiet of the kitchen, and breathed the October air (and rubbed her arms, where little hairs spiked out with the cold), she felt as though it couldn’t be better. The floor was wood and shining; she had scrubbed it that morning. She had a cluster of petunias on the shelf above her computer. She had a card with Alex’s customary scribble tacked to her cork board. She crossed the small floor, and stood on her plush dark pink rug. Sinking her toes into its softness.

There was a slight ache in her shoulders, but as she stood there with her eyes closed and breathed in cherry pie, the ache was soothed away.

It was even better when she carefully slid the pie out of the oven. The pan was warm on the other side of the potholder, relaxing the muscles in her hands. She slid it onto the table, and looked at it. The latticing was lovely. Crisp and slightly brown. The cherries were brighter than ever, like oxygenated blood, and the whole thing filled her apartment with a warm and inviting smell.

She leaned over the pie and breathed in, and caught the faint smell of citrus, like a secret hidden underneath the latticing. It was strange. Her heart jumped a little in her chest. Slowly she lowered her hands to the table and leaned on them to support her weight.

Still in her leaning-over position, she glanced at the clock above her desk. It was a clock with minute and hour hands, but with no numbers; sometimes her heart jumped into her throat when she looked at that clock, not being sure what hour it was. She stared at it for several long seconds, watching the second hand tick over the face. Yes. It was seven minutes after four. The party was in slightly under three hours. In order to get there on time, she would have to put on her shoes by no later than twenty five after six, lock her door by no later than six thirty, and get to her bus stop three blocks away by seven minutes after that. So she had two hours and eighteen minutes left.

She smelled the lime again, and suddenly, her stomach contracted. She stood up slowly, feeling the ache, like a stiff pole, starting between her shoulder blades and working its way down along her spine. Then she stared down at the brown-and-red thing as though she didn’t recognize the pastry for what it was. Why had she put the lime in there? she wondered. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table. She wasn’t sure if lime and cherry went together, really. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe she’d ruined the whole thing, and the crispness of the crust, that soft, warm, inviting brown color would go completely overlooked.

She glanced at the clock. Nine minutes after four.

Could she carefully reach through the latticing and pluck out a cherry? No. The filling was too hot still. And if she used a fork, the whole thing might collapse in.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Tess crossed the floor and sank onto her bed.
Kept her feet on the floor.

Now that she thought about it, when she really thought about it, she realized that trying just a cherry wasn’t enough. The lime might taste fine with the cherry, but taste strange in contrast with the crust. In order to be sure it had turned out fine, she should cut out a small piece and try it. No. The pie was still too hot.

Her stomach tightened further, and she felt an uncomfortable contraction in her bowels.

She wiggled her toes. No. She couldn’t cut out a small piece. Who brings a dessert to a party with a piece cut out? That would be ungracious. And real cooks, she thought, passing a tense hand over her forehead, don’t cut pieces out of their desserts to make sure they’re okay. They just know they taste good.

Who was she kidding? She wasn’t a cook at all. She clutched the sides of her thighs with her hands, still staring at her wiggling toes. If she cut a piece out of her pie, everyone would know she had tried it. They would look at her and say, laughing, I don’t know if I should eat this pie, Tess, if you had to try it first.

And who had heard of putting lime juice in a cherry pie, anyway? Who did she think she was, Chef Ramsey, making up her own recipe?

She glanced at the clock. Thirteen minutes after four. She had two hours and twenty four minutes to make it to the bus stop, three blocks away.