Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie

by Donna Kauffman

  He’d had to do something, dammit. He was all for giving her space, but at some point, it wasn’t sitting and thinking, it was hiding and avoiding. He’d watched folks troop in and out, deliverymen, locals, repairmen, subcontractors. What he hadn’t seen was her come out. Not once. There was plenty to do in the place to give her an excuse to not surface until next spring, if that’s what she wanted.

  But it wasn’t what he wanted. So, faced with going home alone, again, he’d gone next door to have a calm, rational conversation. All he’d wanted was to put his two cents in, see if that mattered at all. Get some sort of idea about how it was all going and where her mind was after playing hermit all goddamn week. He’d taken one look at her—hair pulled up in a tangle, serious glasses, clay covered shop apron, creating a scene that looked like it was something out of a Disney movie—and his resolve had snapped.

  If she could sit there creating happy little cartoon characters, then she wasn’t exactly wallowing in self-doubt and worry, was she? That was something a happy person did. If she was that damn happy, why hadn’t she come over to tell him about it?

  So he’d kissed her. He’d wanted a reaction—something, anything—to help him understand. And he’d gotten a reaction all right. Then he’d ruined it by throwing out ultimatums.

  He pulled into his driveway, shut off the engine, and lowered his forehead to the hands still fisted on the wheel, wondering if maybe a few good whacks would knock some sense into him. The least she could have done was get pissed at him, God knows he’d have deserved it, but no, she’d stood there and looked . . . well, he didn’t rightly know, but nothing about her reaction had made him feel remotely good about what he’d done.

  He’d finally found one last brain cell she hadn’t warped and gotten the hell out of there before he did anything more monumentally stupid. If that was possible.

  “I told her I suck at this.” He slammed out of his truck, but slowed down his stomping steps and his temper when Lolly came trotting down from the side screened-in porch, tail wagging in happy greeting. He crouched down and gave her a good scratch behind the ears. “You don’t know this, but I so do not deserve a happy greeting.”

  “No,” came a voice behind him. “You don’t.”

  He gave Lolly one last good scratch, partly because he wanted to and partly so he could get his suddenly thumping heart and slightly wobbly legs under control. Then he straightened up and turned around. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll agree with you there.”

  It made absolutely no sense whatsoever, but when she stepped closer and he got a good look at just how angry she was, he wanted to smile. Clearly, that was not the appropriate reaction. But a pissed off Honey was a hell of a sight better than a poleaxed, fragile looking Honey.

  “Where do you get off stomping into my shop and telling me what I am and am not going to do?”

  “I don’t,” he said simply. “I should be flogged for even considering it. Although, for the record, I didn’t stomp.” He walked down the driveway toward her. “I know you’re mad, and you have every right to be, but I don’t want to fight with you. I never want to fight with you.”

  “Oh no. Don’t you go and get all reasonable with me now. I get to keep my mad on long enough so I get my turn to tell you where you can step right the hell off.”

  “And you should. And I know you will. Probably many times. I know I’ll deserve it, every time.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not. I just . . . come here, sugar.” He reached for her, but didn’t grab her like before. “Please?”

  The fight went out of her body. Her shoulders lost their rigid, squared off look, and she shifted out of her braced stance, but there was still a storm going on in those eyes, one he’d be well advised to heed.

  “You don’t fight fair,” she muttered. “I get my turn.”

  “I don’t want to fight at all.” He stepped closer. “Can we kiss and not make up, then kiss some more until we both want to make up?”

  She snorted, then she swore. “I really hate it that you can make me laugh right now.”

  “I really hate it that you came here with me, and made a permanent mark on this place . . . then left and never came back.” Dylan lifted his hands out to her. “Come home, Honey. We’ll figure the rest out. One way or the other. Just . . . don’t go away again, okay? We need to do this together. We’re better together than we are apart. That’s all that really matters, right?”

  She kept her arms folded tightly over her chest, looked down at her feet, and kicked a rock or two. “Have I mentioned that I also hate it—a lot—when you’re always right?”

  He took her elbows gently and tugged her close. She went grudgingly, arms still folded, but she went.

  “You can be right next time. And the time after that. Now please, you’re killing me. Come here, sugar.”

  She finally lifted her gaze to his and he saw that her eyes were swimming in tears. It would have been easier and less painful if someone had stuck a knife in his gut. “Aw, now don’t do that.”

  “Trust me, I don’t want to. You don’t deserve tears.” She sniffled, even as her expression remained stormy. “I don’t want this to be so hard. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to do the exact opposite of that. I wanted to make sure. Not of you, but of me. I don’t know how to do that because I don’t have a lot of faith in my ability to see it through. I’m a hider, Dylan. And you’re a cave dweller. If I come out of hiding and take this on, I’m going to drag you into it with me. You’re already so many things to me, everything I wanted and more than I ever knew existed . . . and I’m so afraid I won’t be that for you. I’m afraid that you’ll start out wanting this, then you’ll realize you signed on for complete and utter chaos, and you’ll walk away. I wouldn’t even blame you. But you were wrong about one thing. You said if anything bad happened, we’d survive. But”—her breath hitched, and the tears leaked out, making tracks down her cheeks—“if I ruined your life so badly that you had to leave, and you didn’t want me . . . I don’t think I would survive.”

  “Here I thought I was the dense one,” he said, tipping her chin up, bringing her mouth close to his. “I love you.”

  Her breath caught at that, and she pressed her fists against his chest. “Dylan—”

  “I love you, Honey Pie D’Amourvell. I know it’s fast, but nothing about any of this has gone according to anything like a normal plan, and . . . I’ve never said those words before, to anyone. I wouldn’t say them now if I didn’t mean them.” He hurried on before she could say anything, suddenly way out on the longest limb of his life, and scared like hell it was about to crack underneath the weight of what he’d just put on it. “Don’t say it back, don’t even respond. I just want that to matter. If it does, well, then we’ll figure out the next step, whatever that—”

  She cut him off by grabbing his face and pulling him down into a hard, fast, tear-stained kiss. “It matters,” she said against his lips, then kissed him again before looking up into his eyes, her own still glassy and beseeching. “I just need to know, to believe, it will be enough.”

  She caressed his face with work roughened hands, and it was all he could do not to take them, and kiss those palms, her fingers, so she’d know, she’d understand. But she either would . . . or she wouldn’t. He couldn’t make her love him back.

  “You’ve become so much to me, so fast,” she said, and his gaze sharpened on hers.

  “But?”

  “No but. I’ve never said those words to anyone but family. You’re more certain than me, more confident than me. This is all so new, and because it’s happened so fast, I want to sort it out, make sure it is what I think it is, not rush into anything for fear I’m mistaking lust for love, or security for love. I have no experience, and sometimes I feel so naïve and so stupid about stuff because I’ve so completely cut myself off. You matter so much, more than all the rest of it. This . . . what we already have . . . it’s everything. E
verything. And that scares me because that can’t be normal, right? Is it even healthy? Shouldn’t I just pack it in and run now?”

  She laughed and there was a slight edge of panic to it. “That’s how my mind works because that’s how I’ve managed to survive. While I want this new normal life more than anything, I don’t really know what normal is, Dylan. I’ve never lived normal. I’m not normal. I can see it for other people, but what shape does it take on for me? No matter what, I can’t fully engage in a normal life, I know that much.”

  “Do you trust me?” he asked when she paused to take a breath.

  “More than anyone I’ve ever trusted, even Bea.” She said it without hesitation.

  And that branch under him got a little stronger. “Then that’s where we start. You have to understand, I don’t honestly give a shit about anyone else’s idea of normal. I sure as hell don’t live that way. All I care about is what works for me. So, you and I will figure out what normal is. For you. And for us. It’s that simple, Honey. I know you. I know what you’re dealing with, and I’m still here. It’s not just a you thing anymore, it’s an us thing. All that matters is what our normal is.”

  “What is your middle name?”

  He frowned, completely at a loss. “What? Thomas. After my grandfather. Why?”

  She smiled through the shimmer of tears, and smoothed her palms flat to his chest over his heart, then lifted one hand to his face, and wove her fingers back through his hair. “Because, Dylan Thomas Ross, it’s quite possible I love you right back. I sure hope you’re ready for that. I have a feeling we have absolutely no idea what’s in store for us.”

  He took her hand and kissed her palm, curled her fingers inward to capture it, then placed it over his heart. “Well, see, that’s just the thing, sugar,” he said, heart thundering so loud he almost couldn’t hear himself speak. “I figure if anyone’s gonna find out about that, it’ll be you.”

  Then he made her squeal by scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into the house—their house—with Lolly barking excitedly at their heels all the way.

  Epilogue

  Honey tipped her face up to the sun and enjoyed the warm breeze as it rushed over her skin. She couldn’t believe summer was almost over. They’d gotten the sailboat in the water a few weeks ago, and already it was pretty much her favorite place in the world. Even more than her still half unpacked jumble of a studio, although that was a close second. But out on the water, it was just her, and Dylan, and the rhythms of the sea. She felt completely and utterly free. It was the one place, outside of Dylan’s arms, where she could let her guard down completely.

  She looked at Dylan manning the wheel, and smiled all the way down to her toes. Figuring things out hadn’t been easy, and she was still unsure how she was going to balance the different parts of her life, but they were slowly learning each other’s moods and their own rhythms, while blending their daily routines and opening up to each other even when it was hard, maybe especially then. But he’d been absolutely and utterly right about one thing . . . figuring it out together beat the hell out of spending a moment trying to do it alone.

  She’d had the vision again this morning when he’d taken her hand in his while still asleep. He did that often, and it charmed her, touched her every single time. It had been a while since she’d had the sailboat vision, and she’d thought maybe she wouldn’t have it again, so she’d been happy to sink into it. Now that she’d been on the boat for real and experienced part of that vision, she embraced it more fully. Maybe that was why she’d gotten another piece of it.

  Her smile spread to a wide grin, even as her stomach did a few little cartwheels and flip-flops. She’d finally seen the child. He’d turned and looked right at her. Her child . . . with eyes of pure, clear green. They’d shared a smile, mother and son, a secret smile. Honey knew then that she had no choice but to keep figuring out how to balance her gift while living in the real world. She was going to have to if she was going to guide her son down that same path . . . because no way was he going to be a hider. She wouldn’t let him.

  She was very sure his daddy wouldn’t, either.

  She let the butterflies dance, but at her core, felt nothing but contentment. She continued to watch Dylan, so confident, so happy . . . and to her absolute and utter relief... also sublimely content, and wondered if she should tell him.

  Her laughter danced to him over the breeze and he turned and smiled. “Come here, sugar.” He winked at her. “Time for you to learn to steer this thing.”

  She stood up and walked over to him on her steadily improving sea legs. He tucked her easily between his body and the wheel and she reveled, as she always did, in how good and right it felt to be in the circle of his arms. She knew she’d always fit right there, no matter what. The strength she drew from that absolute knowledge was immeasurable and made the decision on tackling the rest, as he’d said, a no brainer.

  He placed her hands on the wheel. “Kind of like a car. Ten o’clock, two o’clock. But you have to get a feel for it, because this road is ever changing and it’s never the same twice. Figuring it out, though, is the best part.”

  She smiled, thinking that was pretty much the story of her life . . . her new life.

  He covered her hands with his, leaned down, and kissed the side of her neck. “Got it, sugar?”

  Yes, she thought, looking up into his eyes. I really think I do.

  Find out what’s cooking from the ladies of the Cupcake Club . . .

  Alva’s Minced Apple Pie Minis

  I adapted my Grandmother Margie’s pie recipe to make these little cuties. In her pie pastry, she always used shortening. (Okay, so, early, early on, it was lard . . .) All the time I was growing up I used shortening to make my piecrusts and I have to say they were always pretty darn good! But as I’ve gotten more into baking while researching the Cupcake Club books, the pastry chefs I’ve studied have always used butter. And . . . who am I to quibble with the likes of Julia and Nigella? So I’ve substituted butter here and I’ve really liked the results. However, if, like me, you’ve a soft spot for doing things the old-fashioned way, you can substitute shortening and it will still be just as yummy. (And the added bonus is you don’t have to wait for it to become room temperature to start baking!)

  And! You won’t need any special pie tins for this recipe—these mini-pies bake right in your cupcake pans. Yes, apple pie cupcakes! (I know, it’s like the two best things all in one. And they look pretty darn adorable, too!)

  For the crust:

  2 cups flour

  2 teaspoons salt

  2 teaspoons sugar

  1½ sticks butter (¾ cup), room temperature but not too soft, cut in small cubes

  4–5 tablespoons ice-cold water

  1. Preheat the oven to 375°F.

  2. Whisk together the flour, sugar, and salt.

  3. Cut the butter into small cubes and work it into the flour mixture with a fork or pastry blender. (Yes, you can use a food processor, but it can make the finished mixture granular and your crust then becomes very dense.) Work the fork or pastry blender until the dough is in small, pea-size pieces.

  4. Sprinkle the cold water over the dough one tablespoon at a time, and work the dough into a ball.

  5. Put the dough in the fridge until you finish making the filling.

  For the filling:

  5 medium-size tart apples (If you can find them, Jonagold, Cortland, or Northern Spy are great for making apple pies!)

  ½ cup sugar

  ½ cup brown sugar

  2 teaspoons cinnamon

  1 teaspoon nutmeg

  teaspoon salt

  2 tablespoons flour

  2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

  6. Peel and cut up the apples to remove the core, then dice the apples into small slivers or pieces (about the size of slivered almonds, only thicker).

  7. In a separate bowl, use a sturdy whisk to mix together the sugar, brown sugar, spices, salt, and flour until blended.
(Break up packed brown sugar with a fork before blending to make whisking easier.)

  8. Stir in the vanilla extract.

  9. Add in the diced apples and stir gently with a mixing spoon until the pieces look evenly coated and there is little of the mixture left in the bottom of the bowl.

  10. When all the filling ingredients are well mixed, take the dough from the fridge. Lightly flour a rolling pin and your flat surface, then roll the dough out to a uniform -inch thickness.

  11. Lightly dust the surface of the rolled dough with flour. Place a small bowl (approximately 4½–5 inches across) open side down on top of the dough and cut around the edge. Gently press the dough circle into each cup of a cupcake pan, trimming or pinching off any excess to the edge of the cup. Make sure the dough comes to the top edge all the way around, as you’ll need it to put the top strips on. Repeat until all 12 cups are lined.

  12. Keep all the scraps and leftovers for the top strips, and wrap them and put them in the fridge briefly to firm up while filling the cups.

  13. Scoop the filling into each of the prepared pie cups, filling to the top, but not over the top edge.

  14. Press fork tips into the bottom of each pie cup several times.

  Making the lattice top:

  15. Take out the remaining dough from the fridge, and as before, roll out to -inch thickness. Use a table knife to cut the dough into thin strips approximately ¼–to -inch wide. Lay the strips over the tops of each pie cup in a lattice. (There may be 10 or more strips in each direction. Don’t separate them too much, but don’t put them so close together that it will be difficult to weave the cross-strips over and under them.) Push the edges into the edge of the cup, or press lightly with the dough at the edge.

  16. Bake at 375°F for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the crust turns golden brown. Put a baking sheet on the rack under them to catch any apple mixture that might boil over. When finished baking, set the cupcake pan on a rack until cool, then carefully slide each pie from its cup. Use a table knife gently to loosen the edge, especially where apple mixture might have boiled over.