PART 2 — THE PIE THAT BROUGHT BACK A MEMORY

Naomi carefully lifted a slice of apple pie from beneath the glᴀss cover.

“Here you are, sweetheart.”

Sophie looked at it without reaching for her purse.

“Did you make it the same way?”

Naomi smiled gently.

“I made it the way my mother taught me. A little cinnamon, a little nutmeg, and enough patience to let the apples soften properly.”

Sophie took a small bite.

Her eyes closed.

For a moment, she looked so much like a child remembering something precious that Naomi felt a lump rise in her throat.

“It’s just like Mama’s.”

Marshall stood behind his daughter, his expression difficult to read.

“Miss Prescott,” he said, “would you mind telling me where you learned that recipe?”

“My mother. Her name was Ruth. She baked for a boardinghouse in Missouri before we came west.”

Marshall’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Did she ever work in Colorado?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

He nodded, but something in his face suggested the answer had disappointed him.

Sophie finished her slice and carefully placed the empty plate on the counter.

“Papa, can we come back next Saturday?”

Marshall looked at Naomi.

“If she’s open.”

“I’ll be here,” Naomi replied.

He paid for two whole pies.

Naomi tried to refuse the extra money.

Marshall shook his head.

“Please. My daughter hasn’t enjoyed an ordinary Saturday morning like this in a long time.”

Then he took Sophie’s hand and walked away.

Naomi watched them disappear into the crowd.

She had no idea that the little girl had just reminded her father of a promise he had made three years earlier.

And she certainly didn’t know that someone else had been watching.

Marshall Hail returned the following week.

This time, Sophie carried a small wooden box.

“Miss Naomi, I brought you something.”

She opened it.

Inside was a faded pH๏τograph of a woman standing beside a kitchen table.

The woman had dark hair, gentle eyes, and an apron tied around her waist.

Naomi leaned closer.

“That’s your mama?”

Sophie nodded.

“Her name was Ellen.”

Naomi studied the pH๏τograph.

There was something familiar about the woman’s face, but she couldn’t place it.

“She looks very kind.”

“She was,” Sophie whispered. “She made pies when I couldn’t sleep.”

Marshall looked down at his daughter.

“Your mother used to bake whenever you had a bad dream,” he explained. “She said the smell of apples and cinnamon made a house feel safe.”

Naomi smiled.

“That’s a lovely thing to remember.”

Sophie pushed the pH๏τograph closer.

“Do you know her?”

“No, sweetheart. I don’t think so.”

Marshall took the pH๏τograph and slipped it back into the box.

“That’s enough, Sophie.”

But the little girl wasn’t finished.

“Mama said someone taught her the secret.”

Marshall’s face changed.

“What secret?”

Sophie looked at Naomi.

“The little star.”

Naomi blinked.

“What little star?”

Sophie pointed toward the edge of Naomi’s pie crust.

There, almost hidden beneath the golden pastry, Naomi had cut a tiny star with the tip of a knife.

It was something her mother had done with every apple pie.

Not for decoration.

It was simply how Ruth marked the pies she made for people she loved.

Naomi looked at Sophie.

“Your mother made little stars?”

Sophie nodded eagerly.

“Always. She said every pie needed one wish.”

Marshall stared at the crust.

His voice was barely audible.

“Ellen never told me where she learned that.”

Naomi felt a strange uneasiness.

“Perhaps someone in her family baked that way.”

Marshall shook his head.

“Her mother never cooked. Ellen learned to bake from a woman who took her in when she was young.”

Naomi’s heart began to beat faster.

“What was that woman’s name?”

Marshall looked at her.

“I don’t know. Ellen never spoke much about her childhood.”

Sophie tugged at his sleeve.

“Papa, can we have another pie?”

Marshall nodded.

But before leaving, he asked Naomi a question that would stay with her all week.

“Would you be willing to tell me everything you know about your mother’s years in Missouri?”

Naomi agreed.

She had nothing to hide.

Or so she believed.

Three days later, a woman in a green traveling coat visited Naomi’s stand.

She was elegant, middle-aged, and wore a pearl brooch at her collar.

“Miss Prescott?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Beatrice Hail.”

Naomi recognized the surname immediately.

“Are you related to Mr. Marshall Hail?”

Beatrice smiled.

“I’m his sister.”

She examined the pies beneath the glᴀss.

“Apple, peach, berry. Quite an ᴀssortment.”

“Thank you.”

Beatrice did not buy anything.

Instead, she leaned closer.

“I understand you’ve become rather friendly with my niece.”

Naomi wiped her hands.

“She’s a lovely little girl.”

“She is. And she has had a difficult few years.”

Naomi nodded.

“Her mother is greatly missed.”

Beatrice’s smile faded.

“Which is precisely why I would appreciate it if you stopped encouraging her to ᴀssociate you with Ellen.”

Naomi stared at her.

“I haven’t encouraged anything. Sophie simply likes my pies.”

“Children imagine all sorts of things when they are grieving.”

Naomi felt her cheeks grow warm.

“I don’t pretend to be her mother.”

“Good. Because she already has a family.”

Beatrice placed a coin on the counter.

“Take this as payment for your time, and consider our conversation finished.”

Naomi pushed the coin back.

“I don’t accept money for conversations I didn’t ask to have.”

Beatrice’s expression hardened.

“Then perhaps you should consider how quickly a small business can become inconvenient when it attracts the wrong attention.”

She walked away.

Naomi watched her go.

For the first time, she wondered whether selling pies had somehow become dangerous.

On Friday afternoon, Marshall arrived without Sophie.

He looked tired.

“Miss Prescott, I need to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

He took a folded letter from his coat.

“This belonged to Ellen.”

The paper was yellowed, and the handwriting was delicate.

Naomi recognized the name at the bottom.

Ruth Prescott.

Her mother’s name.

She stared at the letter.

“Where did you find this?”

“In a small box beneath Ellen’s childhood belongings. Beatrice gave it to me after I asked about the woman who taught my wife to bake.”

Naomi opened it carefully.

The letter was short.

My dear Ellen,

Never forget that you are welcome at my table, no matter how difficult the world becomes. A good home is not built from blood alone, but from kindness freely given.

When you make the apple pie, remember the little star. It is a promise that someone is thinking of you.

With love, Ruth.

Naomi’s hands trembled.

“Your wife knew my mother.”

Marshall nodded.

“It appears so.”

Naomi sat down.

“Why didn’t Mama ever tell me?”

“Perhaps she thought the past was better left alone.”

He looked toward the market square.

“There’s something else. Ellen’s family never approved of the woman who raised her. They considered her unsuitable.”

Naomi looked up.

“Why?”

Marshall hesitated.

“Because Ruth Prescott was poor, unmarried, and had a daughter of her own.”

Naomi felt the room grow quiet.

Her mother had once taken in another woman’s child.

That child had grown up to become Marshall’s wife.

And now Sophie was standing at Naomi’s counter, searching for the same kindness her mother had once received.

Marshall placed another envelope on the table.

“This was written shortly before Ellen died.”

Naomi opened it.

The first sentence made her eyes fill.

If Sophie ever finds her way to Ruth’s daughter, please don’t keep them apart.

Naomi looked at Marshall.

He nodded slowly.

“Ellen knew.”

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Naomi whispered:

“She wanted Sophie to find me.”

Marshall looked down at the letter.

“Yes. And I think we should let her.”

But neither of them noticed the man standing outside the market office.

He had heard enough.

And by the following morning, someone would make sure Naomi Prescott never opened her pie stand again.