© The Curious Jew

Apple Pie

He straightened his tie hopelessly, aware that his hair was unkempt and his
pressed blue shirt had undergone several wrinkle-inducing changes and perhaps the odd
paw-print upon his contact with a particularly unmannerly canine. His khakis, at least,
had remained pristine, if slightly damp due to the neighbor’s sprinkler going off just as he
had gotten into his car. Trying to ascertain whether he looked presentable in his rearview
mirror was proving to be a challenge since it was distracting him from his driving.
Finally, frustrated, he tore the tie off and shoved it into the glove compartment. He turned
down one street of beautifully manicured lawns and expensive flower gardens and drove
up to another one. She would live in a mansion. He stared, a little dazed, at the large
columns supporting the small triangular edifice over the porch, which then led to the
main monstrosity. At just that moment the fountain in the midst of the half-circle drive
began beautifully spouting water, out of the mouths of angels, he noticed. Shaking his
head mournfully, he pulled up, slipped on a pair of sunglasses as a last-second defense
mechanism, and lowered the roof of his car.
For her part, Amber had just handed her toddler, Don, off to her mother, who was
pleased to babysit. Amber had put herself together beautifully; she wore a sleeveless silk-
and-chiffon dress of gold and peach. Exquisite high-heeled pumps completed the look,
which was complemented by an elegant chignon and thin gold hoop earrings. Hearing the
car arrive she rolled her eyes before heading to the door.
“I know this is another one of Steve’s bad ideas,” she told her mother, reaching for
her purse. It was a champagne color that matched the sash she had decided to take in case
it suddenly turned cold.
“You know Steve just wants to help you,” her mother sweetly informed her,
handing Don a toy truck.
Amber took her keys off the ledge beside the door. “Yes, but he has a particularly
bad way of doing it,” she said. “Blind dates are just…”
Her voice trailed off as she stepped out the door. Her date’s shirt had been
embossed with a dog’s paw-print, aside from which it was wet. His sunglasses were
dated, his hair totally askew, and she could see that his khakis sported a bit of dirt (the
reason beige was never a good idea.) Amber took a look at herself, her carefully picked-
out golden shoes and peach sheath dress, stifling hysterical laughter. Deciding there was
no time to go back and dress in more casual attire, she elegantly descended the steps and
walked toward the car. He, having recovered his senses enough to know that he ought to
open the door for a lady, clicked the automatic control button, resulting in the door nearly
hitting her in the waist. She sidestepped it and delicately stepped inside, noting a red flap
of cloth protruding from the glove compartment. “Hello,” she informed him, smiling at
the sunglassed eyes, “I’m Amber.”
“I’m a mess,” he said dolefully, and she couldn’t help laughing.
“Well, mess, do you have a name?” she teased. “Steve told me yours but I can’t
remember it offhand. I figure that I might as well be direct about it; it can’t get any more
awkward than this.”
“Steve,” he told her, extending his hand and shaking hers.
 © The Curious Jew

“Yeah, what about him?” she asked, pleased by his grip. It was firm and pleasant;
he took her hand but didn’t clench it as though he were attempting to initiate her into
Fight Club.
He coughed. “My name’s also Steve,” he told her, at which point she actually
laughed aloud.
“Well, that’s perfect,” she told him, shifting behind her for her seatbelt. “Where
to?” she inquired.
“Oh.” Steve looked at her, or at least she hoped he did, unable to see his eyes
beneath the sunglasses. “I had kind of wanted it to be a surprise,” he murmured.
“Surprise away!” she agreeably told him, leaning back in her seat. So much for
my chignon, she thought. He revved up the car and backed it out of the drive; she caught
the edges of a grin forming as he looked at the angels in the fountain.
“It’s so overdone, isn’t it?” she asked him and noted that he looked slightly
relieved to hear her commenting.
“A bit,” he said, retreating to safe territory. “It’s just…unusual. I mean, I’ve seen
gargoyles before- the University of Chicago is full of those- but angelic fonts of water are
a first.”
“Yeah, it’s my mother’s house,” she informed him.
“Thank God,” she distinctly heard him say.
“Excuse me?” she said, offended.
He looked at her, perplexed. “Oh! Just that I made that turn.” He motioned and
only then did she realize they had just careened downhill through a light that had turned
red precisely as they dashed underneath it. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
A poor listener, she checked off and sighed. “Honestly? I hate the whole blind
date thing,” she told him.
“Oh, me too,” he answered her, almost as though he were grateful to her for
stating it first.
I wish he would take his glasses off, she thought. Bother! I do want to see what he
looks like. Instead she stretched her arms out above her, as though embracing the last rays
of the sun. Steve drove like a maniac, dipping underneath traffic lights and speeding
along the shoulder of the road until he finally reached a grove that read ‘HoneyBee’s
Apple Fields!’
“Here,” he said, paying for two tickets and then parking the car chivalrously. “Let
me help you out.” He dashed around to the other side of the car and opened the door,
bowing slightly.
She’s wearing exactly the wrong thing for apple-picking he noted as she emerged,
two slender legs encased in golden heels followed by a shapely torso and a direct and
angled head. This was a mistake.
Oh my God, Amber thought. He’s brought me apple picking. And I look like I
should be sipping cocktails. Her cheeks burning with embarrassment, she decided to take
it in stride.
“Any special memories from your youth of apple-picking?” she inquired. “A
reason that you’ve chosen to bring me here today?”
“Actually, yes,” Steve answered her, and she was relieved to see that he had
finally decided to remove those pesky sunglasses. He had gorgeous eyes, clear and green,
pools of light flecked with silver. She liked the look of him. “It was an activity I always
 © The Curious Jew

did with my father. I have really good memories of my dad holding me up to reach the
apples, and me reaching for them. We never took them home with us; we would sell them
back at the end of the day. But just picking them. And the smell of apples on my skin, in
my hair- and the way my father looked- it just made me glad.”
“It’s unfortunate you never brought them home with you,” Amber stated,
resolving that she would make apple pie for him from the apples they picked today. “So
how does this work? They give you ladders?”
“Stepstools,” he answered, motioning to the entire orchard before them. He
watched her giggle slightly, changing from the beautiful woman who looked like she
belonged in a restaurant or a hotel lobby to a lighthearted child. She kicked off her
expensive shoes and ran toward one of the trees, climbing the stepstool.
“Here, I’ll pick,” she informed him. “You get a basket and catch.”
He watched as the last rays of sunlight caught in her hair, dazzling him. Wisps of
her chignon had come undone and now teased him; they hung becomingly around her
face, framing the angled jaw, the full lips. She turned to him and he laughed to see the
laughter in her golden blue eyes. He picked up his bushel, which was woven of straw, and
aimed it out ahead of him, daring her to throw.
Her aim was good. She tossed one apple after another into the basket. “You’re
bruising them!” he stated, somewhat concerned. She just gave a charming smile.
“So what do you do?” she inquired.
“I’m a Mathematics professor at the University of Chicago,” he answered
promptly.
She gave him an astonished look. “What?” she asked, totally dumbfounded.
“Yeah.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “What? Math not your best subject?” he
tried to joke.
“No, it’s just, I didn’t think Steve knew any…Mathematics professors!”
He gave her an easy, open smile. “Yeah, it’s funny how we met.”
“Do tell,” she requested, pausing for a moment while atop her stepstool.
“Well, I was flying to Chicago and so was he, except he was flying in after
successfully closing a business deal while I was coming back from my grandmother’s
funeral. In any case, we were seatmates and he turned out to be a nice guy. We started
chatting, exchanged contact information and I figured I would never hear from the guy
again. Except then we became great friends.” He shrugged. “Life is strange.”
“That’s for certain,” she said. “Steve was my ex-husband’s best friend,” she
informed him. “That is, until he cheated on me. Then Steve became my best friend and
dropped my husband. If there’s one thing Steve believes in, it’s loyalty.” She shivered
slightly. Steve felt for her; he knew how it felt to be so betrayed. Her sense of self-worth
must be shot to hell he decided.
She flashed him a smile just before toppling off the step-stool.
He saw it as though in slow motion. One moment she was standing, then a
misplaced foot had her desperately twisting her ankle in an attempt to remain aloft, but
then she was falling, falling, falling…straight into his arms. He had gallantly moved to
catch her but hadn’t expected to feel the full impact of her weight, so his legs folded
under him and with an “Oomph,” he sat down, hard, on the ground.
But, to his credit, he had caught her and she lay outstretched on his lap, his arms
cradling her legs and shoulder blades. Her face beet-red, she scrambled off of him.
 © The Curious Jew

“I thought that was kind of romantic, actually,” he told her, trying to diffuse the
situation with light humor. “That how you test out your dates? Check out which ones
catch you when you fall?”
“Only when they take me apple picking,” she retorted, a hint of unhappiness
entering her voice. He saw that she needed to regain her bearing and decided the best way
to do it was to clown a bit. Making as though to get up from the ground he deliberately
tripped on his shoelace and rolled over on his side. Standing up, he peered down at
himself. “Hmm, this shirt is more dirt than blue,” he stated, dusting himself off. Then,
exaggeratedly presenting himself to her, he knelt on one knee. “What do you think- does
the paw-print accentuate my style or is the dirt the defining factor?”
She smiled. “I think the dirt adds a touch of class,” she stated.
“Lower class,” he explained. “They’d have put me in steerage if I were on the
‘Titanic.’”
“Oh no; you’d just have been smart enough to get Kate Winslet as your girlfriend
to ensure she would save you, not Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“I haven’t got the babyface good looks,” he commented, hanging his head in
supposed shame.
“But you’ve got gorgeous eyes,” she told him, and he noted that hers were
sparkling.
“So do you,” he answered, and both of them laughed. “Figure it’s my turn to pick
now?” he inquired, setting the step-ladder aright and climbing atop it. It was then that he
noticed she was bleeding. “You’ve scraped your knee!” he stated.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, but he noticed that she was wincing.
“Emergency tourniquet in the car,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.” He abandoned
her in the apple field, racing back to the parking lot.
Did you ever hear the like? she thought to herself, more prone to laughter than to
burst into tears. First I totally overdress for this date, the guy himself looks like he’s been
mauled by animals, we go apple-picking of all things, I fall off the ladder into his arms
and then he abandons me to go find some kind of bandage. This is the sort of stuff you
can’t make up if you tried.
He was racing back, holding the piece of red cloth she had seen sticking out of his
glove compartment. “Back!” he exclaimed joyfully before kneeling down and wrapping it
around her knee, at which point she saw that it was an expensive Italian tie.
“I can’t use this!” she exclaimed, aghast. The blood would never come out.
“Have an aversion to all things Italian?” he chuckled, tying it around the knee.
“Perfect,” he told her. “Couldn’t have done a better job if I were a Boy Scout.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You were a Boy Scout, weren’t you,” she
accused him.
“Guilty as charged,” he laughed. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever rescued any
damsels in distress before.”
She looked down at herself ruefully. “Can’t say I’m accustomed to being a damsel
in distress,” she answered him.
“I was thinking of taking you to dinner tonight,” he told her, looking upon her
bandaged leg. “Now a good time to go?”
“Oh, but I had wanted to make you apple pie,” she told him wistfully.
He was surprised and gratified. “Make me apple pie?”
 © The Curious Jew

“Yeah,” she explained. “Because you said you never bought the apples…when
you and your dad went apple-picking.”
“That’s extremely sweet,” he said, “but you’re under no obligation.”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “It’d be my pleasure.” She winced as she got to her
feet.
“Here, hold on a minute,” he cautioned her, and gathering up her shoes, took the
bushel of apples under one arm, extending the other to her. “Lean on me; it’s not far to
the car.”
“We have to pay for the apples, though,” she said stubbornly.
“Okay, okay, we’ll pay for the apples,” he stated, the last dregs of sunlight drifting
across the horizon. “I was thinking of taking you to an Italian place for dinner,” he stated
wickedly, a twinkle in his eye.
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’m certain they’ll be happy to have me, what
with my displaying this badge of honor,” she pointed to her knee.
“Course,” he agreed. “You a pasta girl or a pizza fan?”
“Neither,” she said pointedly. “I only eat quesadillas.”
“Touche.” He smiled at her. “Come, there’s the booth.”
They walked through the fields, illuminated by the gold and orange droplets of
sun as they sank away and the dusk enveloped them. The fields were alight with fire-flies,
glittering and sinking back into darkness. He watched her watching them; she was
fascinated by them. He imagined her wreathed in light, and suddenly considered her
naked, her hair a halo that graced them both with the luminescence captured within its
strands. Embarrassed, he turned away and she plodded onward, barefoot in the grass. She
felt the green springy strands rise up under her feet, but winced upon encountering
pebbles and twigs. More than that, her overactive imagination painted pictures of worms
from overripe apples underfoot, so that she walked slowly, frightened by the image.
They took their basket of apples and weighed them; Steve graciously paid for
them. “After all,” he informed her, “you’ll be the one doing the labor, baking them and
all.” She laughed, a liquid laugh that was joyous; he enjoyed the sound and wanted to
figure out how to make her do it again. After the booth there was simply pavement and
the car. “Now might be a good time to put your shoes back on,” he told her.
“Oh, no more masquerading as Cinderella?” she joked.
“Cinderella only lost one slipper,” he told her, “whereas I’ve got two of yours.
What does that mean?”
“Guess that means it’s easier for you to find the one the shoe fits,” she stated
matter-of-factly. She stood on one foot, attempting to ease the heel onto her shoe.
“I could do it if you want,” he offered, unsure as to whether that would be
overstepping his bounds.
“Nah, I’ll be okay,” she stated. She imagined the spectacle she must make, grass
in her hair, her dress likely ruined, hopping on one foot in an attempt to slip a high-heeled
pump on the other one. Suddenly she began laughing, peals and peals of hysterical
laughter ringing out in the night.
Steve began laughing as well, watching her slip the other shoe onto her foot and
step into the car. His voice was rich, deep and throaty, a merry laugh, one that delighted
in their situation rather than finding fault. He knew that he looked a mess, with his dirty
shirt and tousled hair, the paw-print emblazoned across his chest. He knew that he had
 © The Curious Jew

grass in his hair, had just lost an expensive Italian tie, and otherwise ought to be
regretting this miserable adventure. Yet he hoped the evening would never end.
“You know, I feel a bit Angelina Jolie-esque in this belt,” Amber confided in him,
turning to face him as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“How do you mean?” Steve inquired, not understanding.
“Well, it’s like a garter. Or some sort of weapons-holder, where I just pull up my
dress and voila! That’s where I keep my gun,” she said teasingly.
“Mmm,” Steve agreed appreciatively. “So men get holsters and women get garter
gunbelts? Good to know.”
“Why, you planning on robbing some helpless woman?”
“Are you helpless?” he asked, pausing to look at her as they stalled by a red light.
She saw a TGIF sign adjacent to a Hampton Ill through the rain sluicing off the
windshield, swept aside by the wipers.
“I haven’t got a gun,” she clarified.
“But you could have,” Steve told her.
“True,” she agreed. “Unfortunately, this dress is too short to provide effective
coverage. I’d wear some ankle-length confection, or perhaps even floor-length, if I was
really trying to hide a weapon.”
“You could just distract them all with your pretty eyes,” he complimented her and
she laughed.
“So tell me a bit about yourself?” she questioned. “I know that you drive
convertibles, like sunglasses, teach math and save people who fall off of step-ladders. I
also know you once went apple-picking with your father. Any other crucial information I
should be aware of?”
“Sure,” he told her easily, the confidences rolling off his chest. “I’ve never been
married, though I’ve been in a couple of relationships. Neither person was the right one,
though. I’m a marriage kind of man- I’d like to settle down at some point. Not,” he added
worriedly, “that I mean to imply anything. Just figured I’d be upfront with you in terms of
what I’m about. I believe in God although not in organized religion, and think that having
a sense of humor is the only way to get through the day. My sister’s married and I’ve got
a little niece named Lisa that I love with all my heart. She’s five and never ceases to
shower all the love in the world on me. In terms of math, well, I went to school, got my
doctorate, had been teaching as a grad student and eventually got promoted. Professors
don’t earn much but we care a lot. It’s a dedicated profession.”
Amber smiled at him. “That I can believe,” she asserted.
“And what about you?” he questioned.
“I’m a dreamer who doesn’t seem like it,” she decided to confide in him in a spirit
of relentless honesty. “I’m a corporate lawyer who does very well for myself. Despite
that, I love playful people, I’m a huge idealist and I believe in magic. I’ve got a toddler
named Ryan- he’s two- he’s at home with my mother right now. I have custody although
my ex-husband gets weekends with him every other week. And really what I need right
now is to get my sense of…fun back. I’ve just been coping with what it feels like to be
the woman who is cheated on. Not,” her eyes flashed, “that I need any pity.”
“I wouldn’t dream of pitying you,” Steve replied honestly. He pulled into a
delicate little place up a small white path. “There’s Little Italy; it’s where we’ll dine
tonight.”
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“Looking like this?” she inquired, staring down at her dirtied skirt, the red tie
around her knee and her hair, which was gradually making its way free of her chignon.
“Hey, I’m the one with the paw-print,” he joked. “Seriously, though. We’ll just
slip in and sit down. Nobody will even notice us.”
She looked at herself once more. “Okay,” she said brightly. “Let’s go for it. But I
blame all consequences for this behavior on you. In advance.”
“Certainly, mademoiselle,” he concurred, stepping out of the car.
The two of them walked up the little path and beyond the gate to the door of the
little establishment. A maitre d saw them and sniffed, turning up his nose. Stuffily, he led
them to a corner of the restaurant where they sunk into the shadows, grateful to be out of
the public view. The restaurant was dimly lit; the ambience enhanced by little votive
candles placed on each table alongside one rose. The rose was placed inside a beautifully
carved crystal that was embedded with different gems; the plates were edged with a rose-
pink finish. Amber slipped the gold napkin ring off her napkin and spread it on her lap,
picking up her menu, which was made of a thick, glossy paper. Steve picked his up as
well.
She looked through the choices, wondering whether to order fish or go with her
traditional quesadilla. “Amber?” she heard Steve ask, and tipping her menu forward
slightly so that she could see him, she answered, “Yes?”
“I just wanted to tell you,” and she watched him pause, caught in the shadows,
trying to formulate the words. “I wanted to tell you…” she saw his eyes widen, almost in
shock. “Your menu’s on fire!” he exclaimed.
“What!” she shrieked, shocked, dropping it on the table where it continued to
pleasantly burn, singeing the tablecloth.
Steve turned, said “Pardon me,” to the man at the next table, and took his cup,
splashing the contents onto the fire, thinking to quench it. To his chagrin, it seemed that
the man at the next table had been indulging in a glass of whiskey, which now burned a
merry bright blue upon the table. As the flames licked upward Steve noted, out of the
corner of his eye, the waiter hurrying forward. The man unceremoniously dumped a
pitcher of ice-cold water all over the burning tablecloth, ice slipping off the table and into
Steve and Amber’s laps.
They sat there in dumbfounded silence for a moment. Steve then stood, trying not
to think about the dark wet patch on his pants, and graciously motioned to the waiter.
“Please tell whoever is in charge I’ll be happy to pay for what I owe,” he stated.
Amber, whose cheeks had turned scarlet, suddenly considered the humor of the
thing. She began to smile, and then to give queer little breaths that were a kind of muffled
chuckle, finally breaking out into peals of laughter. The others in the restaurant, who had
all been staring while trying not to be caught in the act due to the breach in good
manners, followed her lead.
“Oh, my dear,” one grandmotherly figure lamented, “that beautiful dress is
ruined.”
It was true. Amber looked down at her silk and chiffon dress, now stained with
soot, smoke and grass, and smothered a laugh. “All shall be well,” she told the
distinguished elderly lady, who boasted a staff with a ruby in its head. “I am certain very
few people can attest to having their clothes ruined due to catching fire while at the
restaurant. It is certainly a very remarkable occurrence.”
 © The Curious Jew

After this amusing statement, Amber turned back to Steve. “Shall we, my dear?”
she inquired wryly. “I don’t believe we had ordered yet.”
“Oh, please do sit at a different table,” the owner of the restaurant came forward
and requested.
“And do please think next time before simply stealing a man’s glass,” the man at
the next table over stated. “Arthur’s the name. Colonel Arthur, actually. Never thought I
would see such excitement at this place. My Marie wanted a nice evening to
commemorate her anniversary. She’ll be talking about this one for weeks!”
Amber and Steve looked at one another and winced. “So happy to oblige,” Steve
answered, since it seemed some remark was necessary. “Pleased to make your
acquaintance, sir. Will keep it in mind the next time I set a tablecloth afire.”
“Well, it was hardly you,” Amber interrupted. “Please, don’t take the credit away
from me. Tis I who set it afire.” Hardly daring to hope, Steve met her eyes; he saw that
they were laughing. She was game, he realized, and up for anything.
“Yes, but I was the one who decided whiskey would be a nice added touch,” he
retorted.
She deliberately licked her lips, smoothed her dress and, after flexing her fingers,
moved them very slowly to the red Italian tie around her knee. Then, raising her hand, she
pointed her fingers at him, miming the shape of a gun. “You trying to kill me?” she
casually inquired.
Steve pretended to knot a complicated cravat made of air, smoothed his stained
shirt and attempted to create order in his rumpled hair. “I will tell you the thought has
crossed my mind,” he stated, “but you are too delectable to kill just yet.”
She smiled, her eyes predatory. “I will have you know I have a very specific way
of going in for the kill.”
“Is that so,” he inquired. “And what, pray tell, might that be?”
“What will you be having this evening?” the common-sense waiter who had
poured water on their laps interrupted.
“A dry martini,” Steve quipped. “One. In a deep champagne goblet. Shaken, not
stirred.” He leaned back casually in his chair. Amber could not prevent a fit of giggles.
“And you, mademoiselle?” the waiter turned to her.
“What do gun-slinging women drink?” she asked him, batting her eyelashes
coyly.
The waiter thought carefully about the question. “Generally such women prefer
beer,” he stated, his voice thick with disapproval.
“Beer it is,” Amber stated. “Done.”
“Oh, I can’t allow that.” Steve possessively slid his hand across the table,
covering hers with his. “A Sex on the Beach, I think. Something Bond girls like to do, as
I recall.”
She mock-glared at him, then turned to the waiter. “And a quesadilla, please,” she
requested.
“What kind would you like? We have—“
“Mushroom and onion, please,” she requested.
“And you, sir?”
“Pasta primavera and French onion soup,” he stated.
“Very good sir, mademoiselle.” He bowed to them before retreating to the kitchen.
 © The Curious Jew

Amber smiled at him. “So other than aiding and abetting us crime-committing
girls, what do you like to do?”
“Read, write. Take walks, usually in parks. Play with my niece. I’m a pretty
normal guy,” he told her.
“I don’t think I would agree with that,” she stated.
He looked a little hurt. “I’m not normal?”
“In the best of ways,” she explained. “Normal guys who are on dates like these
generally freeze up and everything turns into a disaster. You, on the other hand, have a
wonderful sense of humor. I quite enjoy you, actually.”
“And I you,” he stated. “That was what I wanted to tell you earlier- that this was
the most fun I’ve had in ages.”
She smiled. “Me as well.”
“So will I see you again?” he inquired as the waiter brought out his French onion
soup.
“Course you will,” she laughed. “I’ve still got to make you apple pie.”
“Oh, true!” he exclaimed, dipping his spoon into the delicious brown broth,
cheese coating the rim. “And aside from that?”
“I think we’re set to become excellent friends.”
His face fell. “Friends?” he stated carefully.
“Perhaps more than friends,” she answered him, watching as he took another
spoonful of soup. “We’ll see.” She shrugged.
“’We’ll see’ is an arrangement I’m comfortable with,” he said.
“Great,” she said as the waiter brought out their main dishes. “Thanks for taking
me out, even if the intent was to go apple-picking.”
“I apologize for my attire,” he said. “My neighbor’s got a dog and the sprinkler
went off and…well….”
“Honestly, Steve?” she said, just loud enough that everyone in the restaurant
could hear, “I’ve never had a more perfect evening.”
And smiling, she began cutting her quesadilla, certain that Colonel Arthur and the
grandmotherly lady had something to talk about aside from the flaming tablecloth and the
peculiar people who had brought it to pass. For his part, Steve had entered a state of bliss
comprised of delicious soup, tasty primavera and the company of the most playful and
spirited lady he’d yet had the pleasure of meeting. There were few things on earth more
wonderful than this.
Except, he thought, perhaps, her apple pie.