Pecan Pie

I am the second Mrs. Roberts. The new Mrs. Roberts.  The first Mrs. Roberts had a hard time letting go, and not because I had anything to do with their divorce. In fact, I didn’t even know Mr. Roberts back when she was cheating on him and kicking him out of the house for “never noticing how much she did.” Her words. He left because she told him to go. So now I am the only real Mrs. Roberts.

But I was also the new Mrs. Roberts because I was still considered new in town. Back in those days, in small, Southern towns like Geneva, Alabama, you didn't stop being new until another generation came along or someone else moved into town more recently than you. So far, neither was true of me. So, even though I had lived here almost a decade, I was still “new.” 

Another fact about small town Southerners: they don’t like change. So whenever I was introduced as Mrs. Roberts, most people’s first reaction, no matter how subtle, came as a funny, confused look on their face. Like they were thinking, ‘Wait, I know Mrs. Roberts and she’s not it.’ And then, quickly, they’d recover and smile extra big and shake my hand with a bright, “So nice to meet you!” 

Along with having to convince the world that I was, in fact, the new Mrs. Roberts, I also had to deal with the rumors the old Mrs. Roberts was spreading about me. (I prefer to call her “the old Mrs. Roberts” as opposed to “the first Mrs. Roberts,” which sounds too royal, or “the original Mrs. Roberts,” which implies I’m some sort of imitation. Whether or not she’s actually old now, I just like the ring of it best.) 

“I think I’d like to try highlights this time,” I told my stylist, Rhonda, as I sat for my cut and color at the Kwik Kuts Salon on Maple Street. It was the only salon in town, and Rhonda was the only colorist with any talent at all. 

“Oh, that’ll look really good! I’m always up for a change, Mrs. Roberts.” Rhonda smiled pleasingly, calculating her tip in her head for the extra cost of highlights instead of the basic wash and trim I usually requested.

“Tired of that box color,” the woman sitting in the chair beside me loudly whispered to her stylist. The stylist tried to hide her smile. I figured that was the newest rumor about me, that I colored my own hair. In a small town like ours, this was a damning piece of news. I considered confronting the woman, but I thought better of it. A rumor like that was more damaging to Rhonda than to me. Besides, wasn’t it better to hold your head high in the face of rumors? Better to not give them the satisfaction. 

Even when the old Mrs. Roberts was telling people I’d slept with one of the doctors at the hospital, I stayed quiet and held my head high. At least, that’s how I handled things in public. Behind closed doors was another story.  

“I don’t know why she’s so hellbent on destroying my character!” I bawled to Mr. Roberts.

“Baby, she can’t destroy your character; it’s your reputation she’s after. She’s just mean and bitter. I’m sorry for putting you through this.”

“Can’t you say something to make her stop?”

“That’s just what she wants. She’s still trying to get my attention. The best thing we can do is ignore her.”

“But she kicked you out! Long before I met you! Why does she still want your attention? Why can’t she just move on and let others do the same?”

“Because she’s a mean old hag, sweetie.”

“I just don’t know how much more I can handle. I get so many sidelong glances and whispers behind my back at work. You know people are wondering how much truth is behind what she says. I don’t even know how to prove them wrong. I guess I could wear a sign: ‘I DIDN’T DO IT.’ But knowing this town, that would just create more gossip!”

Mr. Roberts chuckled and wiped my tears. “Listen, we’ve talked about this before, but maybe this is a good time to step down from the 12-hour shifts. You can work a few days a week to keep up your license, and otherwise step away from it all. I love having you home and I make enough for us to be comfortable.” He cupped my face in both of his hands, gently but not letting go until I agreed.

“Wouldn’t that just make me look more guilty?”

“Well, maybe you could get involved with some of the women’s clubs and church groups around town. You’d have more time to socialize, get to know people…let them find out for themselves that you’re not anything like what she says.”

I sniffed my agreement, relieved at the idea of working less. 

After that, I threw myself into making our home perfect for Mr. Roberts and myself. It didn’t make the old Mrs. Roberts any less vengeful. In fact, it may have made her worse. 

According to the rumors this woman spread about me all over town, I ripped Mr. Roberts from their marriage bed and made off with him in the middle of the night, just because I was that mean. I enticed him because I was all manner of bad words strung together, and he had no say in the matter. 

In fact, if you stood there gossiping about me long enough, you might even discover that I moved to this town nine years ago with the precise motive of stealing Mr. Roberts away from his wife and here I am, years later, finally having executed my plan. 

But in reality, Mr. Roberts had simply been a lovely, sad, kind gentleman who was sort of ready to start dating again. There weren’t a lot of options in our neck of the woods, and probably he would’ve been smarter to spend time in one of the bigger cities a few hours away, just to avoid gossip. But we’d met in a cafe one day when the waitress mistakenly switched our orders and we got to talking. Now here we were, having fallen in love over chicken salad sandwiches and there was no stopping it. 

I felt mentally and emotionally exhausted from standing up under the weight of these rumors, never knowing who believed what about me. I wished people would just confront me directly so I could set the story straight, but that’s the funny thing about rumors, isn’t it? The truth rarely surfaces. 

By staying home and taking care of Mr. Roberts, I avoided a lot of the gossip, or at least the stares and whispers resulting from the gossip, which seemed to help my sanity. I started focusing on little projects around the house. One was the old pecan tree in the backyard. It was huge and rambling, and when it yielded pecans, boy did it yield! 

 In the South, when you have too much of a good thing, there are only two ways to deal with it. Give some away, or use it in a pie. Mr. Roberts’ father, Papa Bob we all called him, had a great recipe for chocolate chip pecan pie and he shared it with me. So I started putting my pecans to good use. 

Pretty soon, chocolate chip pecan pie started making appearances at the Presbyterian Sunday potlucks after church, Mr. Roberts’ company’s annual picnic, even the garden club’s monthly tea. One afternoon, at the Friends of the Library annual luncheon, Cassandra Buckbee, one of old Mrs. Roberts’ closest friends, approached me with a half-eaten slice of my pie on her plate. 

“Mrs. Roberts? I just tasted this delicious pecan pie and was told you brought it! Can I ask where you bought it?”

“Oh, it’s not store-bought, Mrs. Buckbee. I made that myself. We even grow the pecans in our backyard!” That was a stretch, of course. We’d have pecans taking over our backyard if we didn’t pick them up and make use of them, but she didn’t need to know that part. 

“Well, I’ll be! You have quite a gift. I may just have to get the recipe from you.” Mrs. Buckbee smiled as she waved to another Friend of the Library and moved to greet her. While I had no intention of giving up the one thing that seemed to be buying me credibility in this town, I appreciated the compliment, especially from someone so close to Mrs. Roberts. Old Mrs. Roberts. 

The next week an officer of the official Bridge Club of Geneva, Alabama, called to offer me a guest seat at the next meeting. 

“We heard you make a pretty good pecan pie, and we’d love for you to bring it with you…” I could hear the fake smile through the phone. 

“Oh, of course. I’d love to. Thanks so much for the invitation!” I smiled back through my phone, just as fake. 

To be clear, I could not care less about bridge. I wasn’t even totally sure I knew how to play. But I was grateful for a chance to socialize with some of Geneva’s top members of society. If my pie was the antidote to the nasty rumors that had been spread about me all over town, then so be it. I was happy to have people talking about my pie rather than me or my relationships for once. 

After a few more successful presentations of the near-famous chocolate chip pecan pie, I had an idea. It was so risky and so tempting I didn’t tell a soul about it–not even Mr. Roberts. I decided to put my pie to the test. Maybe I was starting to get a big head from all the compliments. Maybe somewhere in my heart of hearts I believed there was a little magic in those old pecans. Maybe I was just desperate to put an end to the rumors once and for all. Whatever caused me to have this idea, I decided to run with it. 

I decided to invite old Mrs. Roberts over to my house for coffee and a slice of my pecan pie. I knew she wouldn’t–couldn’t–say no. She was too curious to see how Mr. Roberts was living these days, to get an up-close look at our home, at me. She’d weather an awkward coffee for that chance any day. In fact, if she was lucky, she’d find something–anything–wrong with my pie so she could stop the town from talking about how wonderful it was. 

The coffee went about as well as you could imagine. Old Mrs. Roberts arrived on time, cold and very much on her guard. I was all bright eyes and fake smiles. I made a lot of small talk as I set out the coffee creamer and sugar, the good plates and forks. I hoped she would recognize Mr. Roberts’ mother’s china pattern. I chose it on purpose, just to make the point that I’m now part of that family, heirloom china included. Finally, I placed the warm pie in the center of the table and served her perfect slice first. 

“Well, I’m just happy to finally get to know you directly,” I smiled as she slid her first forkful of pie into her conniving little mouth. “I realize we didn’t get off on the right foot, but now that all of that dust has settled, I don’t see why we can’t get along. We know a lot of the same people, after all,” I cooed. Still fake, still smiling. 

“Oh, don’t I know it,” she replied, taking another bite of pie, almost as big as the first. “I’ve been hearing that you’re joining several different organizations around town lately. I have friends in all of them.” 

Was that a threatening tone I caught under her attempt at cool-but-friendly banter? She would not be present at most daytime gatherings, seeing as she now had to work full-time as a secretary down at the newspaper. But from her tone, I could tell her cronies were still running back to her so she could perpetuate the rumors she spread about me. I simply smiled. I knew all of that would end soon enough. Old Mrs. Roberts took another bite of pie.

In the weeks that followed, the newest gossip around town centered on the old Mrs. Roberts instead of me. Apparently, Old Mrs. Roberts hadn’t been returning calls or paying visits lately. 

At the weekly Bridge Club gathering, I heard Mrs. Bates telling Mrs. Childs, “Well, I heard she had an elderly aunt or some relative up north that was not doing well. Not doing well at all. I believe she’s gone to care for her for a while. We don’t know when she’ll be returning.” 

But when Mrs. Childs repeated that story to Mrs. Duncan later that week at the Garden Club’s afternoon tea, Mrs. Duncan was quick to correct her. “No, no, didn’t you hear? She’s gone off on a European vacation, a cruise through the Mediterranean, maybe? She just decided to take herself on a little adventure!” 

Some of the more seedy bits of gossip included a gentleman Old Mrs. Roberts had been secretly visiting up in Birmingham. According to these whispered notions, he had whisked her away somewhere exotic, like Bali or Hawaii, and she simply wasn’t coming back. 

No one in town quite knew which story to believe, but that didn’t stop anyone from discussing each rumor as avidly as the next, often adding bits and pieces to make them more interesting. But after our little visit over coffee and pie, I knew for a fact none of the rumors were true. I knew because I was the one who made them all up. 

The truth lay buried under my old pecan tree, full of the arsenic that had been in my extra special chocolate chip pecan pie the day Old Mrs. Roberts agreed to stop by. So while I may be the second Mrs. Roberts, now I am also the only Mrs. Roberts.