At 2:10 on a Tuesday afternoon I sat at a stranger’s kitchen table on Cooper Mill Road, cutting two slices of a pie he’d technically owned for six days, while an oxygen machine hummed in the corner like a patient cat — and Harlan Voss, eighty-three, told me about June 14th, 2014, the day I never knew I was in. His wife June — “Junie, everyone’s called her Junie since the third grade” — had spent that spring losing her appetite in a way they were both blaming on nerves and pills, and food had become an errand for her, then a chore, then a quiet fear neither of them said out loud. At the St. Mark’s auction that year, on a whim, Junie bought my peach pie for eleven dollars. “We sat in the truck in the church lot,” Harlan said, looking at the garden-hat photograph instead of me, “and she asked for a fork out of the glove box, which we keep — kept — for emergencies. And she ate a piece of your pie out of the tin, right there, and then another piece, and she laughed at herself with juice on her chin, and she said, ‘Harlan, I can taste it. I can taste every bit of it.’” He turned the photo slightly toward me. “Four months later she was gone. The appetite never came back after July. Your pie was the last food on this earth my wife was greedy for. I have thought about that fork in the glove box every day for twelve years.”
The bidding, he explained, started the following June and was never really about the pie. “Junie was a shut-in by the end — eleven weeks in that front room. And a church lady brought a casserole every Tuesday and a slice of somebody’s something every Friday, and those knocks on the door were the whole calendar.” So each year he bought the best pie at that auction — mine, he insists, though I suspect loyalty has its thumb on the scale — and sent it around to the people in the front rooms, because “a pie that finds a shut-in is worth four hundred dollars, and that’s not sentiment, that’s an appraisal.” I asked why anonymous. He said, “Because if you’d known, you’d have baked me one for free every year, and then it wouldn’t be an auction win for the church roof, it’d be a favor, and Junie hated favors.” The warning signs that this year’s note was more than nostalgia were all over that kitchen once I knew how to read them: the pill organizer the size of a tackle box; the folder on the counter from a hospice outfit; the lawyer’s letterhead peeking from under the sugar bowl with the twelve receipts; and out the window, down the slope, the orchard itself — MY orchard, I’d have told you, thirty years of buying peaches at that stand from a girl named Tessa, never once wondering whose trees they were. They were Harlan’s trees. Every pie I ever baked began on this man’s land. “You’ve been buying my peaches since Reagan,” he said, enjoying my face. “Mrs. Hollis, we’ve been partners for thirty years. You just never came up the driveway.”
