Page 45 of I'm Not Yours
For a wedding gift, she created a four-by-five-foot mosaic of Jace’s house, which is where we are going to live. She used the pieces of the plates to form the flowers in the trees near his home.
“Welcome home, dearie,” she said. “Now get in there and bang out some babies.”
I received a call from the owner of Mackie’s Designs.
“We want you back, Allie,” Belinda Carls, the chic owner, said in her soft Texan drawl. “Annalise is gone. We checked out your claims and you were right as rain on a desert. Shane, Jeremy, and David said they were bee-bopping on the mattress with her, and they appreciated the promotions, but that’s wrong as a skunk’s scent and it’s not how we work, not how Mother would have wanted it. Did you know Annalise threw her Manolo Blahniks at people who made her mad? I just found out that many of her employees have had nervous breakdowns and plumb lost their minds. She was fired quick as a wink. How would you like to be president of Mackie’s Designs?”
I thought about it for a long . . . two seconds.
“No, thank you.” I could not imagine wearing four-inch heels again, and I don’t need to hide myself or my past behind couture or high-end fashions anymore.
“No?” Belinda was astonished, baffled. “What do you meanno, sugar? I’ve told you the salary, the benefits. This is a Texas-sized opportunity for you, Allie, and that’s no bull . . .”
“Sorry, Belinda. I’m going to bake pies.”
“Pies, dear?”
“Yep. Pies. Most especially, apple pies. My mother’s favorite. I’ll send you one.”
Epilogue
I’m selling pies.
I started selling them at a local Saturday market. The first time, I sold twelve pies. The next Saturday I tripled that, and the next Saturday I doubledthat. I was mentioned in an article about the best food to buy in local Saturday markets. I started getting orders from local stores in addition to the country café down the road.
I decided to turn my dad’s house into a country store where I could bake and sell my pies. I bought new industrial appliances, took down a wall, hired a few local women, and we baked, sold, and shipped pies to other stores all day. I covered a table with my mom’s tulip tablecloth and her apple orchard photograph is on a wall. I wear her apple apron.
I love my new life. I love watching the leaves of the apple orchard change. I love the smell of all the pies we make: raspberry, rhubarb, lemon meringue, chocolate, etc. and, most especially, apple pies, which I have named MaeLynn’s Apple Pies.
I love remembering my mom and baking pies with her.
Sometimes I can hear her voice, her laughter. I look at the photos of us in Bigfork often.
I have brought the happiest memories of my mother right into this kitchen. Her memory is not blotted with grief and simmering resentment anymore, and I revel in the joy of who she was, the light she brought to my life. I love the time I had with her, however short. I have no room in my heart for anger, grief, or hatred toward my dad. I lived with it for too long; it wore me down to nothing and turned me into someone I am not.
At night, I hug my husband.
We cook dinner and sit by the fire. We locate the constellations, we put puzzles together. We hike through the gorge, by waterfalls, up to magical viewpoints. I go with him on photography forays because he likes taking pictures. We let the dogs run and we ride the horses. We bike. I read Jane Austen out loud. We read the same crime thriller together and talk about it.
We have planned a trip to Yellowstone. And we laugh. We always laugh.
My name is Allie Pelletier.
I had some trauma in my childhood.
I was often lonely and miserable.
I ate a lot of apples.
I made pies with my mother.
I fell in love in Yellowstone. I am still in love with that same man.
I have found peace with my past.
I am pregnant. We’re having a little girl.
We will name her MaeLynn, after my mother.
We are going to give her brothers and sisters, too.
Jace and I are very excited.
