Bittersweet Moments

3 | Coconut Cream Pie

3| Coconut Cream Pie

Putting my hands on my hips, an involuntary habit I got from Mom, I looked at the setting in front of me.

The shop was closed up from the outside, but it sure wasn't in the inside. Our dining table from upstairs was in the center of the shop, with a red velvet blanket on the top. There were fancy placemats fit for six, and the utensils, plates and glasses were arranged similar to that of fine dining. There was even a candelabrum on the middle of it all.

The tables and chairs of the shop were pushed aside to make space. The lights were dimmed, to block out the pink and white walls – those were hideous, by the way – and overall, it had a homey and cozy feeling.

Judging by the savory smell coming from the kitchen, Reg, Douglas and Mom were almost done cooking dinner. By now, Mom should be making dessert. Yummy dessert. My needy stomach rumbled just thinking about it.

"Care to help?" I heard Mitch say behind me. She was holding a dining chair by the back. She and Melanie were moving the chairs to the center table.

I waved her off, "You guys will do just fine."

Mom emerged from the kitchen, wearing her apron. Following her were the two cooks, already out of their uniforms.

She put her hands together, "Thank you all for your help. You're free to go now. Have a nice night." Mel, Reg and Douglas all filed out of the back door of the shop after saying their goodbyes.

Mom turned to Mitch, "Don't you have to go home? Your parents will be looking for you."

My best friend frowned, "Come on, why can't I stay until they get here?"

"No, absolutely not," she shook her head while taking off her apron, "Go home, Mitchell."

"Always the killjoy, Raq," Mitch said. She went to one of the tables pushed aside to grab her purse. "Thanks for the vanilla cream pop and good luck on the dinner."

She turned to me, "We'll talk tomorrow." She went out through the back door like everyone else. So that leaves Mom and me. Great.

"Aren't you going to dress up?" Mom asked. She was already dressed in a purple blouse, a blazer and slacks. Her hair was pulled up in what I usually call, "the cook's bun".

I looked down at my outfit. A baggy concert t-shirt and jeans that had rips on the knee part. Sneakers completed the boyish look. "What's wrong with this?"

"It's not going to be my problem when Montana comments on your clothes." She said when not if. I felt so loved, Mom.

"Do I even need to care about what Montana says?"

"Of course," she went to the table and started fixing it up even more. As if it wasn't already perfect before. "Because when she insults you, you get angry and fight with her."

"Stop knowing me too well." I grumbled. "Who said I even want to be in this dinner?" Homework would be more appealing right now.

"This dinner only happens a few times a year," Mom said coolly, "Don't you want to see your family get together and have a nice food fight-free dinner?"

"I don't even call us a family."

My parents were divorced, so my so-called "family" was divided. Dad took my sisters with him while Mom kept me. They were living a famous life. A Hollywood life. Both my sisters were actresses and models while Dad owned the Reynold Records. We dined together on special occasions and at least once a month and they brought Brennan with them, because he was (almost) part of the family too.