I learn about the Founder's Day Festival from Earlene.
It's a Saturday mornin', and I'm at Hank's Gas & Go because my truck—well, my Honda, but I'm startin' to think of it as "the truck" because out here everything with wheels is a truck—needs wiper fluid and also because Earlene texted me.
Yes, Earlene texts. She has an iPhone 11 with the text size set to "newspaper headline" and she uses it to communicate with the entire town in a stream-of-consciousness style that would make James Joyce proud.
Her text read: GET OVER HERE. BRING COFFEE. THE GOOD KIND FROM DARLA'S. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
So here I am, standin' in Hank's Gas & Go with two coffees from Magnolia's, watchin' Earlene Crutcher hold court behind her counter like a queen on a throne made of beef jerky and small-town gossip.
"There you are," she says, grabbin' the coffee from my hand before I've fully set it down. "Lord, I been up since four. The Hendersons' goat got loose again and it was standin' on my porch when I went out to get the paper. A goat, Harlow. On my porch. Lookin' at me like I owed it money."
"Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Owe the goat money."
"Don't be smart with me, girl. I'm your elder." She takes a sip of coffee and closes her eyes. "Mmm. Darla's coffee. The only reason I haven't moved to a bigger city."
"You could move to a bigger city?"
"Honey, I've been to Austin. I've been to San Antonio. I've been to Dallas, Lord help me—too many cars, too many people, too many folks walkin' around with their faces in their phones like they're lookin' for God in the screen." She waves a dismissive hand. "Give me my gas station and my crossword puzzles and my four dead husbands and I'm a happy woman."
"Four?"
"Four. Harold was number four. I miscounted last time. Memory ain't what it used to be."
"I'm sorry for your—"
"Don't apologize. They were all terrible. Except Hank. Hank was a saint. The rest of 'em were practice."
She settles back in her chair and fixes me with a look that I'm learnin' to recognize—it's the look she gives right before she drops somethin' big.
"Founder's Day," she says.
"Founder's Day."
"Next Saturday. The whole town turns out. Parade down Main Street, barbecue in the park, live music, dance at the VFW hall, pie contest, and this year—" she leans forward, "—this year, they're doin' a special dedication."
"A dedication of what?"
"Of the new community garden. On the lot next to Magnolia's. Your grandaddy donated the land for it two years ago. He never saw it finished."
I didn't know that. Of course I didn't know that. There are approximately ten thousand things about my grandfather I didn't know, and I learn a new one every day, each one hittin' me like a pebble dropped in a pond—small on the surface, ripples goin' deep.
"And you need to be there," Earlene continues. "Front and center."
"Why?"
"Because you're Earl's granddaughter. Because this town needs to see you. Because people been talkin' about you since you got here and most of what they're sayin' ain't true."
"What are they sayin'?"
Earlene waves her hand. "Nonsense. City girl this, outsider that. Mabel's been runnin' her mouth about the property—sayin' you're gonna sell to that snake Wade Prescott and turn the whole county into a parking lot."
"I haven't decided what I'm doin' with the property."
"I know that. You know that. But Mabel Crutcher has been makin' decisions for other people since 1972 and she ain't about to stop now." Earlene points at me with a finger that has a turquoise ring on every finger. "You show up to Founder's Day. You smile. You shake hands. You eat barbecue. You let these people see that you ain't the villain they made you out to be."
"I'm not a villain."
"I know that, sugar. But out here, the story matters as much as the truth. And right now, the story is that Earl James's city-slickin' granddaughter came home to sell the family land to the highest bidder." She takes another sip of coffee. "You gotta change the story."
"How?"
"By showin' up. By bein' present. By doin' the work." She leans back. "Also, you need to enter the pie contest."
"I don't know how to make pie."
"Then learn. You got a week."
"I have a ranch to run."
"Sweetheart, out here, the ranch and the community are the same thing. You can't have one without the other. That's the whole point."
I stare at her.
She stares back.
"Fine," I say. "I'll come to Founder's Day."
"And the pie contest?"
"And the pie contest."
"Good." She smiles. It's the smile of a woman who has won an argument she started before I walked through the door. "Now. Tell me about Callum."
"There's nothin' to tell about Callum."
"Uh-huh."
"He's my neighbor. He's been teachin' me about the ranch. That's it."
"Darlin', I've been watchin' men and women dance around each other since before your mama was born. I know what 'he's my neighbor' means. It means you're lyin' to yourself and you're bad at it."
"I'm not lyin'—"
"Your ears are red."
"They are not."
"They are. They get red when you're embarrassed. Your grandaddy's ears did the same thing. It's a James thing."
I touch my ears.
They are, in fact, warm.
"Goodbye, Earlene," I say, turnin' toward the door.
"Saturday! Noon! Bring a pie!"
"I don't know how to make pie!"
"Then ask Darla! Or Ruth Patterson! Or—" she lowers her voice, "—ask Callum. That man can make a pecan pie that'll make you forget your own name."
I stop. Turn around.
"Callum Brennan makes pie?"
"Told you. Ranchers are basically cowboys who meditate. And bake." She grins. "Saturday, Harlow. Don't make me come get you."
I walk out of Hank's and stand in the parkin' lot, starin' at the Hill Country spreadin' out in front of me like a promise I'm not sure I want to accept.
A pie contest.
I have to make a pie.
I have to make a pie in a town where people have been winnin' pie contests since before I was born, with recipes that have been passed down through generations, with ingredients that probably came from the same land I'm standin' on.
I pull out my phone and call Darla.
"Darla," I say. "I need to learn how to make pie."
"Which kind?"
"Pecan. Definitely pecan."
"Come over at four. I'll teach you. And Harlow?"
"Yeah?"
"Wear somethin' you don't mind gettin' flour on."
Darla's kitchen is above the diner—a small, warm, cluttered space that smells like butter and cinnamon and every good thing in the world. There are cookbooks stacked on every surface, a stand mixer that looks like it's been through a war, and a window that overlooks Main Street.
"Alright," Darla says, tyin' an apron around my waist. "Pecan pie. The backbone of Texas dessert. The foundation of every potluck, church supper, and family gatherin' since God made pecans."
"God made pecans?"
"God made everything, baby. Even the things that are hard to crack." She winks. "Now. The secret to a good pecan pie is three things. One: the crust. You make it from scratch or you don't make it at all."
"Can I—"
"No, you cannot use a store-bought crust. That is a sin and I will not be a party to it."
"I was gonna say, can I use butter instead of lard?"
"Oh." She nods. "Yes. Butter is fine. Lard is traditional, but butter is fine. Some people use shortening, but those people are wrong."
She teaches me how to make the crust—flour, salt, cold butter, ice water, mixed with my hands until it comes together in a shaggy ball that she says looks "like a first attempt, which is what it is, so don't worry."
She teaches me how to roll it out—"Not too thin, not too thick. Goldilocks crust. Just right."
She teaches me how to make the filling—corn syrup, brown sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla, and pecans. "The pecans go on top," she says. "You pour the fillin' in first, then arrange the pecans in a pattern. Pretty matters."
"Since when does pretty matter in food?"
"Since always, Harlow. You eat with your eyes first. Your mouth second. Your heart third."
We put the pie in the oven and sit at her kitchen table with glasses of sweet tea while it bakes.
"Tell me somethin'," Darla says. "And be honest."
"Okay."
"Are you stayin'?"
I look at her. "For the ninety days."
"After that."
"I don't know."
"You don't know, or you don't want to say?"
"Both."
Darla nods. "Fair enough. But I'll tell you somethin', and you can take it or leave it." She leans forward. "This town needs you. Not your land. Not your money. You."
"That's not true."
"It is true. Earl was the heart of this place for sixty years. When he died, we lost somethin'. And when you showed up—his blood, his kin, his legacy—we got a piece of it back."
"I'm not my grandfather."
"No, you're not. You're you. And that's enough."
The oven timer goes off. The pie comes out golden and perfect and smellin' like heaven decided to set up shop in a Texas kitchen.
"Lord have mercy," Darla says, admirin' it. "That's a good-lookin' pie."
"It's my first one."
"And it won't be your last." She grins. "Now. Let it cool. Then taste it. If it's good—and it will be, because I'm an excellent teacher—you take it to Founder's Day and you show this town what Harlow James is made of."
I look at the pie.
I look at Darla.
"What am I made of?" I ask, and the question is bigger than pie.
"Same thing your grandaddy was made of," she says. "Grit. Heart. And a stubborn streak a mile wide."
The pie is good.
It's real good.
I eat a slice standin' in Darla's kitchen and it tastes like butter and sugar and pecans and also—somewhere underneath all of that—like possibility.
That evenin', I'm sitt' on the porch when Callum's truck pulls up.
He gets out. Walks to the porch. Sits down next to me. Hands me a beer.
"You heard about Founder's Day," I say.
"Whole town's been talkin' about it for a month."
"Earlene wants me to enter the pie contest."
He takes a sip of beer. "You know how to make pie?"
"Darla taught me today."
"One lesson."
"One lesson."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "What kind?"
"Pecan."
Another moment. Then: "Earl's favorite."
I look at him. "Did you know he donated land for the community garden?"
"I did."
"Did you help with it?"
"I built the raised beds. Earl designed the layout. He was particular about where the tomatoes went. Said they needed southern exposure."
"He was serious about tomatoes?"
"He was serious about everything. That was his gift—takin' small things and makin' 'em matter."
I take a sip of beer. It's cold and bitter and exactly what I need after a day of learnin' about pie and community gardens and the complicated legacy of a man I'm just startin' to understand.
"Callum."
"Hmm."
"What's Founder's Day like?"
He thinks about it. "Loud. Hot. Too much food. Kids runnin' everywhere. Old men tellin' the same stories they've been tellin' for forty years. A parade that's basically just trucks decorated with crepe paper and a flatbed trailer with the homecomin' queen wavin' at nobody."
"That sounds..."
"Terrible?"
"Charmin."
He looks at me. "Charmin?"
"In a small-town, Hallmark-movie, this-is-what-America-used-to-be kind of way."
"It's still what America is. Out here, at least."
"Maybe."
He takes another sip of beer. "You nervous?"
"About the pie contest?"
"About all of it. The festival. The town. Bein' seen."
I think about it. "Yeah. I'm nervous. These people have opinions about me before I've even opened my mouth."
"That's how it works. Opinions first, facts later. It's the human condition."
"That's depressin'."
"It's also an opportunity."
"How?"
"Because once they see the real you—the one who shows up and does the work and makes a pie from scratch—they'll change their minds. People out here don't trust words. They trust actions."
"And if my actions aren't good enough?"
He looks at me for a long moment. Those green eyes, steady and sure, holdin' somethin' that feels like faith.
"They will be," he says.
Just that. They will be. Like it's already decided. Like he's already seen the future and it includes me, and that future is good.
I take a breath.
"Okay," I say. "Okay."
"Okay."
We sit on the porch and drink our beers and watch the stars come out—one by one, like someone's turnin' on lights in a dark room—and I think about Founder's Day and pie contests and the fact that Callum Brennan believes in me even when I don't believe in myself.
And that's the most terrifyin' thing of all.