And in October, a new family moved into the house on the other side of Vanessa’s. A young woman, about thirty, recently divorced, with a five-year-old daughter. Her name was Rachel. She looked tired and scared and too thin.
On the day the moving truck came, I looked out my kitchen window.
Vanessa was walking across her lawn toward Rachel’s house. Carrying something.
A pie.
Peach. With a lattice top. She’d called me the night before and asked for my grandmother’s recipe. I’d walked her through it on the phone for two hours. Her first one burned. Her second one collapsed. The third one was perfect.
I watched her knock on Rachel’s door. I watched Rachel open it, looking surprised. I watched Vanessa hold out the pie.
I couldn’t hear what she said. But I saw Rachel’s face change. I saw her start to cry. I saw Vanessa reach out and put her hand on Rachel’s arm.
