by Meg Muldoon
My mouth dropped open and I let out a little gasp.
She didn’t.
But it was clear – oh so clear – that she had.
She walked a little ways back to the group of ladies, slung back the hand filled with warm apples, and let it fly in Laurel’s general direction.
“Oh, my lord!” I shouted.
There were gasps in the room as ladies ducked for cover underneath their purses, recipe sheets, and anything they could grab.
Everyone, except Laurel, who hadn’t so much as flinched at Jo’s apple snowball.
She must have known something the rest of us didn’t: that Jo didn’t have much aim and didn’t know her own strength.
The pie filling sailed over the heads of everyone, hitting the back wall with a loud splat. It missed its mark by a mile.
Jo let out a loud, frustrated grunt, and then went back over to her overturned chair. She grabbed her bag from up off the floor and climbed over a few of the other ladies to get out from her row again. Her rhinestone flip flops slapped the floor loudly as she walked to the back of the kitchen. She pushed the dividing door open, and held it there for a moment as she paused.
“Don’t none of you trust that snake in the grass there,” she said, nodding toward the back of Laurel’s head. “That woman will bite ya if she has the chance. I should know.”
Jo flung herself through the door as everyone’s eyes followed her out.
“Well, I…” I started, wondering how to bridge over what just had happened.
But no one was listening to me. A moment later, everyone’s eyes were back on Laurel.
“My goodness,” she said, looking down sheepishly. “Cinnamon, I’m so, so sorry about that. That was horribly embarrassing.”
I cleared my throat and glanced over at Erik again, who was continuing to write in his notebook feverishly.
“That’s, uh, that’s okay,” I said.
There was stunned silence throughout the classroom.
I didn’t know what to say. I knew that Jo and Laurel didn’t get along, but this… this was outrageous.
What grown person threw pie like that? Let alone, a city councilor’s wife?
“Now, I’m sure I’m not the only one whose stomach is growling, am I right?” Laurel said, looking around, breaking the silence. “I think we’re all dying to find out the secret behind that pie of yours, Cinnamon.”
“Well, uh, I’m afraid I’ll have to start over on the filling,” I said, still somewhat in shock over what had just occurred. “Jo contaminated it.”
“Well, practice makes perfect, am I right, ladies?” Laurel said, not missing a beat. “I don’t mind seeing you make the filling again. Besides, with Jo being such a loudmouth, I missed a lot of it the first time.”
There was a grunt of approval from the rest of the class, which made me feel better.
I started cutting up some apples and began remaking the filling. Meanwhile, Laurel was kind enough to clean up the apple filling bomb that had splattered against the back wall.
Control had gotten away from me for a moment, but now I was beginning to regain some measure of it.
I had no idea how teachers did this every day.
I started up again, launching into a long discussion about pie thickeners and the benefits and negatives of flour, corn starch, tapioca, and gelatin. It wasn’t long before Jo Pugmire seemed like a distant memory.
And even though my mouth was running, and I was answering questions from the ladies in the class, my mind was somewhere else entirely.
Thinking of why I had decided to do these classes in the first place.
For those two long, lovely weeks out on the beach.
The sand, the surf, the tropical sun, and of course, Daniel.
That was going to make having to deal with the pie-slinging Jo Pugmires of the world worth it.
Chapter 2
I stood in the bathroom, scrubbing hopelessly at the caked blush on my face with a wet paper towel.
There wasn’t any other way of saying it: I was beat.
Playing referee between Jo and Laurel while showing the rest of the class the secrets behind making a soul-satisfying pie would do that to a person. That, in addition to an hour after class talking to a reporter about me and my pie shop… well, it wasn’t any wonder why I was so tired.
But barring the near fist fight that had broken out and Jo’s tantrum, the session had gone well. The apple pie turned out just as good as always, and the ladies in class seemed quite satisfied by the end.
Erik, the reporter, even seemed to have trouble saying no to a second helping of the pie. Which I took as a compliment, given his lean and wiry frame. He didn’t strike me as a man with much of a sweet tooth. If I were to guess, I’d bet he took his coffee black and drank green juice smoothies for breakfast. I was sure getting him to eat something as sinfully rich as pie was a real boon.
The interview with him afterwards went smoothly, too. The questions really weren’t all that hard, and I answered them with ease. I had rehearsed some of the answers the night before, and they came out sounding charming and spur-of-the-moment. Some of my responses even elicited a half-smirk from the stoic reporter.
All and all, save for the makeup that refused to give into my attempts to remove it, the evening had gone remarkably well. As I stood there in the restroom, looking at myself in the mirror, I found myself happier than a lark at the prospect of being featured in the paper’s Community Life section later this week.
I just hoped that Erik wouldn’t mention much about Jo’s pie-throwing incident.
I suddenly heard the bell on the front door jingle. I threw the pile of damp paper towels in the trash and went out to see who had wandered into my pie shop at such a late hour.
“Now, Cinnamon Peters… did I just catch you taking off my masterpiece?”
Kara stood in the kitchen, looking a little melted and disheveled from the heat outside. Her eyeliner was slightly smudged, and her long blond hair was piled high into a messy and scrappy bun.
She placed a drink carrier on the kitchen island and put her hands on her hips in a feigned expression of resentment.
“You know how long it took me to get those fake eyelashes on you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And you know how long it’s going to take me to get all of this off?”
She shook her head.
“Say what you will now,” she said. “But you looked beautiful for your fancy photo shoot, and don’t be surprised if there’s a whole pack of men lining up outside the pie shop once the article comes out.”
I rolled my eyes.
Kara was exaggerating, the way she usually did about such matters. But maybe she was right — maybe I hadn’t looked as insane as I had first thought. It was still probably better than anything I could have done in the war paint department.
I had always been something of a tomboy my whole life and I got lost when I had to do anything beyond a little eyeliner and eye shadow.
“Well, I doubt that. But I did really appreciate your help, Kara. Thank you.”
She waved her hand at me.
“Save it,” she said. “You don’t have to thank me. It was fun to see you actually dressed up for once at work and not just buried under flour and sweat, the way you usually are.”
She handed me one of the tall cups from the drink carrier. I recognized the familiar orange and white container immediately, and I felt a little pop of joy in my heart at the sight of it.
“You got me a pumpkin cheesecake milkshake from Benny’s Shake Shack in Redmond?” I said, grinning broadly.
Outside of pie, a pumpkin cheesecake milkshake was my favorite treat. Growing up, Kara and I would make runs at the beginning of the school year to Benny’s Shake Shack in Redmond, a town that was 45 minutes away, for their famous shakes. They only made the pumpkin cheesecake milkshake for a few months out of the year, using pumpkins that Benny the owner had roasted and pureed down for the ice cream in the shakes.
“Hell, yes,” Kara said, smiling. “We’re celebrating, aren’t we? You’ve worked hard for this, Cin. You deserve the recognition.”
We clinked the frosty cups together. I sucked on the straw until the shake finally came through, and then savored the creamy sweet flavors that danced on my taste buds. It tasted like pure autumn, and everything we had to look forward to.
I was lucky to have a best friend like Kara. Even if she was a little heavy handed with her blush brush.
She took a seat at the kitchen island, and I sat next to her, kicking off my uncomfortable heels.
“Now, I want to hear how it went,” she said, taking a noisy slurp from the shake. “Every last detail.”
I told her about Jo and Laurel nearly coming to blows for no good reason, about Jo throwing pie filling at the class, and about how Jo had called Laurel a snake in the grass.
Her eyes grew wide at the part about Jo throwing pie.
“No way,” she said.
I nodded.
“Yes way. It really happened. And a whole roomful of ladies witnessed it.”
Kara smirked and shook her head silently.
“Those two are too much,” she said. “I can’t believe they did that in front of everybody in the middle of your class. Doesn’t it seem like the wives of our elected representatives should handle themselves a little better in public?”
“I know,” I said, after a long pull on the milkshake. The smooth ice cream was the best cure there was for the unusual 90-degree heatwave we’d been in. “This little incident is going to be the talk at everyone’s dinner table tonight. They should know better in a town this size.”
I paused and shook my head.
“You should have seen the way the reporter was taking notes when they were throwing insults and pie at each other. It was the most interested he looked the whole class.”
“I wonder if we’ll ever know what really happened between those two,” Kara said. “For all their drama, they sure keep a tight lid on why they hate each other so much.”
“It is strange,” I said. “I mean, it’s hard keeping a secret in a town as small as Christmas River. But somehow they’ve managed to pull it off.”
“Well, my money’s on the affair,” Kara said.
“You mean between Laurel and Jo’s husband?” I asked.
Kara nodded.
I let out a scoff.
“You would think that.”
For as long as I’d known Kara, which had been for most of my life, she’d always loved a tale of romantic intrigue and forbidden lust. The bookshelves in her house were packed full of romantic mystery novels with steamy covers that made a gal like me blush profusely at the sight of them.
“True,” she said, smiling. “But seriously. Imagine being married to a loudmouth like Jo for twenty years. I have to think that would take a toll, sooner or later. And you know, that Harry isn’t such a bad-looking fellow for his age. I could see where someone like Laurel might go for him.”
I shrugged.
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe it’s that real estate deal that people said fell through.”
Kara finished the last of her shake, and started sucking air.
“Could be,” she said. “But that’s not anywhere near as juicy as an illicit affair between a rich rancher’s wife and a distinguished city councilor.”
I smirked.
“Sounds like you’ve got yourself a plot worthy of Nora Roberts,” I said. “You should write it.”
She laughed.
“Maybe I will,” she said, tossing the empty cup in the trash. “But my taste runs a little, well, a little racier than old Nora’s books, I’m afraid.”
She grinned devilishly.
“Jesus, Kara,” I said, shaking my head.
She cackled. I think she got a kick out of my disapproval of her romantic studies.
“Now, enough about those two old broads and my romance books. Let’s hear about the rest of the class and the interview.”
I told her about the reporter’s questions, and about when the article was scheduled to run. It’d come out just in time for the Christmas River Rodeo, where, for the first time ever, I was going to have a pie booth to sell my pies to the hordes of tourists who came to see our nearly 100-year old annual roundup.
“I gotta admit, though, I’m a little nervous about the article,” I said. “I hope I sounded as good as I thought I did.”
Kara waved her arms.
“I’m sure it’s going to be great,” she said. “And if nothing else, the photos will turn out nice. You were looking gorgeous before you scrubbed away my work of art.”
I finished the last of my milkshake, feeling sad that it was over. I tossed the cup in the garbage can.
“So what have you been up to tonight?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“Same ol’ same ol’,” she said. “John’s still at the office. So I’ve just been crafting at the shop most of the evening. Then I went out to Redmond for the shakes.”
She sighed loudly.
“So nothing too exciting, I’m afraid.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Anything the matter?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“No, not really,” she said. “I’m just… well, I guess you could say I’m kind of in the September doldrums.”
“Did something happen?” I said.
“No,” she said. “And that’s just it. Nothing’s been happening. John works at his practice all the time. I work at the shop all the time. Nothing changes. The brightest part of my day, I mean, aside from doing your makeup, was gossiping just now about Laurel and Jo. It’s just so…”
She sighed.
“Mundane.”
She rubbed her face.
“I don’t know. Maybe I just need a vacation.”
I patted her shoulder.
I knew how she felt. I was there too, in a way. Owning your own business could sometimes suck the life out of you. It was easy to get caught up in working long hours. It felt like I’d missed the entire summer slaving away in my pie shop.
Hell, I’d even stopped volunteering at the Humane Society, something that I loved doing, but just didn’t have the time for now.
“Have you talked to John at all about how you feel?”
She shook her head.
“I just… I’m not sure he’d understand.”
She looked at me for a moment, and then her fallen expression changed into a phony smile.
“I shouldn’t whine so much,” she said. “I’ve got nothing to complain about. Let’s talk about something else.”
I scanned her face, suddenly realizing that things were worse than I had thought.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
She waved a hand at me.
“No, no,” she said. “I’m fine. Now, c’mon. Tell me what that reporter was like. Was he cute?”
I played along and went into a long description of Erik Andersen, not pressing the issue.
I told her about Erik’s sandy blond hair and hazelnut brown eyes. About the way his silver-framed glasses rested on his high cheekbones oh-so-properly. About his tall and lean frame. Her eyes grew big, and she said that maybe her romance novel instead should feature a love triangle between the distinguished city councilor, the rich rancher’s wife, and the hunky, brooding reporter.
But despite Kara’s joke, I could tell something was amiss.
Half an hour later, she left, saying she needed to go to the store to pick up some groceries for dinner.
I thanked her again for her help with my makeup and watched as she left through the kitchen’s back door.
I sighed.
It made me sad seeing Kara unhappy like this.
Late summer sometimes made for this kind of restlessness. Made you tire of the monotony of small town living. Made you think about doing wild, outlandish things.
Hell, half the town suffered from that kind of thing this time of year. People did crazy thi
ngs when the smoke from the wildfires lingered in the air too long, the way it had these past few months. People backed their cars into trees. They fell in love with people they normally never would have and left their significant others. They’d leave burners on by accident and before they knew it, their kitchen would be up in flames.
But it was all temporary. Husbands would show up with flowers for their scorned wives, begging for forgiveness. Cars would get fixed, and kitchens would get renovated. Just as soon as the cooler temperatures returned and the wildfire season ended.
But I could see in Kara’s face that it was more than just a late summer malaise she was suffering from.
And what was worse was that I didn’t know what I could do to help.
Chapter 3
I rolled down the window and let the smoky night air run its fingers through my hair.
It was unusually warm for a September evening in Christmas River. Normally, even on the hottest of days, the nights were cool in the Central Oregon Cascades. But the smoke from the wildfires in nearby Bridger Valley had trapped all the heat from the day, the way it had for most of the summer. The air felt stagnant and warm, like the inside of a chimney right after the fire’s last embers die out.
Maybe it was the unpleasant atmosphere or how hard I’d been working the past few months, but this summer had felt like the longest one I’d ever known. And not in a good way.
I couldn’t wait to get to the cool trade winds of Maui next week.
I glanced up at my face in the mirror. Some of the blush was still clinging to my cheeks, and I wondered if I didn’t look like a Barbie doll tossed in the oven: all melted and droopy.
Daniel was going to get a kick out of this look I had going.
I just hoped that he was home, and that he didn’t have to pull another long shift tonight.
But I should have known better than to complain about Daniel’s long hours. That’s what you get when you marry a sheriff.
I sighed happily, thinking about our lives.
We’d been married for just over eight months now. And in some ways, it felt like a lot had changed in that time. I sold my house and moved into the beautiful new one Daniel had bought us on Sugar Pine Road. For the first time, we were living together. And while that inevitably brought up its share of issues, overall, being Mrs. Daniel Brightman had been a slice of pure heaven.
