Apple Pie Promises (The Alphabet Sweethearts #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Tessa

T he key to my aunt's cabin sticks in the lock, like it's testing my resolve. I jiggle it once, twice, and on the third try, the door finally creeps open with a whine of rusty hinges. A wave of autumn-crisp mountain air rushes past me, carrying the lingering scent of cinnamon and vanilla that I'll always associate with Aunt Mae.

"Well, here goes nothing," I whisper to myself, hitching my messenger bag higher on my shoulder. I grab the welcome basket someone left by the front door and step inside. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, each sound echoing in the empty space. Dust motes dance in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, making the whole scene feel like a snow globe someone's just shaken up.

I pause in the doorway, taking in the familiar-yet-different space. The kitchen still has its cheerful yellow curtains and the collection of rooster-themed canisters on the counter. But without Aunt Mae's humming, without the constant aroma of something delicious baking in the oven, it feels like a museum piece rather than a home.

My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly. "No crying, Tessa. You're here to start fresh, remember?" The sound of my voice bounces off the walls, making me feel even more alone.

I set my laptop bag on the kitchen table. It’ll be my mobile office for the foreseeable future. I walk around and open a couple of windows. The crisp October breeze carries the scent of pine needles and woodsmoke, reminding me that I'm not in Charlotte anymore. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes three times.

That's when I spot it, propped against the cookie jar like it's been waiting for me all along: a well-worn recipe card in Aunt Mae's looping handwriting. "Blue Ribbon Apple Pie," the title reads, and beneath it, "First Place, Juniper Falls Harvest Festival, 2003."

My heart does a little flip as I pick up the card, running my fingers over the spatters and stains that mark it as well-loved. Aunt Mae used to say that a pristine recipe card meant an unloved recipe. This one was clearly adored.

"This is it," I say, gripping the card tighter. "This is how I'll do it. I'll enter the festival, just like you did."

With renewed purpose, I unload the rest of my car and get settled in the small rustic cabin that is now mine. After getting settled in, I dig through the kitchen cabinets until I find the basic ingredients. There’s flour, sugar and salt. The apples in the welcome basket Mrs. Elliott left on the porch will be perfect. I can do this. How hard can pie-making be?

Two hours later, with flour in my hair, butter under my fingernails, and something that looks more like a crusty frisbee than a pie sitting sadly on the counter, I have my answer. The smoke detector's shrill beeping has finally stopped, but my confidence is as deflated as my attempted crust.

I slump onto one of the kitchen chairs, staring at the recipe card. "I'm sorry, Aunt Mae," I whisper, brushing a smudge of flour from the corner of the paper. "I don't know what I was thinking. I can barely make toast without burning it. How am I supposed to live up to your legacy?"

Through the open window, I hear laughter floating up from the town below. Juniper Falls, North Carolina is getting ready for the harvest festival. I can see the orange and yellow banners being strung across Main Street from here. Everyone in town has a story about Aunt Mae's pies, about her generosity, about how she made this place feel like home to everyone who crossed her threshold.

And here I am, her only niece, unable to even manage a basic crust. I wonder if she regrets leaving me this place in her will.

I push back from the table, embarrassed by the tears threatening to spill. This isn't just about pie. It's about belonging. About finding my place in this close-knit mountain community that already has such a clear picture of who they think I should be.

The recipe card sits innocently on the table, mocking my failure. But as I start to crumple it up, I stop myself. Aunt Mae never gave up on anything—or anyone. She wouldn't want me to quit before I'd really tried.

"Okay," I say, straightening my shoulders. "Round two. But first, I need more supplies. Real supplies." I grab my purse and the recipe card, carefully tucking it into my pocket. "And maybe some advice."

I head for the door, trying to ignore the disaster zone that is now my kitchen. Somewhere in this town, there has to be someone who can help me figure this out. Aunt Mae always said Juniper Falls was full of angels in disguise. I just have to find one willing to teach a hopeless baker how to make a pie worthy of her memory.

The bell above Brooks General Store chimes as I push open the heavy wooden door, and I'm immediately enveloped by the scent of coffee, fresh herbs, and something sweetly familiar I can't quite place. The worn hardwood floor gleams in the autumn sunlight streaming through tall windows. They are real wood beams, not the manufactured kind and look like they’ve been here for close to a century.

"Oh wow," I breathe, taking in the carefully arranged displays of local produce, the ceiling-high shelves lined with colorful jars, and the antique cash register that looks like it belongs in a museum. It's exactly the kind of place Aunt Mae would have loved—a perfect blend of practical and whimsical. Chances are good she shopped here often.

I pull out her recipe card, smoothing its worn edges. "Okay, let's see what we need." My finger traces down the list of ingredients, and I start gathering them in my arms. I need more flour, butter, and salt. When I reach for a bag of generic apples, a deep voice behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

"Not those."

I whirl around, nearly dropping everything I'm holding. The man standing there is tall—really tall—with broad shoulders and the kind of rugged features that belong on the cover of a wilderness magazine. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and his blue eyes are so intense I almost take a step back. He's wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair.

"I'm sorry?" I manage, trying to get my heart rate under control. Both from the surprise and, well, everything else about him.

He gestures to the apples I was about to grab. "Those are eating apples. No good for baking." His voice is gruff but there's something almost musical in its deepness, like distant thunder.

"Oh." I look down at the apples, then back at him. "And you're sure about that because...?"

One dark eyebrow lifts slightly. "Because I own this store and I know what my products are good for." He reaches past me to grab a different variety of apples. The man smells like coffee and pine and something spicy. "These are Northern Spy. Better structure, won't turn to mush in the oven."

"Northern Spy?" I can't help but smile. "That sounds like a Cold War code name."

His expression doesn't change, but I swear I see something flicker in those blue eyes. "They're heritage apples. Local. The orchards up here have been growing them for generations."

"Right. Of course." I shift my armload of supplies awkwardly. "I don't suppose you also know the secret to making a pie crust that doesn't look like it's been run over by a truck?"

Now both eyebrows go up. "You're making pie?"

There's something in his tone that makes me straighten my spine. "Yes, I am. Is there a law against that in Juniper Falls?"

"No law." He glances at my flour-dusted shirt and the sugar sprinkled in my hair—evidence of my earlier disaster. "Just seems like maybe you should start with something simpler. A cobbler or crisp, maybe. Or toast."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I can make toast." Usually. Sometimes. "And anyway, it has to be pie. Specifically, apple pie. For the harvest festival."

Something changes in his expression at that. There’s a slight tightening around his eyes, a subtle shift in his stance. "The harvest festival pie contest?"

"That's the one." I lift my chin, daring him to make another comment about my baking abilities. “In honor of my aunt.”

He runs a hand through his hair, making it even more attractively disheveled. "You're Mae Arden's niece."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Tessa. I just moved into her cabin." I pause, studying his face. “And you are?”

“Hale Fletcher.” He holds out his hand and firmly shakes mine.

"You knew my aunt?" I ask, ignoring the warmth of his skin that lingers.

"Everyone knew Mae." There's a softness in his voice when he says her name that makes my throat tight. "Her pies were legendary."

"I know." I swallow hard. "That's why I have to do this. I found her recipe and I thought..." I trail off, not sure how to explain it to this stranger who probably thinks I'm crazy. "I just need to try."

He's quiet for a long moment, those blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. Finally, he lets out a long breath. "Your butter's too warm."

I blink at the sudden change of subject. "What?"

He nods at the butter in my arms. "Educated guess. For pie crust, you need it cold. Ice cold." He turns and walks toward the back of the store, leaving me standing there with my arms full of ingredients, wondering if I'm supposed to follow.

After a moment's hesitation, I do.

He leads me to a massive old refrigerator that hums quietly in the corner. "The secret's in the temperature," he says, pulling out a different package of butter. "Everything needs to be cold. The butter, the water, even the flour if you can manage it. And your hands." He glances at my flour-covered fingers. "Hot hands make tough crust."

"Are you speaking from experience?" I can't help asking, fascinated by this gruff man who apparently knows the secrets of perfect pie crust.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "My mother taught me."

There's something in those four words that makes me wonder if she’s the reason he seems so gruff. But before I can ask, the bell above the door chimes again.

"You'll want a pastry cutter too," he says, already turning away. "Third aisle, halfway down, top shelf." He strides toward the front of the store, calling out a greeting to whoever just walked in. “Mae didn’t use one, but it’ll help, trust me.”

I stand there for a moment, clutching my cold butter and feeling strangely bereft. It's ridiculous. He's a stranger who barely cracked a smile during our entire interaction. But there was something there, in those brief moments when he was teaching me about pie crust. Something that felt almost like a connection.

I find the pastry cutter right where he said it would be, along with a ceramic pie plate that's so pretty it makes my heart skip. The price tag makes it skip again, for different reasons, but I add it to my pile anyway. If I'm going to fail at this pie-making endeavor, I might as well fail in style.

When I make my way to the counter, he's there again, sorting through what looks like invoices. The afternoon sun slanting through the windows catches the silver threads in his dark hair—just a few, barely noticeable unless you're looking. Which I'm not. Obviously.

He rings up my items efficiently, those capable hands moving with surprising grace. When he gets to the pie plate, he pauses. "This is a Mae original."

"What?" I lean closer, examining the ceramic plate. It's cream-colored with delicate blue flowers hand-painted around the rim.

"Your aunt made it. She used to do ceramics in the winter when the tourists left and things got quiet." His thumb traces one of the flowers, almost reverently. "She always said pie tasted better in a plate made with love."

The tightness in my throat is back. "I had no idea she made these."

He carefully wraps the plate in brown paper. "There's a lot of your aunt in this town, if you know where to look."

Our fingers brush when he hands me the package, and I swear I feel a spark. It’s like static electricity, but warmer. His eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, and I see something flicker in their blue depths before he looks away.

"Thank you," I say softly, gathering my bags. "For the help with the ingredients, and for telling me about the plate."

He just nods, already turning back to his invoices. But as I reach the door, I hear his voice again.

"Miss Arden?"

I turn, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"Keep your water ice cold too. And don't overwork the dough."

A smile tugs at my lips. "Any other secrets you want to share?"

For a moment the stern line of his mouth softens. "Come back if you need more butter. Cold butter."

The bell chimes as I step out into the afternoon sunshine, my arms full of bags and my head full of blue eyes and gruff voices and the mysteries of pie crust. I'm halfway down the street before I realize I never got his name.

But something tells me I'll be back for more butter soon.