Olive’s New Job
Fandom: Pushing Daisies
Pairing: None, accept Olive falling (and falling hard) for the Pie-maker
Rating: G
Summary: How Olive Snook came to work for the Pie-maker.
Disclaimer: I only own these characters in my thoroughly romantic, yet over-zealous imagination.
It had been three months, seven days and 14 hours since Olive Snook had hung up her racing colors for good and the facts were these: Her meager savings were undeniably starting to run out. While she still had the victory purse from the “Jock Off 2000,” she had vowed never to use it, even if it meant starving. But to her horror, the former darling of the racetrack discovered she was basically unemployable.
She also soon found out that, while typing 17 words a minute sounded fast to her, it wasn’t good enough to secure employment as a personal assistant. Several attempts to spin her eye for matching patterns into a design job failed as well. Her last chance came in the form of a phone solicitation job across town.
“This will be a piece of cake,” she thought during the bus ride. “After all, anyone can talk on the phone, right?”
But Olive Snook was wrong, very wrong indeed.
“Your voice is too high and squeaky,” said the manager, who had a huge, bushy mustache and tiny black eyes. “You’re just not qualified, Sweetie.”
And with a wink he meant to be sympathetic but came off as just plain creepy, the mustached manager showed her out of his office.
“What a bunch of boo-hooey,” thought Olive as she walked to the bus stop, trying her best not to cry but sniffling all the same. “There are just some people you can’t please.”
Upon her arrival at the bus stop, Olive realized that the 3:15 uptown wouldn’t be there for another hour and a half. Her agitation only increased when she felt a drop of water. And then another.
“Drats!” she muttered. “I hate rain. Makes horses slip and oh, my hair!”
That’s when Olive spied the piecrust roof on the corner. Later she would describe it as the most magical moment of her life. The color of the extra flakey crust reminded her of her palomino, Pi. Yet she wasn’t the only one making a mad dash for The Pie Hole door. In fact, she rushed in so quickly, she didn’t even read the sign in the window. The heavenly smell of flour, simmering fruit and coffee welcomed her. Sitting on the last available stool at the counter, she pushed aside the dishes from the previous occupant.
A tall, lanky man with a white apron offered Olive a colorful menu.
“Um…here.”
Then he moved on so fast, balancing a small tower of empty plates topped by a coffee cup, that she really didn’t get a good look at him. But she liked what she saw on the menu.
“Mmm…tart apple, apricot, strawberry-rhubarb and lemon meringue,” she read, licking her lips. “They all sound so delicious. And who cares about making weight now?
Actually, Olive did care, but she merely watched her figure so that others would watch it as well. She settled on the strawberry-rhubarb, which didn’t sound too fattening and waited. And waited. Ten minutes later, the tall man came back, now balancing even more tottering plates.
“Welcome to the Pie Hole. What-what can I get you?”
Olive immediately liked the soft, low timber of the Pie-maker’s voice and the way he sort of stuttered. As she gave him her order, Olive noticed nervously that he didn’t write it down. But a minute later he returned with her pie and a cup of hot chamomile tea. She tried her best to get a better look at him, but he was once again off to another table with a stack of dishes threatening to topple at any moment.
Then she took a bite of the pie. Olive Snook would later admit that, up to that moment, she always been a cake lover. It took only three bites to thoroughly transfer her allegiance.
“Golly,” she thought. “This is wonderful.”
Olive wondered if anyone would notice if she licked the plate clean? Instead, she sipped her tea and enjoyed people watching, a favorite pastime of hers, in the crowded dining area. Olive smiled at a child with his mother, watched two lovers snuggling in a booth and overheard a table of business people all talking so fast she wondered if any of them even heard the conversation.
Then Olive turned toward the kitchen, and got her first really good look at the Pie-maker. Green eyes, boyish face, broad shoulders on a slender frame, trimmed hair and a mouth that made her knees tremble; he was the kind of man who had no idea how good-looking he was.
“He’s the type of guy who has no idea how good-looking he is,” she thought.
And then Olive Snooks gulped and gulped loudly, because she was a sucker for just that kind of guy.
“Mommy! Want pie now!”
Olive turned back to see the three-year-old she’d smiled at standing on his chair and his mother trying, unsuccessfully, to make him sit back down. The look on the young woman’s face said it all-tired and out of patience, an expression Olive remembered oh so well from wearing it herself when training an uncooperative thoroughbred. That look and the little boy’s obvious hunger made Olive stand up and walk over to them.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“Oh good.” Relief relaxed the young woman’s face. “Two slices of apple and a coffee with cream, please.”
“Ah, ah, ah…”
Olive searched for the words to explain that she didn’t work there, that she too was merely a customer. But then she looked over at the tiered round structure holding pies.
“Why I could serve up two slices of pie in a heartbeat,” she whispered to herself. “It’s obvious that the Pie-maker is overwhelmed and I’m not going anywhere for a while yet.”
Olive cut into the pasty, grabbed two plates and put them on a tray. Glancing around, she spotted a coffeemaker and easily poured a cup of the steaming brew. A second later she delivered them to a very grateful customer when another table got her attention.
“Slice of razzleberry a la mode, please!”
One slice turned into another, then three coffee refills, a check (she found a book of checks under some crumpled napkins on the counter), then another order. Before Olive knew it, three-quarters of an hour had passed and her bus would arrive soon. She picked up a few more dishes, glad that the rush seemed over (and the rain as well). She was so engrossed in wiping the counter that she jumped when a deep voice thanked her.
“The job is yours if you want it.”
Olive looked up at those gor-gee-ous green eyes and felt the temperature of her face rise. Olive worried that he could feel her heart pounding. Olive worried he could hear the orchestra in her heart starting to swell. And Olive worried that her sudden yet undeniable attraction to him would show on her face like a carved face on a Halloween pumpkin.
“What-what job?”
The Pie-maker plucked the “Help Wanted” sign out of the window and held it low enough so she could read. The slight blush on his face made him look even more handsome.
“It doesn’t pay that great,” he said, a slight pleading sound to his voice. “But customers are usually generous with tips and there’s all the free pie you can eat, that is if you like pie, although most people do…” His rambling started running out of steam… “at least, that’s usually why they’re here.”
The Pie-maker looked at her, wearing a desperate expression complete with his mouth skewed to one side (and she couldn’t help thinking how it made him even cuter).
“You can see I’m not very good at it,” he said simply.
It took a moment, but Olive finally realized- wait, was he offering her a job? She’d never considered becoming a waitress before. But, as Olive would be the first to admit, she was a people person and people just seemed to like her back. Waitressing didn’t have the glory of the racetrack, but she remembered the smile of the three-year-old as he left and she realized there were some rewards -the biggest of which was standing in front of her right now.
“What would my shift be?”
“Umm… when are you available?”
The Pie-maker looked uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to another, as if such business talk didn’t come natural.
“When do the other waitresses work?”
“O-other waitresses?”
Now the Pie-maker was squirming and Olive could see why he needed help as soon as possible. She could be the one who swooped in to save him, a notion that certainly held some appeal. Plus, she had to admit, the thought of just the two of them working long hours together made her feel practically a foot taller.
So smiling her triumphant winner’s circle grin, she looked up at him. “OK, I’ll start tomorrow.”
The Pie-maker wiped a hand on his apron and held it out to for her to shake. Olive toyed with the idea of hugging him instead, but that seemed too forward, especially when he blushed so easily. Still, when his hand touched hers, she sensed something like a spark pass between them. Did that spark have the potential to become a bonfire?
She could only hope. And hope was something Olive Snook was very good at.
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