Pie Girls

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

         This cannot be happening.

         This cannot be happening.

         I steal a glance at the clock. Where is my husband? And my anniversary gift, for that matter. The robin's egg blue box, the crinkle of the white tissue paper. The gasp of surprise, well-practiced, when I lift the diamond-encrusted pendant from its nest.

         Alton, always the gentleman, will insist on helping. He'll clear his throat, looking rather pleased with himself, stand up, and sweep my long blond hair off to one side. With flourish, he'll ever so carefully drape the platinum chain around my neck, plant a soft kiss on my bare shoulder, and ease the clasp into place.

         When my eyes blink open, the room’s still empty. Alton, who's been on a business trip for a full week, promised he'd make it home for our anniversary. If he doesn't, he’s going to be in huge trouble.

         I fold my arms across my chest and walk over to our huge picture window. Elegant skyscrapers glow in the dark night, windows twinkling white and gold. Below them, steady streams of traffic wrap like ribbons around the maze of interstate highway.

         Away from the roadways, Atlanta is surprisingly lush and dense, with rolling hills and trees—beautiful magnolia, dogwoods, old Southern pines, and magnificent oaks. The expansive green space, well-manicured parks, and flower-lined sidewalks remind me a bit of home.

        Buckhead—where I live—is a mecca for shoppers, visitors and businesses, with its upscale boutiques, restaurants, and hotels. Trendy bars, dance clubs, and bistros all come to life when the sun melts into the horizon. A place to see and be seen. It truly is the Beverly Hills of the South, as my friend Phillipa likes to call it.

        As I gaze out at the red taillights twisting and weaving toward downtown, I can almost hear music pumping from speakers, feel the afternoon’s heat evaporating into the evening air, and smell the giddy, stiletto-heeled anticipation of an evening out on the town.

It's Friday night. Everyone's off at parties, mingling over dinner, exclaiming over the hottest gossip, and exchanging air kisses over martinis.

         Everyone. Except me.

         I brush off the thought and smile down at my new shoes, a teensy little anniversary gift to moi. The extravagant purchase did include a little guilt...until Alton decided not to show up for tonight's dinner. I turn, twist my ankle, and admire the curve of the heel, the absolute perfection of the arch.

         Christian Louboutin is a genius. I should have married him.

         That makes me frown, and I turn away from the glass toward our lovely art deco-inspired apartment. Pursing my lips, I blow out the tapered white candles, which are beginning to drip onto the tablecloth.

         The oven’s been off for hours. The lamb chops are completely overcooked, and the endive salad looks wilted. The green beans, beneath a sprinkle of shaved almonds, seem pathetic and lonely. I even made a special trip to the wine shop and splurged on a bottle of Alton's favorite—a yummy Shafer Vineyards Hillside Select cabernet sauvignon.

         Best of all, for dessert, and with my own hands, I created a fabulous chess pie from my mother's secret recipe. Several sticks of butter and two cups of sugar, creamed together with heavy cream, vanilla, and egg yolks in a flaky crust. Pure heaven.

        From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the pastry sitting on the edge of our kitchen counter. Alton allows himself the indulgence once a year, always on our anniversary. The other 364 days he swears off sweets, vowing raw sugar won’t pass his lips. Alton says it’s how he keeps his trim high-school figure.