Chapter 23: The Envelope

Ryan brought the pie himself, as ordered.

It was pecan, and it had cost him a Sunday and two ruined crusts.

He carried it up my parents' front walk with both hands.

"It's fine," I said.

"It's slumping."

"It's rustic."

"Annie."

My mother opened the door before he could knock and took the pie from him, looked at it and kissed his cheek.

"Perfect," she said. "Come in, sweetheart. Your coat."

Nobody had ever called him sweetheart in that house before, and I watched his ears turn red.

The Naperville house smelled like turkey and rosemary and the furnace turning on for the first time that season.

Dinner was for six.

My parents, my aunt and uncle, Ryan and me.

My aunt asked him three polite questions about wildfires.

My uncle asked him nothing.

My father carved the turkey in grim silence and gave Ryan the first slice.

On my phone, propped against the gravy boat, Kat's face filled the screen.

She was in the Salazar kitchen with flour to her elbows.

Abuela sat in her chair behind her, shouting suggestions at the stuffing.

"Is he behaving?" Kat asked.

"He brought a pie."

"Show me the pie."

I held the phone to it.

"Oh, no," Kat said, with deep satisfaction.

"It's rustic," Ryan said.

"Hi, Mija!" Abuela called. "Tell my boy he looks thin!"

"You look thin," I told him.

"I'll eat a lot," Ryan said.

The ranch had its news, too.

The probate judge had frozen the trust, and the Denver land company had withdrawn.

The old rancher had come by with two of his sons and offered a fair price for the creek parcel.

Then he had refused to sign anything until Abuela was ready.

"He says he'll wait until Abuela's ready," Kat said. "He says water rights are a conversation."

"He sounds nice," my mother said.

"He's eighty," Kat said. "He's very nice."

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