Rhubarb Custard Pie

Solitude.

That’s the dream, at least.

Three uninterrupted months alone at my grandmother’s lakeside cottage. No meetings. No deadlines. No waking up already anxious before my feet even touch the floor.

Three months to become a person again.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder just as I turn off the highway.

Another rejection email.

I delete it at the next stop sign without reading past the word unfortunately.

The road winds along the shoreline beneath the towering evergreens. Quaint cottages sit tucked into the woods with weathered docks and screened porches half-swallowed by blackberry bushes. A man in rubber boots stands knee-deep at the water’s edge adjusting a fishing rod while a woman nearby paddles lazily across the lake in a yellow kayak. A group of teenagers pass me on bicycles, too consumed with laughter to notice themselves drifting into my lane.

My phone buzzes again. We regret to inform you…

Delete.

By the time I pull into the gravel driveway, the sun has already started slipping behind the trees. My grandmother’s cottage sits at the edge of the lake beneath a cover of cedar and fir branches, small and slightly crooked, with moss creeping across the roof in soft green patches. Wind chimes knock gently together on the porch.

The place smells exactly the same as it did when I was a kid. Pine needles. Damp earth. Fresh lake water.

For one moment, I feel something dangerously close to relief.

The screen door creaks as I step inside. Dust floats through warm evening light. The porch is still decorated with my grandmother’s weathered wicker furniture, and the ceiling fan in the living room still rattles when you turn it on. I set my suitcases down beside the couch and sit, intending to rest for a moment. But my fingers tap against the end table, my leg bouncing incessantly. Restlessness. Before I can stop myself, I reach for my phone again.

I am so excited to announce that… I am very humbled to share that… I have recently had the opportunity to…

I scroll through post after post, jealous of the ease with which everyone is sharing their accomplishments, promotions, and new opportunities, making my lack of post-worthy life events feel that much heavier.

Setting my phone down with a sigh, I notice water tapping softly against the dock while evening settles over the lake. Somewhere nearby, laughter drifts faintly through the trees and glowing campfires begin to light around the lake, casting warm reflections across the water.

My stomach growls loud enough to echo slightly through the empty cottage.

Great.

I can’t remember the last thing I ate. Something from the gas station, probably. Hours ago. The refrigerator in the kitchen contains half a bottle of mustard, a shriveled onion, and expired chicken broth.

By the time I pull into the parking lot of Cedar’s, a local diner, the moon has risen high above the lake. The diner glows against the darkness like something pulled out of a memory, with the neon OPEN sign flickering faintly above the door where moths gather beneath it in dizzy little circles.

A brass bell jingles overhead as I push through the door, immediately greeting me with the smell of coffee, fried food, and something sweet.

“Table for one?”

“Actually, can I just get takeout?”

She nods toward the bar counter. “Just give me a moment, honey.”

I sit at an empty stool near the far end of the counter, mindlessly scrolling through my social media feed that’s littered with engagements, newborn babies, honeymoons, and accomplishments. Everyone seems to be moving forward, except for me.

“What can I get you?”

I glance up at the menu board, though I don’t even need to.

“A cheeseburger, please,” I say automatically. “Fries. And…” I recall a faint memory from my childhood summers here. “Do you still make those incredible peach milkshakes?”

The waitress smiles. “Of course!”

I don’t realize how badly I need the first sip until she sets the milkshake in front of me a few minutes later. Cold vanilla and ripe peaches. The flavor brings back memories of jumping into the lake at dusk, before we would run into the diner for milkshakes, with no regard for the puddles of water forming on the floor from our drenched hair.

As I wait for the rest of my order, I notice an older man sitting alone in a corner booth. He’s dressed neatly despite the heat; pressed trousers, a knit polo, and wire-frame glasses slipping slightly down his nose. His dark skin is weathered gently by sun and age, suggesting plenty of summers spent out on the lake. In one hand he holds an old book, and the other rests loosely on his coffee mug. In front of him sits a slice of rhubarb custard pie, untouched except for a single clear fork mark through the whipped cream.

The waitress nods subtly toward the man. “Samuel Hayes. Comes in here every day.” Her voice lowers gently. “Orders the same coffee and slice of pie. Never eats it.”

“Why order it then?”

The waitress shrugs, wiping down the counter with one hand. “Habit, maybe. Memory.” She pauses for a second. “The funny thing about people is they think exhaustion comes from working too hard or living too long. Most of the time, it’s from forgetting how to enjoy anything while you’re alive.”

“That sounds like the sort of thing someone says right before recommending yoga or breathwork.”

“Maybe, doesn’t make it wrong though.”

I shrug off her comment, grabbing my food before heading out. I glance towards Samuel’s booth again. He still hasn’t touched the pie.

***

Over the next few weeks, I fall into the comfort of a routine without meaning to.

I wake up late, disoriented by the absence of alarms, and spend the first few minutes every morning checking my phone before I’ve even fully opened my eyes. Emails. Job listings. LinkedIn notifications.

Then coffee on the porch overlooking the lake.

And then more phone scrolling, usually with the radio or television on for background noise.

Occasionally I attempt hobbies. I read half a chapter of a novel before getting distracted. I take walks along the shoreline while mentally rewriting cover letters. One afternoon I try kayaking for the first time in years and spend nearly the entire hour wondering whether taking three months off will permanently ruin my career.

Rest, it turns out, is not remotely relaxing once your body forgets how to do it.

Today, I attempt to knit a small potholder while some nature documentary about salmon murmurs in the background, though my efforts resemble a chaotic bird’s nest. So when I notice Samuel passing by on one of his daily walks, I welcome the distraction.

He moves slowly along the shoreline trail with his hands folded behind his back, stopping every so often to look out over the water or smell a flower.

He takes the trail back toward town, away from the water, and I catch myself wondering if he’s heading to Cedar’s to order the pie again. A month ago, I barely noticed strangers. Now I’m tracking the eating habits of an elderly man I’ve never spoken to.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the diner beneath a sky heavy with low gray clouds. The breakfast crowd is thinner than usual with most people clustered near the windows watching the tree branches swaying in the wind.

Samuel is already here. Coffee. Book. Untouched rhubarb custard pie. I try not to stare, but I catch myself checking every few minutes to see whether he’s taken a bite yet. He hasn’t.

Rain crashes violently against the windows and a clap of thunder makes half the diner jump. A few seconds later, the lights flicker once.

Then everything goes dark.

“Well. There goes the power again,” the waitress says from behind me.

Someone near the kitchen lights a few candles, and within moments the room settles into a dim coziness. The waitress sets my coffee in front of me as I get ready to place my usual takeout order.

“Honey, I don’t think you’re getting food anytime soon. Might as well wait out the storm and I’ll cook you something once the power’s back.”

I reluctantly agree and grab a seat at the counter. I check my phone. No signal. My gaze shifts towards the man in the corner who doesn’t even seem to own a phone. Must be nice.

Samuel looks up from his book and gives me a small beckoning motion toward the empty seat across from him. I glance behind me instinctively and he raises a brow. Oh. He means me.

I gather my coffee and make my way across the diner.

“Quite the storm,” he says calmly. Then his eyes glance briefly at my phone still clutched in my hand. “But you look more concerned about that than the lightning.”

“I lost my job a few months ago,” I admit before I can stop myself.

Samuel doesn’t react immediately. He simply waits.

“I kept taking on more work,” I continue, staring down into my coffee. “More clients. More projects. Longer hours. I thought if I could just keep up with everything, eventually I would feel successful enough to deserve a break. But I couldn’t.”

“You say that like rest is something a person has to earn.”

“I wanted all of it,” I say quietly. “The promotions. The responsibility. To feel important. I worked sixty-hour weeks for years.” I shake my head. “There’s no time for breaks with goals like those.”

Samuel nods slowly.

“And now?”

“Now I’m terrified nobody will want me again”. For a moment, only rain fills the silence between us.

Then Samuel leans back slightly. “When was the last time you actually enjoyed your life?”

***

Back at the cottage, I spend the evening trying to prove Samuel wrong.

I update my resume. Apply for two more jobs. Answer a text from my mother that I’ve been ignoring. By midnight, I’ve somehow convinced myself that productivity counts as emotional stability. This is temporary, I remind myself. I didn’t come here to reinvent myself like some main character in a coming-of-age movie. I came here to get some sleep and figure out my next career move. I enjoy life! I enjoy work, I just need to get a new job…

When was the last time you actually enjoyed your life?

I open my mouth to answer instinctively.

Then stop.

My mind jumps to all of my accomplishments instead: promotions, crossing things off lists, relief after deadlines finally passed. Not one real memory arrives, and the blankness in my mind unsettles me more than the question itself.

Before the sun rises the next morning, I’m already awake. Not because I’m rested, but because I realize sometime around five in the morning that I do not have an answer to Samuel’s question.

And worse, I want one.

Mist hangs low over the lake as I hurry down the shoreline trail in an oversized sweatshirt. Samuel appears a few minutes later, walking slowly along the water as he usually does. When he spots me, one eyebrow lifts slightly.

“I have a question,” I blurt.

“Good morning to you too.”

I fall in step beside him. “How do you enjoy life?” I ask finally. “Like actually enjoy it. Not just… survive it.”

“You have to stop treating joy like a reward for good behavior.”

***

The rest of the summer begins to unfold in small pieces. Samuel teaches me how to keep tomatoes alive after I accidentally overwater his entire garden bed. We wander slowly through the Saturday farmer’s market where he insists that peaches should smell sweet before you buy them. Some evenings we wade in the lake at dusk while the sky turns lavender overhead. Other nights we sit in his cottage with the windows open while old jazz records crackle softly through the rooms.

And then there’s the piano.

It sits tucked into the corner of Samuel’s living room beneath a dusty lamp, polished beautifully even though I have never once seen him touch it.

“You play?” I ask the first time I notice it.

“Used to.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes me glance instinctively toward his hands resting against the armchair. Slight stiffness in the joints of his fingers. I assume arthritis.

“Would you teach me?” I ask, hoping that the chance to pass on his knowledge might offer him some small happiness, now that he can no longer play himself.

Samuel studies me for a moment.

“Well?” he says, gesturing towards a beginner piano book. “Come embarrass yourself.”

He doesn’t teach anything serious. Just small things. Scales. Chords. Simple melodies that my fingers still stumble through. Despite his corrections of my posture or dry commentary on my playing, I see a light in Samuel’s eyes I have not noticed at any other point.

One evening near the end of July, I find a framed photograph tucked between stacks of sheet music. It’s a younger version of Samuel onstage in a black tuxedo beneath bright concert lights, a beautiful woman in a sparkling dress at his side.

“You were famous!”

Samuel exhales softly through his nose. “Once upon a time.”

That night, we sit barefoot at the end of his dock while moonlight ripples across the lake.

“Who was the woman?” I ask, quietly.

“Evelyn.” He pauses. “I called her Evie.”

The way he says her name tells me everything before he continues.

“She got dementia,” he says gently. “Slowly at first. Then all at once.”

I stay silent.

“By the end, she no longer recognized the music.” His eyes drift toward the dark water. “Eventually I became a stranger too.”

The grief in his voice is strong enough that I feel it too.

“I haven’t played piano since she died.”

For a long moment, neither of us speak.

“I hope you and your children never watch your spouse go through that.”

I hesitate for a moment, not sure what to say.

“I never thought I’d have any of that.”

“What?”

“A marriage. A family. A life bigger than work.” I stare out across the lake. “I always assumed it wasn’t in the cards for me.”

“Surely, you could still find it.”

I think about how I’m in my thirties now and don’t even know how to talk to men. “It’s too late for me.”

***

August arrives quietly.

The rejection emails arrive faster. Savings accounts dip lower than I’m comfortable admitting. I begin waking up anxious again, my instinct every morning to reach for my phone. Soon I’m checking emails while Samuel talks. Refreshing job boards at Cedar’s. Half-listening during our piano lessons while mentally calculating rent payments.

“You’re disappearing again,” Samuel says one evening as I stare blankly at my inbox.

I exhale sharply. “At least I’m trying to build a future instead of sitting around mourning the past forever.”

The words land harder than I intend them to.

Samuel goes still across from me. Though his expression doesn’t harden. Somehow that makes it worse.

“You think I’m wasting my life?” he asks softly.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “I think you gave up on it.”

Silence stretches between us.

“And you spent years sacrificing your entire life for a version of success that has never once made you happy.”

I open my mouth, already reaching for another defense, but nothing comes out.

That night, I sit alone at the end of the dock. For years, I treated joy like something irresponsible. Something earned only after achievement or exhaustion or perfection. But something I never experienced because I didn’t believe I was worthy. He was right.

By morning, my bags are packed beside the door. I convince myself that I should stop at Cedar’s once more on my way out of town.

Samuel sits in his usual booth by the window. Coffee. Rhubarb custard pie. Untouched.

“You never eat it,” I say softly, sitting down across from him.

“It was Evelyn’s favorite.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “She said that all proper breakfasts should involve whipped cream.”

I can’t help but smile at the memory.

“After she died, I kept ordering it anyway.” His fingers rest lightly beside the plate. “Thought it honored her somehow. But I could never bring myself to eat it without her.” He exhales quietly. “But I suppose you were right. Maybe there comes a point where mourning something starts looking a lot like refusing to live.”

Then I reach for the extra fork beside his coffee cup. He picks up his fork as well.

***

Returning to the lake has become part of my life in the same ways holidays or birthdays are. Every August, no matter how busy work becomes, I carve out two uninterrupted weeks and come back to the little town tucked between evergreens and water.

As I turn off the highway, my phone buzzes in the cupholder. Without even checking, I silence it. When we finally pull into town, my husband steps out first to let the dog loose from the backseat. Our golden retriever puppy tears across the grass chasing a shrieking bird while I lift our sleepy toddler into my arms.

“Good morning, Evie,” I coo as she reaches her sticky hands towards me.

Our first stop is always Cedar’s.

As we walk toward the diner, piano music drifts softly through open windows.

Inside, Samuel sits beside his upright piano that he set up in the corner of the diner. His fingers move easily across the keys. A framed photograph of Evelyn rests on top of the piano beside a vase of her favorite flowers.

And next to his coffee sits a half-eaten slice of rhubarb custard pie.