There was pie on the table when Tugs returned. Pie in the Button family meant trouble.

When Uncle Norton sliced off his left foot with the scythe while trying to mow hay for the horses after having gotten into the cups, the Buttons baked pie-plant pies and gathered at Uncle Norton and Uncle Elmer’s farm to carry on about the sorry state of farm utensils and the difficulty of working the land. Now Uncle Norton spent his days sitting on the porch spitting sunflower shells over the rail while Uncle Elmer wrestled the farm by himself.

When a card-playing con man suckered Uncle Elmer out of his seed money and he had to plant with last year’s leftovers, which he did too hastily, and a storm washed all those seeds away, the Buttons baked up oatmeal pies and cursed the queen of spades, Mother Nature, and even Mother Goose for good measure.

There were apple pies for fall funerals and custard pies for the measles, mumps, and broken bones. Fiona Button, like Aunt Mina and Tugs’s own mother, technically only a Button by marriage, had once traveled all the way to Georgia and returned with a suitcase full of pecans begging to be baked into flaky crusts. It was nearly a month before anything pie-worthy happened, and when it did — marital trouble, Fiona and Albert — the pecans were passed around, and the family was together eating pecan pie for enough evenings in a row that Fiona and Albert called a truce and mended their differences.

Now not only was there pie on the table, but Aunt Mina was there with a fork in her hand and eight-year-old Gladdy by her side.

“Tugs Button. Where have you been? Your mother’s been worried sick. Gladdy and I brought pie, and now I’ve got a mind to just take your piece straight on over to Uncle Wilson and let him eat it instead.”

“But Aggie Millhouse asked . . . Pie?” said Tugs. “Did someone die? Where’s Dad? Is Granddaddy Ike all right?”

Mother Button interrupted. “I’m not worried sick, Mina. I just said . . .” But Aunt Mina wasn’t finished.

“Not only are you late, off getting up to who knows what kind of mischief, but my Ned is home moping because he’s got no one to toss a ball with. And that, Tugs Esther Button, is your fault. With you off doing heaven knows what this morning, Ned tried to take up with Ralph Stump. And you know as well as I do that I won’t let Ned cavort with a Stump. Next thing you know he’ll be smoking cigarettes behind Zip’s with the Rowdies. I knew I should have sent him to help Elmer on the farm this summer.”

“Pie?” repeated Tugs.

“Mina dear, just because Mr. Stump . . .” tried Mother Button, but she was cut off again by Aunt Mina, who set down her fork and turned to face Tugs.

“Tugs. You’re twelve. I’m going to tell it to you plain. This is butter-up pie. Mostly brown sugar, cream, and eggs, along with a dash of something from Uncle Wilson’s cupboard. I’m sweetening your mama because your family has got to take Granny into your house. She’s insulted Aunt Fiona for the last time, says Uncle Albert. She has to go. I’ve got Uncle Wilson and Ned and my little Gladdy here to manage, and with Granddaddy Ike living next door, well . . .”

Tugs looked at Mother Button, who shrugged and held out a fork.

“May as well fortify. We’re driving over to Swisher soon as you eat your lunch.”

Tugs looked around the compact quarters of the Button house. There was one deep room, with a sitting area at the front, kitchen at the back, and dining table between the two. A pair of bedrooms opened off one side, with a bathroom between them.

“Where are we going to put her?”

Aunt Mina jumped in before Mother Button had a chance to answer. “There will be time enough to worry about that once she’s here. Now, eat up, child. We’re waiting on you.” She grabbed Gladdy’s empty plate and slid a piece of pie onto it for Tugs. “Oh, and there was a boy here looking for you. M.G.? T.L.?”

“It was G.O. Lindholm,” said Gladdy primly, folding her arms across her chest. “He said you’d know what it was about.”