Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(98)

Hours later, enough pie filling for fourteen pies was made, and the bottom layer of crust was rolled out and pressed into the bottoms of fourteen glass pie plates. Holly had found the glass pie plates at a dollar store in Southern Lakes and had decided to splurge, thinking it might class up her pies for the auction.

“Okay. Let’s spoon the pie filling in.”

“Let’s skip the latticework,” Greta said. “Please. I’m begging you. We’re already past the deadline.”

“Stay focused! I won’t hear talk of defeat. We’re too close.”

They preheated the oven, fired up YouTube to watch a few cherry pie–latticework tutorials, then set out to construct the latticework piecrusts—Holly with a burning desire to achieve celebrity status among the Pie Moms by turning out perfectly Primm pies.

“Move fast, but take your time,” Holly told Greta. “The latticework is what’ll sell the pies. It’s gotta look good.”

“Move fast, but take my time,” Greta mumbled. “Right.” She gave a cherry-stained thumbs-up.

Working side by side, Holly and Greta finished weaving latticework across four pies and then took a pastry brush and painted the lattice with a mixture of raw eggs and melted butter. Next, they sprinkled brown sugar and a little bit of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice across the tops of the pies. Ella had been home for almost two hours already, and it was after five o’clock—the final, final last minute for dropping pies off in the Primm Academy cafeteria.

“So they’re late. Doesn’t matter. I’m sure they’ll still take them,” Holly told Greta. “Just pop these four in the oven so we can finish the latticework on the other ten. Cram as many in as you can, and let’s start baking.”

“This is never going to work,” Greta said. “They’re never going to fit.”

“Cram them in.”

“But it’s almost six,” Greta said. “Each pie has to bake for an hour, and then they have to cool.”

“Mom.” Now Holly was really frustrated. “Stop talking.”

“Holly, this is crazy. At best, you’ll get four pies to the school by six thirty. What if the Pie Committee’s not there anymore? It’s Friday.” Greta pointed to the clock. “The school will be closed by then. Let’s stop. Let’s move to plan B.”

“Plan B is not an option. Cram them in. Four at a time.”

Greta tried, but they weren’t fitting.

“Fine,” Holly said. “Move over, Mom. I’ll cram them in.” I can’t stop now. I’m so close.

Holly managed to squeeze four pies into the oven, placing them diagonally on the racks. She set the timer for fifty minutes. At this rate, she should have all the pies finished by midnight. Maybe she could drive them over to Emily’s house then and leave them on her porch.

“Holly,” Greta started up again.

“Mom, stop.” Holly held her hand up to stop Greta from talking. “I don’t want to hear about your backup plan. This is fine. They’ll be late, but it’s fine. The festival isn’t until tomorrow, and I’m sure the Pie Committee will still accept them even if they’re a few hours late.”

“Okay . . . ,” Greta said, her voice trailing off.

It angered Holly that Greta was challenging her. Holly was a grown woman. This was her project, and she didn’t need a plan B. She was late; that was all. No biggie.



Eventually, the timer went off on the first set of pies. Holly opened the oven, and the smell of glory and fresh-baked pies filled her home. Welcome to Primm, thought Holly. I’ve arrived. I’ve arrived!

Holly placed each pie carefully on a cooling rack. Perfection.

They popped four more into the oven while the others cooled.

“Pie baking is almost fun,” Holly told Greta, as they clinked their coffee cups together. “If it wasn’t so dang stressful.”

Greta gave Holly a fist pump. “I’m proud of you, Holly. This is a huge accomplishment.”

“Should we taste one?” Holly suggested. “We made an extra . . .” Holly picked a pie. Carried it over to the table.

Greta clenched a fork in her fist, anticipating her first bite.

“I almost don’t want to wreck it,” Holly said, letting her knife hover above the pie. “It looks so pretty.”

Greta agreed. “It’s flawless. Picture perfect.”

“No.” Holly gazed upon the glorious pie they’d created. “It’s Primm!”

Holly cut a slice, laid it on Greta’s plate. Holly cut another slice and laid it on her plate. Then Holly grabbed a fork and broke off a piece of pie. Before taking a bite, they marveled at what they saw: cherries plump and fresh. The consistency of the filling like something out of a magazine. It held up beautifully and spilled the right amount onto the plate. “Smells amazing. Looks so good.”

“Like a work of art,” said Greta.

“Well?” Holly smiled. “Are you ready? Shall we taste it?”

They clinked their forks like champagne glasses and then slid the first bites of pie into their mouths.

What the—? The taste. It sort of . . . stung on Holly’s tongue. And then. Holly couldn’t describe it. She looked at Greta. Greta’s eyes, once closed, snapped open the moment she tasted the pie. Greta bent over and spat everything in her mouth onto her plate. Holly did the same. A second later, they were choking. Pah! Pah! Pah! Blech.