🔹 PART 9
“An unexpected loss forces Emily to take the wheel—alone—for the first time.”
It happened on a Wednesday.
The morning had started slow, humid, the kind of day that made sugar sweat in the jar. Emily had just returned from the farm stand with three crates of peaches and a fistful of basil.
Frank was supposed to be prepping the crusts.
But when she walked into the kitchen, the rolling pin was untouched.
And Frank was on the floor.
“Dad!”
She dropped everything—fruit rolling, heart pounding.
He was conscious. Awake. But dazed. His hand clutched his side, and sweat poured down his temples.
“Didn’t feel right,” he mumbled. “Got dizzy.”
Emily grabbed the phone with one hand and steadied him with the other, pressing her palm flat to his chest.
“Stay with me, Dad. Just breathe.”
Lucky barked once, then whined, then laid beside him as if keeping vigil.
The ambulance came fast. Galesburg wasn’t big, but for emergencies, that worked in their favor.
It was not the Parkinson’s.
It was a mild heart attack.
Caught early. No permanent damage. But a warning—a firm one.
The doctor looked at Emily while Frank rested, IV taped to his arm.
“He’s strong,” the doctor said. “But he’s not thirty. He needs to slow down.”
Emily stared at the hospital tiles.
Slow down?
Frank had never lived any other way.
Frank was discharged three days later, quieter than before.
No dramatic speeches. No protests.
Just silence and the sound of pill bottles rattling inside a brown paper bag.
Emily set up a recliner in the corner of the living room—near the record player, the window, Lucky’s favorite rug. She cooked everything low-sodium. She handled the diner, the pies, the books, the shopping.
But the weight pressed heavy.
Because for the first time, it was just her.
The pie truck sat idle that weekend.
Emily stared at it from the porch, arms crossed, unsure if she could face the market without Frank sitting in that folding chair, waving at customers and asking toddlers if they had room for “just one more bite.”
Colin showed up around noon.
“I heard,” he said, holding out a thermos of her favorite dark roast.
She nodded. “He’s stable. But tired. And… different.”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without him.”
Colin leaned on the porch rail beside her.
“You already are,” he said. “Look around.”
The list was taped to the fridge.
The chalkboard menu was fresh.
The orders were stacked, invoices paid, pies cooling on every surface.
Emily had done it all.
She just hadn’t realized.
That night, she sat beside Frank on the porch.
Lucky dozed between them, his ear twitching at every cricket chirp.
Frank sipped his tea slowly. “I missed your peach pie.”
“I’ll save you two slices next time.”
He smiled faintly. “You went?”
“I’m going tomorrow.”
He turned his head toward her, the light catching the weathered lines in his face.
“You sure?”
She nodded. “I need to. For me. For Mom. For you.”
He stared into the distance.
“I was always afraid to let go,” he said. “Thought if I stopped moving, I’d disappear.”
“You didn’t,” Emily said softly. “You just… handed me the baton.”
Frank gave a dry chuckle. “I must’ve dropped it a few times.”
“I picked it up,” she said. “It’s safe with me.”
The next morning, Emily loaded the truck at sunrise.
Lucky hopped up on the front seat, tail wagging like he knew he had to carry double duty now.
Frank stood in the driveway, wearing his old diner cap and holding a paper cup of tea.
“Sell out,” he said.
“Plan to.”
“Smile at the new folks.”
“I will.”
“Drive safe.”
“Always.”
She lingered for a second, then jogged back and hugged him—tight and wordless.
Then she climbed in.
Turned the key.
And drove.
The market buzzed with sound—kids laughing, dogs barking, banjo music in the distance. The smell of kettle corn and hot cider filled the air.
Emily parked between the honey stand and a booth selling knit scarves. She opened the window, flipped on the “OPEN” sign, and laid out the pies with trembling hands.
But once the first customer smiled—an older woman in a sunhat who said, “You’re the one who made the bourbon crumble, right?”—something settled inside her.
The rhythm returned.
One slice at a time.
By noon, the pie truck had a line.
By two, she’d sold out of the raspberry.
By closing, only one half-lemon bar remained.
Emily wrapped it gently and saved it.
For Frank.
Back at the house, she found him asleep in the recliner, the dog curled against his feet, the record player spinning one of her mother’s old Billie Holiday albums.
She placed the lemon bar on the side table, covered it with a napkin, and kissed his forehead.
“You did good, Dad,” she whispered. “But it’s my turn now.”
That night, she opened the ledger—her mother’s handwriting still scribbled on the margins from years ago.
And beneath it, she wrote a new note.
August 12 – First solo day. Sold out by 2.
Frank’s favorite pie: still lemon.
She paused.
Then added:
We’re going to be okay.
TO BE CONTINUED…
👉 Part 10: “At the annual town fair, Emily serves one final pie that brings the whole story full circle.”