CHAPTER TWELVE

DANIEL

THE BOY’S NAME was Daniel. He had not told her, but Tilda had heard his mother calling him from her kitchen window. Seemed his mother was always hollering for him to come in or go out. After meeting him, Tilda understood how a mother might be exhausted if he asked such ongoing questions as he had asked Tilda. They’d lived there a week now. Tilda figured that was enough time for boxes to be emptied and knickknacks dusted and placed in their new spots.

That was why, instead of going into the garden like on any other spring morning, she went into the kitchen to make a sugar cream pie for Daniel’s family.

Tilda hadn’t set out to make eight pies, but she had a big carton of cream, and she thought, Why not? Baking pies made her happy.

Tilda baking pies made Fred happy, too. She was sure to slosh some of the sweet filling onto the floor, and when she did, Fred would be ready. He considered licking the floor clean his duty.

It was an unspoken agreement this pie-making duo had between them, an agreement that always resulted in a spotless floor and fine pies ready to slice. If only Fred could do the dishes.

While she gathered the ingredients, she felt like she was being watched. And she was. The two squirrel brothers, Zip and Zap, were outside the window, following her every move. Zip and Zap were not her favorite neighbors. They dug up and gobbled down her tulips. They planted acorns all over her yard. They tipped over her wooden statue of Saint Francis. To Tilda, Zip and Zap were pure mischief!

Now she noticed them from the corners of her eyes. They were flicking their tails as she measured the sugar, but when she cracked the eggs, the brothers froze, staring. Then back to flicking their tails again. Until she added the flour. They watched so intently, as if holding their breaths. This happened when she added the cream and vanilla, too.

The moment Tilda slipped two of the pies in the oven, their tails pointed at the ground. They seemed disappointed.

Later, when Tilda finished, she placed the pies in the wagon on her porch and read her list. She’d made a pie for eight of her neighbors.

The sun was shining bright in a cloudless sky. She could see the tip of Pointy Mountain and the top seat of the library’s Ferris wheel on the next street. Six houses down the lane, she noticed Dewey Wonder’s jeep, moving slow, so slow that Tilda thought Dewey might have fallen asleep at the wheel.

“Beware of ssslow-moving objectsss,” a familiar voice said.

Tilda peered down. It was Isadora, her body stretched up over the patch of daffodils so that she could see the road.

“Dewey Wonder is nothing to beware of,” Tilda said. “But I’m curious why he’s driving so slowly.”

“You don’t know?” asked Isadora.

“No,” Tilda said, “do you?”

The way Isadora had asked that, Tilda could have sworn she winked, but that would have been impossible since snakes don’t have eyelids.

“Well, do you know?” Tilda asked again.

“Oh, I have a hunch he ssseesss sssomething interesssting.” And with that, Isadora slid away.

Tilda had no idea what she meant. She dismissed Isadora’s comment from her thoughts and started toward her wagon, but was stopped in mid-step by Spider dangling from a string of web in front of her. He swung back and forth. Back and forth.

Tilda had to restrain herself from swatting.

Spider groaned. “Oh, I hate this part—beginning!”

“Surely you aren’t going to make a web on my porch,” said Tilda.

“I can’t very well live next door,” Spider said. “That deplorable child!”

Tilda did not have to ask whom Spider was talking about.

“He tried to squish me!”

“You don’t say?” said Tilda.

“But I’m the captain of my ship, looking out to ever-changing views. Courage and persistence come with the territory.”

Fred barked.

Dewey had finally stopped in front of her mailbox, and Tilda welcomed the chance to leave Spider. She would deal with him and his web later.

Tilda waved and called out, “Good day, Dewey Wonder! Don’t drive off yet. I have a pie for you.”

Dewey waited. Even from the porch, Tilda noticed Dewey’s face was pink, including the top of his shiny bald head. By the time she dragged her wagon of pies to his jeep, he looked like an apple wearing a mailman’s uniform.

“Dewey Wonder, your face is flushed.”

Fred growled at Dewey.

“Quit it, Fred,” Tilda said. “You know what, Dewey? I’ll bet this pie is exactly what you need.” She handed the pie over to him.

“Th-thank you,” Dewey stammered. “Th-thank you v-very m-much.”

Poor man, Tilda thought. She was used to Dewey always sputtering out his words. He’d done that since they were children together, but she’d never seen his face turn as scarlet as her roses.

“Oh, dear, Dewey,” Tilda said. “You are sick. You better get to the doctor’s office as soon as you finish your shift. Then when you go home, have some pie.”

Dewey nodded, raised his hand in a small wave, and drove away.

Fred barked until Dewey’s jeep was out of sight.

“Goodness pudding, Fred! I don’t know why you don’t like Dewey Wonder. He’s one of the nicest people who live on While-a-Way Lane. And he always delivers the mail on time.”

Just as she started to head toward her new neighbors’ home, Zip and Zap darted in front of her. And did Fred bother to bark at them? No, indeed. He just sat and watched the squirrel brothers with fascination like he watched Snail.

One of the squirrels (Tilda could not tell them apart) stopped and stuck his nose in the air, sniffing. He moved closer toward Tilda’s wagon.

“Are there nuts in that pie?” he asked.

“No, there are not,” Tilda said smugly.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he said.

The other squirrel nodded. “Yes, that’s a pity.”

“Well,” said one of the brothers, “the next time you make a pie, put some nuts in it for Zip.”

So this was Zip.

The other squirrel flicked his tail. “No, put some nuts in it for Zap.”

“Zip!” said Zip.

“Zap!” said Zap.

Zip began to chase Zap in a circle. It made Tilda dizzy to watch, but Fred followed them so closely his head looked like it could spin off his neck. The whole time they jabbered.

“Zip!”

“Zap!”

“Zip!”

“Zap!”

Fred lowered his body onto the grass. If he could not have a pie, watching squirrels chase each other would have to do.

Tilda moved away from them, pulling her wagon toward her new neighbors’ home. “Come on, Fred!”

Fred caught up with Tilda. He didn’t want to miss out if a pie fell off the wagon.

When Tilda knocked on the front door, nobody answered, but soon she noticed one eyeball peeking between the curtains.

Daniel spread the curtains wide. Then he cracked open the window. “Whatcha got?”

“Oh,” Tilda said. “Hello, there—” She almost spoke his name, but decided not to since she’d only overheard his mother saying it. “I’ve made a pie for your family.”

“I don’t like pie.”

“You might like this one. Everyone on While-a-Way Lane likes my pies.”

He wrinkled up his nose. “Is it gooey?”

“It’s a sugar cream pie, so it’s creamy.”

“Oh,” he said, “it’s gooey.”

“Is your mom home?”

Daniel frowned. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Then I’ll leave it right here on the porch. Maybe your mom will want a piece of my gooey pie.”

“Yeah,” he said, “she’ll eat anything.”

“Very well, good afternoon! Hope you enjoy your first day at Falling Star Valley School.”

Tilda turned to go, but Fred hung back, studying the pie on the porch. Does this count as a dropped pie?

“Come on, Fred,” Tilda said. “We have more deliveries to make.”

Fred sulked, following Tilda.

As she headed away from Daniel’s house, the door squeaked open behind her. When she heard it shut, she turned and noticed Daniel through the window. He poked a finger in the middle of the pie and then stuck it in his mouth. His eyes popped wide, and his finger returned for more.

Tilda sighed a deep sigh filled with satisfaction and delight. Her sugar cream pie recipe had not failed her yet.