Read Online Rhubarb by M. H. van Keuren - Free Book Online Page A

my mother claimed she was abducted
by aliens. She had this elaborate story, all about how they poked and probed
her. The tale got more vivid and ridiculous every time she told it. As a kid,
it didn’t even occur to me that she was making it all up. Now, do I believe she
was abducted? Absolutely not. But do I believe her? I do. I think she sincerely
believed she’d gone through all those things.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Martin.
    “Now, fair’s fair. I want your most sordid family secret,”
said Cheryl.
    “What’s to tell? We’re a pretty normal bunch,” said Martin.
    “Nope,” said Cheryl. “Start spilling.”
    “Okay…before I was born, my dad totaled a brand-new car. So
he went back to the dealership and bought another one. My mom still doesn’t
know.”
    “You can do better,” Cheryl said. “This pie’s going to be in
the oven for forty-five minutes.”
    By the time the timer beeped, Cheryl knew exactly why
Martin’s family had been thrown out of SeaWorld. And she was now the only other
person in the world who knew that it was Martin’s Welsh terrier who had torn up
and fouled the First Lutheran nativity scene during that fateful December walk
when he was eleven. Martin finished his last story as she returned to the oven.
    “…what could I do? I waited by the back door with a shotgun.
Dad took the front door. I don’t know what he was expecting. As if civilization
would melt down instantly. Like, three…two…one…Happy Looting Zombies! My mom
shouted Dick Clark’s countdown up from the den. Worst New Year’s Eve party
ever.”
    Cheryl brought a sweet scent from the kitchen as she set the
pie on a hot pad on the table. Steam vented from the slits in the golden-brown
crust.
    “State fair. Blue ribbon. Right now,” said Martin.
    “It’s got to cool a minute,” said Cheryl.
    “Don’t you usually do that on a windowsill or something?”
asked Martin.
    “Only if you like bugs.”
    Martin couldn’t believe Cheryl had created this pie for him,
from scratch, with her bare hands. She hadn’t burned it, or burned anything
down. Instead, she’d brought warmth and a sense of contentment to this little
home. Martin felt as if she had set out the Brixton Inn breakfast for him
alone. And yet, in his wonder at the moment, Martin felt like he deserved to be
with her. There was no ego in it. He knew that he was the one who understood
her, who understood that she didn’t want worship or pity, who understood that
she didn’t need to be taken away from anything.
    Martin prided himself for figuring all this out as a scoop
of vanilla ice cream melted white into the thin syrup of the rhubarb filling.
The first bite was hot and sour, but lingered as sweet. “I didn’t expect it to
be so tart, but wow—just, wow,” he said. The tender crust gave him something to
sink his teeth into. The rhubarb itself almost dissolved on his tongue.
    “It’s not bad for such a quick job,” said Cheryl.
    “If this isn’t as good as your mom’s pie, I don’t know if
I’d even want to try hers,” said Martin. “It might ruin every other dessert for
me forever.”
    “Give me a break,” said Cheryl.
    “Seriously. Your mom could have been the next Mrs. Fields.”
    “Mrs. Fields bakes cookies,” Cheryl said.
    “Your mom could have had a rhubarb pie empire.”
    Cheryl wrinkled her nose. “Have you ever eaten a frozen
pie?”
    “Sure. That’s what we always had.”
    “Chewing-gum crust. Waxy gelatin goo for filling. They’re
all chemicals. Oh, and good luck finding a frozen rhubarb pie.”
    “I like ’em okay.”
    Cheryl shook her head. “Poor thing. Are you staying in town
tonight?”
    “No, I need to get back to Billings,” he said. He’d
deliberately not booked a room, ninety-nine percent in case of an evening so
disastrous that he could never eat breakfast at the Brixton Inn again, and one
percent in case the evening went extremely well. Well, maybe ninety/ten. But by
luck or instinct, he’d made