Mabel Penrose believed that a good pie could fix almost anything.

A gray mood. A rainy afternoon. A neighborly disagreement over whose cat had been digging in whose marigolds. Even a lonely Sunday could be brightened, in Mabel’s opinion, by the smell of butter, sugar, and apples softening together in a warm kitchen.

So when the village announced its annual Harvest Supper, Mabel knew at once what she would bring.

A pie.

Not just any pie, either. She would bring the kind of pie people remembered. The sort that made someone close their eyes after the first bite and say, “Oh my goodness, who made this?” It would be golden and glossy, with a crimped crust so pretty it looked like lace. Perhaps she would cut little leaves from the extra pastry and arrange them in a wreath around the top.

“Yes,” Mabel said to her flour canister, “this year, we are going to make something beautiful.”

The flour canister, being full of flour and not opinions, said nothing.

Mabel began early that morning with tremendous hope and enthusiasm. She tied on her blue apron, rolled up her sleeves, and set three bowls on the counter like soldiers ready for duty. Into one went flour, salt, and cold cubes of butter. Into another went sliced apples, cinnamon, brown sugar, nutmeg, and a squeeze of lemon. Into the third went her confidence, though she did not know it at the time.

She hummed as she worked. The radio played cheerful old songs, and sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. Even Clementine, her orange cat, seemed impressed, though Clementine was mostly interested in whether any butter might accidentally fall to the floor.

Mabel rolled the dough carefully. She lifted it into the pie dish with both hands, whispering, “Steady now,” as though the pastry were a sleeping baby. She poured in the apples, mounded high and fragrant. Then came the top crust, the little pastry leaves, and a brushed coat of egg wash.

For a moment, before it went into the oven, the pie looked perfect.

Mabel clasped her hands. “You beauty,” she said.

Into the oven it went.

While it baked, Mabel cleaned the kitchen, set out her best pie carrier, and imagined the supper hall. She pictured Mrs. Biddlecombe asking for the recipe. She pictured Mr. Hayes, who judged everything from pickles to poetry with a skeptical frown, nodding in approval. She even pictured the pie sitting proudly among the casseroles and rolls, glowing like a small golden crown.

The timer rang.

Mabel opened the oven.

At first, she only blinked.

Then she leaned closer.

The pie had not become a golden crown. It had become, somehow, a small pastry landslide.

One side had slumped dramatically, as if the pie had decided to sit down and rest. Apple filling had bubbled through a crack in the top and flowed over the edge in a sticky amber ribbon. The carefully cut pastry leaves had shifted during baking and now looked less like a wreath and more like they had been blown there by a storm. The crimped edge, which had seemed so elegant before, had puffed and twisted into a lopsided grin.

Mabel stared.

Clementine jumped onto a chair, looked at the pie, and gave one short meow.

“I know,” Mabel said.

She set the pie on the counter and turned it slowly. From one angle, it looked surprised. From another, it looked tired. From a third, it looked as if it might be trying to escape the dish.

“Oh dear,” Mabel whispered. “It’s wonky.”

The word suited it perfectly. It was not ruined exactly. It smelled heavenly. The crust was golden in places, and the apples glistened. But it was unmistakably, undeniably wonky.

Mabel’s cheeks warmed. How could she bring this to the Harvest Supper? Everyone else would have smooth cakes and tidy tarts and shining jars of preserves. Mrs. Biddlecombe would bring her famous lemon bars, all cut into perfect squares. Mr. Hayes would bring a loaf of bread with a crust so even it looked measured with a ruler.

And Mabel would arrive with a pie that looked like it had rolled down a hill.

She imagined people whispering.

“Poor Mabel.”

“Such a shame.”

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