Back Where It Began
Sugar Fork was still Sugar Fork—equal parts charming and ridiculous. I’m supposed to be here for one thing: settle my Aunt June’s estate, pack up her little house on Rosewood Lane, and head back to the quiet rhythm of teaching students how to whip egg whites without breaking them. No fuss, no attention. But the manila envelope the lawyer handed me had other ideas. That’s how I end up parking at the corner of the square, staring at a quaint pie stand, its royal blue door left open so the welcoming scents can pour out through the screen door. The pie stand huddles between the post office and a barber shop that doubles as a domino parlor. It’s small, weathered, and unassuming, the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked driving by. Its clapboard siding curls in the heat, the tin roof is freckled with rust, and the wooden sign hangs a little crooked. But across that battered sign, in June’s looping hand, is the name: The Humble Crust. Something in my chest squeezes. I push open the screen door, and the smells engulf me: butter, sugar, cinnamon, and the faint tang of lemon. It’s like walking into a
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