Strawberry Pie

Trying to keep a boat from getting wet was the most absurd thing Aubrey had done that day. And she’d already cleaned strawberry stains off the ceiling. 

Brian pulled the boat cover—a giant gray tarp-like cloth—from one of the onboard storage lockers and climbed out of the boat. His bare feet landed in the muddy water that had accumulated in a rut left by the trailer’s tire, splashing Aubrey’s legs and speckling her skin with dots of red clay. 

“Watch it!” She snapped and stepped away from her husband.

The storm had come on suddenly, like most summer storms in the muggy, buggy heart of Central Virginia. She’d been processing the five pounds of berries they’d picked at a strawberry farm that morning when the first groans of thunder rumbled. The light pouring through the kitchen window dimmed, casting a gray shadow over the sink full of stems. Then the rain came. 

Brian rushed down the hallway, buttoning his shorts and drying his hands on his legs. 

“I gotta cover the boat back up.” He ripped open the kitchen door and leapt down the porch steps, leaving the door—and Aubrey’s mouth—ajar. “Need your help out here!” he called from the yard. 

This is how Aubrey, still wearing her apron, ended up tromping through their muddy yard and tarping the musty old fishing boat. With red-stained fingers, she took a corner of the cover and helped Brian stretch it over the watercraft. Several fishing rods lay on the floor, along with an old Igloo cooler and a pair of sunbleached Crocks, the heels filled with water.

Brian hadn’t used the boat more than a couple of times since they bought it three years ago, and Aubrey couldn’t care less if it got wet. That’s what boats were supposed to be. Wet. Yet her husband had uncovered the damned thing, claiming he was going to get it ready for a day on the lake, and then disappeared to the bathroom for half an hour.

“You can bake a strawberry pie, and we’ll have a picnic on the water,” he’d suggested. 

It sounded like a good idea at the time—she’d even gotten it assembled and put in the oven—but neither of them had thought to check the weather, and now, any hopes of a trip to Smith Mountain Lake were rushing toward the storm drain at the end of their driveway. 

“You didn’t check the forecast?” Aubrey grumbled. Baby hairs stuck to her damp forehead and tickled her face. She swatted at them with one of her sticky hands. 

“It’s not supposed to rain in Moneta.” With a furrowed brow, he tossed one of the straps over the top of the boat, in her general direction. It slipped through her fingers and landed in the mud. An exasperated huff cut through her lips, and she stooped to grab it. 

Brian worked on the other side of the boat, passing the straps through the loops on the side of the tarp. He worked much quicker than her and had his side of the cover fastened down and secured with several fancy-looking knots by the time Aubrey had one strap pulled tight and tied sloppily to the trailer hitch.

“How’s it going over here?” Brian’s feet squelched in the clay. “We need to hurry before the other cell reaches us.” He nodded to the swollen gray clouds on the horizon. 

While he probably didn’t mean anything by his comments, Aubrey was suddenly struck with a red-hot anger that manifested as a churlish yell. She dropped the woven strap she was working with and snapped her attention to her husband. 

“If you want it done quickly, why don’t you do it yourself?” She glared up at his six-foot-three frame from her five-and-a-half-foot vantage point. Raindrops stained the shoulders of his green T-shirt. In his rush to get from the bathroom out to the boat, he hadn’t zipped his fly, and a scrap of red plaid boxer shorts poked through the opening.

“I can do it.” He squatted to retrieve the strap she’d discarded. “I just thought we’d get it done faster if we worked together.” 

Aubrey scoffed. They hadn’t worked together in months—maybe even years. If she hadn’t dragged him out of bed this morning, they wouldn’t have made it to the strawberry farm with his family. She’d coordinated with her sister-in-law, kept Brian on schedule, and made sure the car was gassed up—wasn’t it his responsibility to make sure they spent time with his side of the family? 

“What?” He paused, lowering the straps. 

As the clouds migrated overhead, the rain picked up. Aubrey’s apron and clothes soaked through, and the straps tugged on her shoulders, a heavy weight around her neck. The sound of the rain hissing against the ground matched the white noise in her head. She bit her lip and tried to stymie the stupid tears burning in her eyes. Why was she crying? 

“You—” Her voice cracked. She took a shaking breath and tried again. “You never want to do anything with me unless you need my help.” 

Brian’s eyebrows furrowed, and he took a step closer. 

“We don’t spend time together anymore.” Sure, they were together most of the time when they weren’t at work, but they weren’t really together. If she was in the kitchen, he was in the yard mowing the lawn or in the basement working on a project. When they watched television together in the evenings, they both scrolled on their phones, half paying attention to the series they were streaming. Sure, they still slept together a few times a week, but it never lasted more than thirty minutes, and ensuring she found pleasure took more work than it was worth.

At her words, Brian’s face fell. He hadn’t been smiling before, but his countenance changed from that of concentration and concern to disappointment, dismay even. He closed the space between them and cupped her chin in his hands, drawing her face up to meet his eyes.

“That’s what I was trying to do today,” he said.  

Aubrey’s tearful reflection peered back from his brown eyes. His thumbs brushed the rain and tears from her cheeks.

“Well, look how it turned out.” Because she hadn’t stretched it tight, the boat cover was filling with rainwater. A beetle paddled in frantic circles. 

“I’m trying.” He dropped his hands, and she immediately missed the warmth of his palms on her face.

Anger and disappointment and grief swelled in her chest. Anger at his lack of planning, disappointment over another ruined dream, and grief over the change in their relationship—the loss of butterflies and spontaneity and innocence. She wanted to shout—to drown him in all of the emotions churning through her and make him feel them too. “You’re not trying hard enough,” she wanted to snap back. But she didn’t. She swallowed her feelings, like she always did, and nodded. 

“Can you take it from here?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I need to take my pie out of the oven.”

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This short story first appeared in the 2026 Annual Journal of the Virginia Writers Club.