He loved the way she responded to him. Her mind worked well. “Are you calling your fellow townspeople blind to the bigger picture? Narrow-minded?”
“When it comes to trivia,” Bryony said. “Mitch and his friends have tunnel vision, and the tunnel is lined with graffiti of obscure facts and useless information.”
“No information is useless,” Cal said.
“And now you sound like my brother. I’m not kidding. Mitch can be petulant when someone disappoints him.”
“A true weakness for someone in school administration.” Cal switched off the bedside lamp and sank into the bed.
“This is a small town. We have learned to tolerate the less-than-stellar qualities in our leaders because we prefer people who think like us, talk like us, and act like us.”
“And by ‘us,’ you mean ‘them,’ right? Surely you’re not as parochial in your thoughts and desires?”
“If by parochial you mean wedded to traditional ideas, I have to remind you I am as American as apple—”
He interrupted to finish her thought with, “Of course, the pie thing. But you did tell me,” he said. “You want to make and introduce pies from all over the world. Your goal speaks of someone whose mind moves beyond the cultural boundaries of a small midwestern town.”
She yawned. “I would like to see the world someday.”
“We both have to rise early,” Cal said. “Get some sleep.” He stopped himself from finishing with “darling.” They ended the call. Bailey jerked his paws and whimpered in his sleep.
Right before he fell asleep, Cal remembered Mitch’s words after they won the semi-finals. Okay, Forster. I’m counting on you. On the night of the finals, be there or say a prayer.
Punching his pillow, Cal laid on his side and found the right spot for his head. He would cancel with Mitch in the morning. The man would have four days to find a replacement.
What was the worst that could happen?
After all, it was only a trivia contest.
BRYONY’S PEACE PIE
On Thursday morning, Bryony pulled into a parking spot where she could see both the main entrance to the high school and the staff lot. The morning sun glinted in her side mirror. Fog hung low on the athletic fields behind the school.
In spite of knowing she was about to intervene in matters that were not her business, and out of her control, she chided herself for not acting sooner. Making a move before Cal had a chance to tell Mitch about pulling out of the tournament would have been better.
Last night she and Cal had their first real disagreement. Mitch acted childish, according to Cal, when he heard Cal had to leave town. Bryony tried to explain her brother’s need for competition, how winning seemed to be his main pleasure, but Cal argued. He asked why Bryony defended her brother. He said Mitch was inappropriate, which was “putting it mildly.” He said if he were being completely honest, he thought Mitch had always been a bit of a bully to Bryony. Cal’s last comment stuck in her mind.
“Bad behavior tolerated,” he said, “is bad behavior validated.”
Instead of arguing back, Bryony invited him for a walk and took him to a park he had never seen. They held hands for the first time. Before he left, Cal kissed her forehead and apologized for being hard on her earlier. She told him to not worry. He was right, and she appreciated his lack of pretense.
She knew Cal didn’t mean to put her in the middle of his trouble with Mitch, but she was. Instead of being pulled in two directions, she decided to see herself as a bridge, someone who might connect her brother and Cal, two men who were important in her life. She didn’t want to see them warring.
Mitch’s car travelled down the driveway. Bryony slid her hand under the foil-covered tin pie pan, warmth spreading through her fingers and palm. Lifting the gift, she slid out into the morning air and waited for him to park.
“What are you doing here?” Mitch sounded annoyed as he stepped out of his car.
“Peace offering,” she said.
“Who’s fighting?” He stepped over the cement parking block and approached her, his gray blazer unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze. “It’s cold out here!”
“I have something to warm you up.” Bryony held out the quiche.
Mitch sniffed under the edge of the covered tin. “Onion, sausage, and dried tomato?” he asked.
“Your favorite.” Bryony had discovered she had, in fact, baked more pies on her list than she remembered, not because they were on the list, but because she had continued baking off and on over the years. Onion, sausage, and dried tomato was number fifty-five. Only eighty-two more to go.
“I remember the first time you made this.” Mitch took the pie from her. “I was in college.” He smelled it again before lowering it to waist level. “But I think you should stop feeding people and get a real job to feed your IRA. Oh wait”—he held up his hand feigning a change of heart—“don’t listen to me. I’m only your brother.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mitch.” Bryony stepped forward and kissed his cheek.
“What’s the kiss for?”
“For caring about me, and for going easy on Cal.”
Mitch threw his head back in disgust. “He asked you to do this? Coward.”
“He didn’t ask me to do anything.” Aware of other staff arrivals, and the close proximity of teachers walking by, Bryony lowered her voice. “Don’t be too hard on him. He’s a good guy.”
“What’s really going on with you two?” Mitch asked.
“I manage his student, and we are sort of dating.”
Mitch was quiet.
“He can’t show up for trivia at the bar because he has to go home to help with his father,” Bryony said. “You know how it was when Mom was sick.” Maybe Mitch would remember, though she had done most of the work.
