Sweet as Pie

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Ms. Watkins?” Killen was waving his hand in the air. Of course he was.

  “Yes, Able? But call me Claire.”

  “Is Evans catering the breakfast?”

  Was she?

  “No. We thought of asking her to make quiches, but her parents will be in town”—she nodded in Jake’s direction—“to see Jake play, so we thought that was a lot to ask.”

  Ha! Take that, Killen. Her parents are coming to see me play.

  There were a few catcalls and whistles that Jake answered with a wave.

  “One last thing.” Claire turned another page. “The Laurel Springs Fall Festival. It’s in four weeks. The date is October twenty-fifth. Make sure you note it on your calendar. As we’ve mentioned, you will be expected to volunteer in some capacity. Two of you have already made arrangements for your volunteer opportunity. That’s commendable.”

  Jake felt good about that. He’d already emailed Claire about his ghost stories.

  Claire went on. “You don’t have to line up your own activity, of course. I’ll be happy to assign you. But if you’d like to, it would be an excellent opportunity for you to get out and meet people in the community. You have a list in your email of the merchants and organizations participating. If you do secure a spot, let me know so you don’t get double booked.” She looked around the room meeting eyes again. Her eyes looked mean—the color of steel. Shouldn’t a woman her age need reading glasses? She must have had some kind of surgery. Or maybe she was a robot. “Any questions?”

  “Oui.” That was Tremblay, speaking French like he was wont to do. There was one in every crowd. “What kind of things will we be doing at this fall festival?”

  “You’ll pose for photographs, sign autographs, and pass out Yellowhammer schedules and pucks. Apart from that, you’ll help with serving refreshments, and activities like pumpkin carving, a hayride, and games. Molly, from the toy store, needs someone to do face painting. It would be good if you would tweet a few times during the event.”

  Another groan went through the room.

  “Oh, come on,” Claire said. “It could be worse. Look at the list I sent you. Pick out what you want to do, and contact the appropriate person. Then let me know so I don’t assign you to the dunking booth at Clark’s Hardware. Two of your teammates have already guaranteed that they’ll stay dry.” Claire shuffled through her papers. “Jake Champagne is telling ghost stories at Heirloom Antiques.”

  Good-natured laughter and applause went through the room. Yeah, baby. I’m on it. Jake stood up and took a little bow.

  “And,” Claire went on, “Able Killen is supervising the cornhole game at Crust.”

  Hellfire and brimstone! Jake fell back in his seat.

  He’d made a mistake. Why had he not considered that something would be going on at Crust?

  Oh, right. Because when he’d said he knew ghost stories, he hadn’t known he was volunteering for a fall festival. Now, Killen was going to be hanging out with Evie, eating free pie, handing out beanbags, and—well, he didn’t know what else. He didn’t know much about cornhole, starting with why it was called cornhole.

  The meeting was over. Claire had left the podium and everyone was milling around—everyone except Jake. He was glued to the chair he had so badly wanted out of a short while ago.

  “You’re going to do what?” Robbie stood over him.

  “Tell ghost stories at an antique store.” Jake got up.

  Robbie laughed. “You don’t know any ghost stories.”

  Why did everybody assume he didn’t know any ghost stories? It might be true, but there was no evidence of it.

  “You probably don’t even believe in ghosts,” Robbie said.

  “Of course I don’t. Don’t tell me you do.”

  “It’s not a matter of believing.” Robbie tapped his temple with his index finger. “It’s knowing. I know what I’ve seen in my own home. Scotland is crawling with spirits of all kinds—witches, too. Fairies, selkies, kelpies. I should be the one telling ghost stories.”

  “Hey, stay off my turf. If you want to find someone to let you hold forth on the Loch Ness Monster, be my guest, but do it far away from my antique store.” He needed to find out where this store was, how far it was from Crust. Was there any chance he could tell his stories and keep an eye on Killen?

  “Why would I do that? There’s no such thing as a Loch Ness Monster. Whole thing was a hoax.”

  “I’ll never understand you,” Jake said.

  “I’m not meant to be understood.” Robbie took a long drink of Gatorade. “What I want to know is how you got yourself into this and why.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Sort of like the celibacy bet.

  “It has something to do with a woman. It has to.”

  True, but not like you think.

  Robbie squinted and suddenly looked very interested. “You haven’t already lost the bet, have you?”

  “No. And I’m not going to.”

  “We’ll see,” Robbie said. “Are you hungry? I’m going with Logan, Luca, and some of the others to poke around downtown Birmingham. It won’t be a late night. We just want to get some food and see what’s up.”

  Late or not didn’t matter. It was that seeing what was up that led to problems—problems that led to losing your lucky puck and landing right back on Debauchery Road.

  “No, thanks, but why don’t you take Able Killen with you?” He could use a little finding out what was up—somewhere other than in Laurel Springs Village.

  Robbie laughed. “Captain Killen? I asked him. He said he was planning to track down someone he’d been wanting to talk to.”

  Jake’s scalp prickled. “Is that right?” If it was Evie, too bad for him. She had important pie business tonight.

  “That’s what he said. Come on. Go with us.”

  Jake shook his head. “I really can’t. I have plans.”

  “Are you sure it doesn’t involve a lovely lassie?”

  Yes. No way was he admitting he was getting a cooking lesson. “Just Evie. She’s making me a chicken pot pie.”

  Shame suddenly washed over him. He shouldn’t have said she was just Evie. She was something special.

  Robbie shook his head. “Nursery food with a lass you’ve known since the nursery. And you say you don’t understand me.”

  * * *

  “You’re really something special.” Jake leaned in and made use of his eyes like Evans had never seen him do before—and that was saying a lot. Then he smiled. She couldn’t help but lean forward a little, too. “You’re so special that I think you deserve a little something extra, don’t you?”

  Then he raised the cobalt blue bottle of sparkling water to his lips, drank, and closed his eyes as if he were savoring the water. Next he treated the world to a glimpse of his eyes again—eyes that matched the bottle perfectly. He held the water up. “Cool, clean, refreshing, with nothing to feel guilty about.” He took another sip and held the bottle up again. “Sparkle—the champagne of sparkling water. And I know about sparkle.”

  And he sparkled—with his eyes, his smile, a wink, and a toss of his head.

  Before he turned and walked away from the camera, Evans reached for the remote and turned off the television.

  It was understandable that someone would pause to watch if they happened to catch a commercial featuring an acquaintance—especially one who looked like Jake. But she hadn’t just happened to catch it. She had recorded it when it hit the airwaves two days ago. And she had watched it over and over again, so many times that she’d found herself reaching for a twelve-pack of Sparkle when she’d gone to Piggly Wiggly to buy chicken pot pie ingredients. And that wasn’t the only idiotic thing she’d done this week. She’d also spent a ridiculous amount of time searching online for the perfect eyeshadow before settling on the Urban Decay Naked Smoky Pa
lette—fifty-four dollars plus extra for emergency delivery—and stressing over the correct attire for teaching a hockey player how to make chicken pot pie.

  And tonight was the night. She ought to be sleepy, probably would be if she wasn’t so keyed up. She’d stayed late at Crust last night and gone in at four this morning in order to get everything done so she could take off this afternoon. She’d needed that time, too. She’d been busy, busy, busy watching YouTube videos of how to achieve the perfect smoky eye and commercials for outrageously priced water—not to mention acquiring said water and prepackaged pie crusts at the Pig.

  She had to get a grip.

  Ever since Jake had left her tingling at the door three nights ago, she hadn’t been herself. It had been one thing to have a teenage crush on him, but here she was again—only this time she wasn’t dreaming of moonlight dances, sweet kisses, a bouquet of flowers, and a hundred other childish romantic things that were never going to happen. Now, she wanted mouth on mouth, skin on skin, and a hundred other steamy things that were never going to happen.

  Might as well face it. She was traveling full speed on the Jake Road without an off-ramp in sight. All she could do was prepare for the crash and hope to God the airbags worked.

  She should erase the Sparkle commercial. It was the right thing to do for her sanity. Besides, Jake was due any minute for his pie-making lesson. If he caught her watching his commercial, she would have to leave town, possibly the country.

  She would erase it. Now.

  But instead of hitting delete, she found herself playing it again—just one more time. This time she watched it through to the end when, with a glance over his shoulder, he walked away from the camera so that anyone who was in doubt about his identity would see Champagne plastered across the back of his Yellowhammer jersey—the jersey that had, no doubt, been willfully and strategically placed to ride up just enough to show his butt to its very best advantage.

  Her heart rate increased and heat gathered low in her belly.

  Why, why, why had he come to town? There were thirty-one pro teams in the United States and Canada—some of them in warm climates. Surely, one of them would have wanted him. She’d been just fine baking pies and not thinking about him.

  Maybe she ought to go out with Able Killen. He’d called and asked if she’d go to Hammer Time with him and his family after the Vancouver game on Saturday. That—the family part—had seemed a little weird and she’d been relieved to tell him no, that her own parents would be in town. He had taken no for an answer, but been persistent about getting together another time. He’d like to take her out once the training camp and preseason games were over. She hadn’t told him yes, but she hadn’t told him no either. Big surprise there, but maybe this time it was for the best.

  It had been more than two years since her only long-term relationship had ended. She’d been content for almost a year with Chase Hamilton, but that might have been more about the romance of being in New Orleans than anything else. They’d idly talked about getting jobs in the same city, maybe even the same bakery. But in the end, after graduating culinary school, they’d been more excited about their new opportunities—hers in Laurel Springs and his in San Francisco—than each other. Apart from going to last year’s Christmas Gala with a friend of Ava Grace and Skip’s and having dinner a handful of times with Allan Clark from the hardware store, she hadn’t dated since coming to Laurel Springs. Maybe it was time.

  She considered Able. He wasn’t model perfect like Jake, but he was good looking with a big, open smile, and she liked the way his hair lay in big, loose, messy curls all over his head, like he just ran his hands through it and called it a day. Plus, he could run a Hobart and he had that soup and razor endorsement thing going for him. She wasn’t a fan of canned soup, but she had to shave every day. Some free razors wouldn’t be amiss. She wondered idly where he was from and what position he played—hopefully not goalie. Jake had always said goalies were strange. Maybe she’d google him.

  When she picked up her phone to do that, it rang. She jumped a foot off the sofa, and dropped the phone. Probably Jake, saying he was late or wasn’t coming, after all. Aloha, Evie. I am retiring from ghost stories, pie, and you. Panicked, she turned off the TV and hid the remote under the sofa cushion. After all, she couldn’t talk to Jake with the remote in her hand. The phone would transmit her dirty little secret for sure.

  Feeling like a bigger fool than the jester at Henry VIII’s court, she grabbed her phone from the floor and looked at the caller ID.

  Christine Champagne.

  Why was Jake’s mother calling her? She always saw Jake’s parents when she went back to Cottonwood, but she couldn’t remember the last time she and Christine had spoken on the phone. Probably when Anna-Blair had her gallbladder out last year.

  Maybe Jake was dead. Or Addison. Or it could be that Christine was calling to have her say about Channing and blame Evans for being related to her. Or worse, maybe she had some kind of maternal sixth sense that let her know when her baby was too much on a woman’s mind and she intended to shut it down. That wasn’t really worse than Jake and Addison being dead, though they probably weren’t—at least not both of them.

  The phone rang again. She took a deep breath and answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Evie, dear. This is Christine. How are you, precious?”

  Well, Christine, since you ask—not myself at all. Could you have a word with your son and ask him to stop smelling and looking so good? He has me discombobulated.

  “I’m fine, thanks. And you?”

  “Just looking forward to seeing you this weekend and excited to see Jake play.”

  Enough with the small talk, Christine. Let’s get on with it.

  “Jake told me he’d been by your shop.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen him a few times.”

  “A few times?”

  Oh, hell. She shouldn’t have said that. Now Christine would want details. She loved a detail. How could that have slipped her mind? Evans had spent half her childhood and teen years trying to avoid discussing Jake with Christine. The trouble was, the more details Christine got, the more she wanted, and she wasn’t one to let up. “That’s really nice. Where have you seen him?”

  “Oh, the usual.” Evans tried to sound vague. “I catered a meal for the team. I ran into him in passing at a restaurant.”

  “There are no friends like old friends.” Christine was clearly hoping for more information about the doings of Jake.

  “I agree,” Evans said, though she did not. Good friendships didn’t have to have history.

  There was a brief silence, but Evans volunteered nothing further. It was time for Christine to say what was on her mind.

  “I suppose Anna-Blair told you that the four of us are traveling over together on Friday.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re coming in our SUV since it seats six. We thought, that way, if the six of us want to go somewhere together, there’ll be room. Certainly, Jake’s car is no good for practical matters. He had such a sensible vehicle before.”

  “Yes.” Evans didn’t know what Jake had been driving previous to the bugmobile, but probably not the ten-year-old Honda Pilot he’d had in high school and college. But she knew what before meant. Before your cousin jerked him around, gutted him, and left him for dead in Nashville—causing him to buy an outrageously overpriced automobile with backwards doors that looks like an insect. Realizing she needed to say something other than yes, Evans said, “That’s a good idea,” though she couldn’t imagine where the six of them would go. Then again, maybe they could take off for Six Flags Over Georgia after the hockey game. There wouldn’t be much time, but Jake knew his way around.

  “Anyway, what I called for—”

  Thank the Lord. She was getting to the point.

  “I was wondering if I could prevail on you to make a chicke
n pot pie for Jake?”

  That was all?

  “Of course. I would be more than happy to.”

  “He always eats that the night before a game. He started that in college. I think it’s as much about his superstitions as anything. I wanted to make it for him, but we’ll get in late afternoon on Friday. I was trying to work out the logistics—should I make it and bring it over or try to shop and make it after I got to Jake’s? And then there was the question of did he even have any kitchen equipment. At one time, they had the best of...but never mind that. Anyway, Anna-Blair said, ‘Why don’t you just ask Evie to do it?’ That was the best idea. Of course, it goes without saying that I’ll pay you. After all, that’s your business.”

  “Well, we’ll talk about that.”

  They both knew that Christine would try to insist on paying. Evans would refuse payment until Christine relinquished. Then Christine would show her thanks later in the weekend with a scented candle or a tea towel printed with “I was raised on sweet tea and Jesus” or “If I have to stir, it’s homemade.”

  Really, it would be less trouble to both of them if Evans would just accept the $14.95 and be done with it.

  But that’s not how things were done—not in their world. It wasn’t the Delta way.

  “You can count on me, Christine.” This ain’t my first rodeo with a chicken pot pie.

  “One more thing. Jake doesn’t like mushrooms.”

  I know. “That’s good to know.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Evie. You always were good to Jake.”

  What a weird thing to say—in fact, the whole conversation was weird. Was it possible that Christine was playing matchmaker? Surely not, but there was one way to find out.

  “Would you like me to deliver the pie to him?”

  “No, thank you.” Christine sounded surprised. So she wasn’t trying to arrange for them to see each other. Of course not. Evans was transferring her feelings to Christine. “I’ll pick it up on the way to his condo. I’ll text you when I get to town.”