Chapter 1

"You're neglecting me," the old man said. "That's no way to stay in my will. All I have to do is call Jared and he'll be here with my lawyer."

For a minute there he thought Emaline was going to answer back. Her mouth firmed, something her spine never seemed to do, and something like hatred glared from her eyes. In the next instant he wondered if he'd imagined that short flash of rage, because her usual placating smile trembled on her lips and her downcast eyes hid any rebellious thoughts she might have harbored.

"I'm sorry, Grandad. I haven't intended to. Tell you what, I'll take the afternoon off and make you something special for tonight. How's that?"

He didn't let himself smile. "About time. I haven't had a good home-cooked meal for weeks. A body gets damned tired of broiled chicken and rabbit food."

"You know the doctor said--"

"Hang it all, girl, I don't care what the doctor said. I want some pot roast with gravy and some real mashed potatoes, the creamy kind with a few lumps here and there. And green beans, cooked with real bacon, not that texturated soybean pap you use."

"Then that's what I'll fix you. Now, I've got to get to work. You know Dr. Burton doesn't like it when I'm late." She made sure his coffee-cup was filled--with decaffeinated coffee, damn it--and set the TV remote on his chair-side table. "There now, you're set until Mrs. Forrester gets here."

* * * *

He leaned back in satisfaction as she carried a pie into the dining room. "That's more like it. I love a good pie," His mouth watered in anticipation. "I hope it's not one of those cardboard things from the freezer."

"No, Grandad, I made this myself. It's cherry, and I used Grandma's recipe. Would you like some ice cream with it?"

Tempted, he gave it a moment's thought. She only allowed him ice cream twice a week--doctor's orders. "No, just give me an extra large piece of pie. God knows I don't get a treat like this often."

"I'm sorry. It's just that after a day in the lab, there's not much time--" She took a deep breath. "Mrs. Forrester does her best."

"Bah! All she thinks about is low-fat, low calorie, low taste. Won't even give me ketchup. Too much salt, she says. How the hell can a man eat his cabbage without ketchup?" Reminded, he brought up another bone of contention. Yesterday she gave me a poached egg for my lunch. I told her I wasn't gonna eat poached eggs. Sunny side up, that's how eggs are supposed to be cooked. And that damned woman told me I'd eat it poached or go without."

"She's only following the doctor's orders, Grandad."

"And I'm paying her, so she can damn well follow my orders. Or she'll find herself on the street."

Her lips thinned, as if she were biting back words.

He ignored her, watched as she cut the pie into quarters. She lifted one piece onto a plate, and the blood-red juice spread slowly. Licking his lips, he let himself anticipate that first tart taste, the way the rich pastry would dissolve on his tongue. He picked up his fork.

Emaline sat, but she didn't take any pie. "I overdid it on the pot roast," she said, in response to his raised eyebrow. "Besides, you know cherry pie isn't my favorite."

He smacked his lips. "All the more for me."

"I hope you enjoy it, Grandad." She watched as he cut the point off the pie slice, lifted it, dripping to his mouth. "I worked hard to make it just to your taste."

As he pushed the fork between his lips, he sniffed. "Overdid it a bit on the almond flavor, didn't you?"

"Did I? It seemed like just enough when I was measuring it."

He chewed. "Tastes all right, though." The tart cherries puckered him up a bit, just the way he remembered. It took him back to his youth, when his Bethany had served him pie for breakfast, dinner and supper, like a good wife ought.

These modern folks didn't understand pie, he thought, not for the first time. Called it dessert. In his day pie was a part of the meal, like meat, spuds and bread. He cut off another bite.

"That almond's really strong," he said, as he got another whiff of it.

"Probably because it was fresh." She fiddled with her napkin. "I'm glad you mentioned a real home cooked meal. It was good, wasn't it?"

He nodded and took in the second bite. Chewed. "Good pastry. You've a light touch." As he swallowed, he realized that the cherries had a hot, bitter aftertaste. Getting old was pure hell. Nothing tasted like it ought to, and it took a lot more spices to make an impression. Maybe his taster was wearing out. Or going bad on him.

"I thought about what you said this morning," Emaline began, as he forked up a third bite. "I'm sorry you feel neglected, Grandad. Today I made up my mind you'd never feel that way again. So from now on, things are going to be different."

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. She knew which side her bread was buttered on, sure enough. "See that they are," he told her, determined not to soften his stance. Hadn't he learned long ago that folks didn't do anything from the pure goodness of their hearts? They needed the carrot on the end of the stick, just like a recalcitrant mule. Emaline's carrot was this house and his investments. As long as she kept him happy, he'd make sure her cousin Jared wouldn't get his hands on it.

Damned puppy. No family feeling at all. Only came around when he wanted something. Not that he wanted Jared to inherit. The lad was a wastrel, and he'd go through the estate like a hot knife through butter. Everything I worked for would be gone in a matter of months--if not weeks. Emaline won't waste it.

The girl might mutter and frown, but she took good care of him. And she was thrifty.

But she's only going to inherit if she takes care of me. Good care.

For some reason, the almond smell was stronger in the next bite of pie. Damn nose. Is it going bad on me too? The flaky pastry still melted on his tongue, but the cherries seemed a little off. He swallowed and again tasted that hot bitterness. His throat tightened, like it was sore, and his breath seemed to catch in his chest.

Emaline leaned forward. "Is something wrong, Grandad?"

He shook his head. "Fine. I'm fine. Good pie." To prove his words, he took another bite, a nice chunk of the outer crust with a big, fat cherry sitting on it. This time the almond odor almost choked him; it sure did make him dizzy.

Fear caught him in sharp talons. Am I having a heart attack?

Impossible. My heart's strong. The doctor said so, just last week. It's just the rest of me that's wearing out. He chewed and swallowed, determined not to give in to this momentary weakness.

His vision blurred and he shoved the plate away. "Had enough. I need coffee."

"Oh! I forgot." Emaline jumped to her feet. "Be right back." She disappeared into the kitchen.

As he forced himself to relax, the feeling of pressure in his chest went away. His head ached though, like he'd had too much to drink. "Ha! Like they'd let me have more than a sip of whisky."

By God, he resented the way that Forrester woman and the doctor--young whippersnapper!--rationed out him pleasures. He hadn't had a good cigar in years, and the meager one- ounce shot of whiskey they let him have three times a week was hardly enough to give a man a good taste.

"Bethany? Where's my coffee?" No, not Bethany. Bethany's dead and gone, these many years. Wally? Then he remembered, and the pain was new again. His son was gone too, drowned trying to cross the Columbia Bar in too small a boat. There was only one left of his blood now. Only one.

A girl. Em...Emily? Something else...Emaline? "Emaline? Where's my coffee?"

She came through the door, carrying the coffee carafe. "Right here, Grandad. But first, let's see if you can't finish your pie. Here. Let me help you."

Cherry pie. His favorite. He'd never left cherry pie on his plate in his life. When she forked up a good-sized bite, he opened his mouth. Just the way I like it. Nice and juicy. As he chewed, sweet juice trickled from the corner of his mouth.

The light in the room seemed to dim. Damn power company. They hadn't given good service since that Enron thing.

He swallowed, and this time the bitterness burned, all the way to his belly. The lights dimmed more, until he could hardly see Emaline, smiling at him.

But he heard her.

"I hope you like your pie, Granddad. I made it special, just for you."

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