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The facts were these: in the past two months, three weeks, and six days, Charlotte Charles had received a letter from Amsterdam, a scarf from Paris, a notebook from Berlin, a set of novelty teas from London, and a scandalous bathing suit from Milan. Chuck considered these gifts—transmitted and received via piemaker proxy post—as a sign that her aunts, returning to life during the course of the Darling Mermaid Darlings' Synchronized Sister Swimming European Tour, were also turning increasingly toward forgiveness for their niece and daughter's recent and most egregious lie. She, in turn, was gradually learning to forgive her mother and her father for the deception that had colored the twenty-eight years of her first life.
She was even learning to forgive the universe for the shortness of that life, and to enjoy, unencumbered, every stolen moment that happened in her second one.
She watched Ned knead dough with his fists and roll it to quarter-inch thickness, sprinkling a generous dash of flour in between each step.
Now was as good a time as any, she supposed.
"Ned," she ventured. "What happens when you die?"
The rolling pin slipped off the edge of the marble countertop and Ned caught it, making a very bad show of pretending he'd meant to drop it just like that.
"I ... never really thought about it," he said. "Why are ... you thinking about it? I mean, now in particular, when we're in Saturday morning baking time, and Olive's off with Randy, and Emerson's with his daughter at that book convention in—"
"Ned, it was a wondering," she said. "A casual wondering, flitting into our Saturday morning baking time and flitting back out again when we're done with it. No cause for any long and stuttering monologues from my Prince Charming."
He blushed at once, and went deadly still when she laid her gloved hand on his forearm. Her Christmas gloves, striped berry-red and pine-green, had two jolly spheres of yarn hanging from the wrists like ornaments, and when one of them rolled across the back of Ned's hand Chuck felt him shiver, and she smiled up at him, feeling no small amount of holiday cheer.
"I just wanted to know if there was anything I should remember to do," she whispered. It made her feel alive-again all over when he stared at her with so much intensity, as if she were a miracle, a hurricane, an ancient relic needing constant police supervision. Constant piemaker supervision.
"Can I touch you then?" she asked. "What if I could bring you back to life?"
"What if you can't, and my … inconvenient superpower still works when I'm dead?"
"I'd be willing to try."
They gazed at each other for a length of time neither could determine, until the door of the Pie Hole jangled open and Olive burst in.
"Is it ever snowing out there!" she exclaimed. "I'm wearing my January coat already. Randy says I look like a bright green marshmallow."
In the kitchen, she and Chuck exchanged hugs, and Ned very carefully didn't focus on his periphery.
"What'cha making?"
"Berry, apple, and—" Ned stopped as Olive hugged him too, and raised his floured hands away from her snow-dotted coat. "You know. The dailies, plus holiday and Thursday special."
Chuck tried not to notice how closely Olive's arms got to nestle into Ned's body, and sighed.
"Sounds delicious to me!" Olive said finally. She moved to hang up her coat. Ned began to lay a circle of dough over a pie tin.
"You know what's weird?" Olive continued. "Well, you might not think it's weird and I don't think it's weird, now that I've thought about it, but … Randy and I had some time for a sensible talk, about logistics, after the whole first flush of the engagement …"
She trailed off with a smile on her face that wasn't foreign to the piemaker or his girlfriend, so they politely waited for her reverie to finish.
"Anyway, the point is, seeing as Randy can't think of anyone and I can, he wanted me to ask—we both want to ask you if you would be the best man and the maid of honor. It'll be a small wedding, so you'll barely have to do anything, except of course I'd love it if Chuck and I could go shopping … that's not weird. Is that weird?"
Ned gave her his odd half-smile. Chuck gave her a full one.
"It's not weird," they both said, and then grinned at each other.
Olive shook her head. "One of these days we've got to have a double date, and a cute-off. You two would have some very stiff competition, and it's about time you knew it."
"It's a date," said Ned, still looking at Chuck, who was still looking at him.
"I'm fastening my apron and starting the espresso," Olive said. "Don't forget to make extra plum for Emerson's reading later."
"Yes, don't forget that at all," rumbled a voice from the door. It was followed by the sound of two pairs of boots stomping off snow, and then Emerson and Emerson's formerly li'l gumshoe appeared at the entrance to the kitchen.
"Emerson!" Ned and Chuck exclaimed.
"What happened to your convention?" Chuck asked. "Oh, wait—was there a death? Will this turn into a book convention slash opportunity for a true crime sequel inspired by the very thing that led to the writing of the book itself?"
"They don't have a word that describes your imagination," Emerson replied. "'Overactive' ain't anywhere near sufficient."
His daughter shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Nothing happened," she said. "Except someone found out that Dad knits and now fans are begging him to bring crafts for sale along with autographed books." She beamed up at her father, who gave her a rare smile back.
"Oooh, that's perfect!" Chuck exclaimed.
Emerson shot her a warning look, but it only lasted until his daughter gave him a light punch in the side.
"You don't think that conflicts somewhat with my private investigator image?" he said. "I didn't expect to be writing for the romance novel crowd."
"I told him, don't knock the romance novel crowd," said his daughter. "We're bigger than you think."
Chuck jumped suddenly just as Ned opened the oven door with pie in hand. It was only years of practice that kept him from being knocked into the wall with the pie splattered.
"Sorry," Chuck said. "But I just remembered I still have a book to lend you! Come upstairs, I've got it there."
She took the hand of Emerson's daughter and as they rounded the corner to the stairs, Ned could hear her ask, "Why are you wearing gloves inside?"
Emerson stood there, looking vaguely proud.
"So you didn't tell her," said Ned.
"Not exactly," said Emerson. "She actually has a knack for detective work, and I doubt she'd be too proud of her old dad if she found out he cheated a little, more often than not." He left out the part about how sometimes, his daughter would joke that solving crimes was in their blood, that she'd learned things from him even though he hadn't been there to watch her grow all the way up, and he found he'd do almost anything to make sure that joke of hers never stopped.
"I think you should give her more credit," Ned answered. "But you're right. Every secret has its time."