🔹 PART 10
“At the annual town fair, Emily serves one final pie that brings the whole story full circle.”
September in Galesburg came like a soft sigh.
Golden leaves gathered in gutters, and porch railings bloomed with orange mums. The town readied itself for the Annual Harvest Fair, a tradition older than the cracked sidewalks and just as beloved.
Emily stood in the driveway beside the pie truck, arms crossed, watching Colin secure the tent poles.
“You sure you don’t need help baking?” he asked.
“I’ve got six in the oven and two more cooling. You just keep that banner from falling on someone’s head.”
He smirked and gave a mock salute.
Behind them, Frank sat in a lawn chair with a quilt over his knees and Lucky sprawled at his feet. His tremor had worsened a little. His stamina faded faster now. But his eyes were clear, and his smile steady.
“You bring the good stuff?” he called out.
Emily grinned. “Only what you taught me to make.”
That morning, they rolled into the fairgrounds just after sunrise.
Vendors unpacked crates of apples and gourds, kids strung hay bales into obstacle courses, and someone on the main stage tuned a banjo out of key.
Emily’s booth stood near the old bandstand, nestled between a kettle corn tent and a maple syrup truck.
She hung the sign:
Jessie’s Pies – Love Served by the Slice
Then carefully placed a single pie in the center of the table, under a glass dome.
Raspberry.
Her mother’s recipe.
The one that started it all.
By 9:00 a.m., the line stretched past the pumpkin patch.
People came in flannel and boots, with red noses and warm hearts.
They asked for blueberry. Apple. Pecan.
But every third person asked the same question:
“Did you bring the raspberry?”
Emily would nod. “Only one.”
And they’d nod back, respectful. Like it was sacred. Like it wasn’t meant to be devoured but remembered.
Around noon, Emily looked up and saw a familiar face in the crowd.
Marla Carver.
Her old middle school teacher. The woman who took a call from a crying girl in Denver and held space when no one else could.
Marla smiled gently. “Heard you were baking again.”
“I never really stopped,” Emily replied. “Just took the long road back to the kitchen.”
Marla looked at the raspberry pie beneath the dome.
“I called your dad that night,” she said softly. “But I always hoped you’d come back on your own.”
Emily reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Thank you—for helping me find my way.”
“You found it,” Marla said. “I just turned on the porch light.”
Frank arrived just before the pie auction, escorted by Colin and the ever-loyal Lucky, who wore a bandana that read Official Pie Tester.
He settled into a chair beside the booth, the town swirling around him in bursts of color and laughter.
When the announcer stepped on stage, microphone in hand, a hush fell.
“And now,” he said, “for the final pie of the fair—baked by our own Emily Delaney, using her late mother’s handwritten recipe. The Raspberry Dream.”
Applause broke out. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted, “Make it two next year!”
Emily stood beside the table, hands steady, heart full.
The bidding started. It was modest at first.
Then someone shouted $50.
Then $75.
Then $100 from a local teacher who said it reminded her of her grandmother’s Christmas table.
Finally, it sold for $120, to an elderly couple who insisted they’d share it with the entire nursing home that night.
After the crowd cleared, Emily sat on the booth’s edge beside Frank.
She handed him a warm slice she’d saved behind the register. Not from the auction pie. But from one she’d made just for him.
He took a bite. Closed his eyes.
“Still tastes like her,” he said.
Emily blinked fast. “I hope I did it justice.”
“You did,” he said, voice rough with memory. “You gave her dream feet. You gave mine wings.”
She leaned into his shoulder, resting her head there.
Colin joined them, two mugs of cider in hand. Lucky curled beneath their bench, breathing deep.
And for the first time in years, Emily felt still. Not stuck. Not silent. Just… still. In the best way.
Like all the parts of her finally lived in the same place.
As dusk settled over the fairgrounds, lanterns lit the booths with soft glows, and a band played slow music beneath the harvest moon.
Emily watched kids chase each other with sticky hands. She watched Frank close his eyes and sway gently to the tune. She watched Colin tap a rhythm on his knee and smile without needing words.
And she knew.
This life—this quiet, pie-crusted, dog-haired, imperfect life—wasn’t small.
It was complete.
Back at the diner that night, Emily changed the chalkboard herself.
Special: Raspberry Pie — Available Always
Below that, she added a line in script:
“For those who find their way home late, but just in time.”
Then she turned off the lights, locked the door, and joined her father and Lucky on the porch for one last warm cup of tea.
THE END.
✨ Thank you for reading.
Somewhere, someone’s saving you a seat. Maybe even a slice.