“Brilliant.”
“Apple.”
“Maybe.”
He looked at her.
Same teasing expression.
Older face.
Same woman.
“Twenty-five years and you still do this.”
“You still fall for it.”
Elias leaned closer.
“Keep looking at me like that and dessert won't be the only thing keeping you awake tonight.”
Clara stared.
Then laughed so loudly she had to grip the counter.
“You remembered?”
“Every word.”
“You were filthy.”
“You were flirting.”
“You were freezing.”
“You propositioned me over counterfeit fruit.”
Clara wiped tears from her eyes.
“I was lonely.”
Elias softened.
“So was I.”
They looked at each other.
Everything between them existed in that silence.
Dead husbands.
Dead soldiers.
Snow.
Fraud.
Letters.
Children.
Arguments.
Real apples.
False apples.
Years.
Elias touched her cheek.
Clara leaned into it.
“I'd choose you again.”
He smiled.
“Even knowing the pie is crackers?”
“Especially.”
She kissed him.
Then whispered:
“It's real apples tonight.”
Elias recoiled.
“Betrayal.”
Clara laughed again.
He ate two slices anyway.
Elias died first.
Not in war.
Not dramatically.
Seventy-one.
Winter illness.
Pneumonia.
Clara sat beside him.
Their children came.
Grandchildren too.
He hated everyone watching.
“I'm trying to die with dignity.”
Clara said:
“You lost dignity in 1864 when you argued with a widow about pie.”
He smiled.
Weakly.
“Still apple.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His last clear words to her came the evening before.
“Don't turn me into something perfect.”
Clara stared.
Margaret? Wait no. We're in Clara story. Need consistent.
Clara held his hand.
“You were irritating.”
“Good.”
“Stubborn.”
“Good.”
“You snored.”
“Lies.”
“You flirted while half frozen.”
“Worked.”
She smiled through tears.
“Yes.”
“It did.”
He looked toward the window.
Snow.
Again.
“Make the pie.”
“What?”
“When I'm gone.”
“Mock one.”
Clara's face tightened.
“Why?”
He smiled faintly.
“Because missing something isn't the same as having nothing.”
Clara closed her eyes.
He had remembered.
Always.
Elias died the next morning.
Clara made the pie three days later.
Everyone thought it strange.
Funeral tomorrow.
House full of food brought by neighbors.
Real apples in the cellar.
She used crackers.
Sugar.
Water.
Vinegar.
Cinnamon.
Pastry.
Her granddaughter watched.
“Why no apples?”