Apple Pie Promises (The Alphabet Sweethearts #1)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Hale

T he morning sun hasn't cleared the mountains yet, but I'm already pulling day-old pastries from the display case. Old habits die hard. The routine is automatic after so many years. Sort, wrap, price, stack. Some will go to the church food bank, others marked down for the early birds who come in for coffee.

As I work, my mind keeps wandering to yesterday's customer. To flour-dusted hair and determined hazel eyes. To the way Mae Arden's niece looked at my store like it was something magical instead of just an old family obligation.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. I don't need this distraction. Don't need to remember how her fingers brushed mine when I handed her that pie plate, or how the scent of vanilla lingered after she left. Probably from whatever baking disaster she'd attempted before coming here.

The bell chimes and I don't need to look up to know who it is. Only one person comes in this early on delivery days.

"Good morning, Hale Fletcher." Hazel Elliott's voice carries the same cheerful lilt it had when she was my third-grade teacher. "You're looking particularly broody today."

I grunt in response, keeping my eyes on the pastries. But Hazel's never been one to take a hint.

"I brought you something." She sets a covered dish on the counter. The familiar jingle of her charm bracelet accompanies every movement. "A little breakfast. Can't have our favorite shopkeeper wasting away."

"I eat fine," I mutter, but I lift the cover anyway. The scent of fresh cinnamon rolls makes my stomach growl traitorously.

"Mhmm." She pulls a tin from the pocket of her sweater—the one she's worn every Tuesday for at least a decade—and pops a mint into her mouth. "I suppose that's why you're getting so thin. All that 'fine' eating."

I shoot her a look. "Did you need something, Hazel? Besides criticizing my dietary habits?"

"Can't a woman check on her favorite former student?" She perches on one of the old stools by the counter, smoothing her flowered skirt. "Though now that you mention it, I did see poor Tessa Arden this morning. That sweet girl was trying to dispose of what I believe was meant to be a pie without anyone noticing."

Something tightens in my chest. "That's not my concern."

"No?" Hazel's green eyes twinkle. "Strange, because I could have sworn I saw her leaving your store yesterday with quite a collection of baking supplies. And everyone knows you make the best pie crust in town. Present company excluded, of course."

“Pie? You?” I focus on wrapping another pastry, ignoring the way my neck heats up under her knowing gaze. "I sold her some butter. That's all."

"Cold butter, I hope. That's essential for a good crust." She pauses, and I can feel the trap closing. "Though I suppose you already told her that, didn't you?"

I did. I told her too much, if I'm being honest. Let myself get pulled into those eager questions, that sunshine smile. "She needed the right ingredients. It's my job to help customers find what they need."

"Mmm." Hazel unwraps another mint, the paper crinkling in the quiet store. "You know, Mae would have loved this."

My hands still. "What?"

"Her niece, carrying on the tradition. Though the poor dear clearly needs help." She sighs dramatically. "If only there was someone in town who knew about pie-making. Someone who learned from his mother, perhaps? Someone who might understand what it means to want to honor a family legacy?"

"Hazel." There's a warning in my voice that she ignores completely.

"I'm just saying, that cabin gets awfully quiet. And Mae was such a good friend to this town. To your mother, especially, during her illness." She stands, brushing invisible crumbs from her skirt. "But you're right. It's not your concern."

She heads for the door, then pauses. "Though if you happen to find yourself up that way, you might want to check on her smoke detector. I heard it going off again this morning." The bell chimes as she leaves, letting in a gust of cool mountain air.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at the wrapped pastries without really seeing them. Through the windows, I can just make out the roof of Mae's cabin nestled against the pines. Smoke detector. Right.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I flip the 'Back in 15 Minutes' sign on the door and grab my keys. This is just about being a good neighbor. About preventing a fire hazard. About repaying an old debt to Mae Arden.

It has nothing to do with hazel eyes or sunshine smiles or the way she said "thank you" like she meant it.

Nothing at all.

The drive up to the cabin takes exactly four minutes. Not that I'm counting. I've made this trip hundreds of times over the years, delivering groceries to Mae when the weather was bad or her arthritis was acting up. The gravel crunches under my tires just the same, but everything else feels different.

I'm halfway to the door when I hear it. This isn’t the blare of a smoke detector, but something much worse. Crying.

I find her sitting on the porch steps, head in her hands, shoulders shaking slightly. There's flour in her hair again, and something that might be butter smeared on her shirt. It’s a graphic tee that features a cartoon slice of pie with the words "Easy as Pi" across the front.

My chest does something uncomfortable.

She must hear my approach because her head snaps up, eyes wide and red-rimmed. "Oh!" She swipes quickly at her cheeks. "Mr. Fletcher. I wasn't... I mean, I didn't..."

"Hale," I say, because watching her struggle for words feels wrong. "My name's Hale."

"Hale," she repeats softly, and something about the way she says it makes my name sound different. "I suppose you're here about the smoke detector? I promise I opened all the windows this time."

"Actually," I hear myself say, "I'm here about your pie."

Her laugh is watery but real. "What's left of it, you mean." She gestures to what I now realize is a blackened disc cooling on the porch railing. "I think this one might actually be worse than yesterday's attempt."

I study the sorry-looking pie, then her tearstained face, then the cabin where Mae taught me to crimp edges and lattice crust on long winter afternoons. Where my mother spent her last good days, sharing recipes and stories while I pretended not to listen.

"Get your butter," I say finally. "The cold butter," I add, because some habits die hard. "And your flour. We're starting over."

Her eyes light up like I've just offered her the moon instead of a baking lesson. "Really? You'll help me?"

I nod once, sharply, already regretting this decision. But then she smiles—really smiles—and something inside me shifts, like puzzle pieces clicking into place.

"Thank you," she breathes, scrambling to her feet. "I'll get everything. Don't go anywhere!"

She disappears inside, leaving a trail of flour and enthusiasm in her wake. I look up at the cabin's weathered eaves, where generations of barn swallows have built their nests.

"This is all your fault," I tell the ghost of Mae Arden. "You and your niece with her cartoon pie shirts and her terrible baking skills."

I swear I can hear Mae's laugh on the breeze, mixing with the sound of Tessa clattering around in the kitchen.

What have I gotten myself into?

"The butter needs to be pea-sized," I say for the third time, watching Tessa attack the flour mixture with her pastry cutter like she's trying to win a fight. "Not microscopic."

She blows a strand of hair from her face, frowning at the bowl. "How can you even tell what size they are? It all looks like sand to me."

I reach across the counter and still her hands before she can pulverize the butter completely. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, and I pull back quickly. "Here. Look." I take a pinch of the mixture, showing her the tiny butter pieces. "Like this. Any smaller and you'll lose the flakiness."

"Oh." She leans in close, studying the mixture, and the scent of vanilla washes over me again. "I see it now. I think." She gives me a sheepish smile. "Sorry I'm such a disaster at this."

"You're not..." I stop, because actually, she is. She's managed to get flour on the ceiling and there's a healthy dusting of flour in her hair from her enthusiastic measuring technique. But there's something endearing about her determination. Not that I'm noticing things like that. "Slow down. Making pie crust isn't a race."

"Says the man who can probably make one in his sleep." She returns to cutting the butter, gentler this time. "Where did you learn all this, anyway?"

The question catches me off guard. Images flash through my mind. Sunday mornings in our kitchen, Mom's hands guiding mine through the motions, the smell of cinnamon and love and home. I push them away. "Around."

She glances up at me, those hazel eyes too perceptive. Thankfully, she doesn't push. "Well, wherever it was, thank you for sharing the knowledge. Even if I am your worst student ever."

"Second worst," I say before I can stop myself. "Henry Caldwell once tried to convince my mother that margarine was an acceptable substitute for butter. She almost banned him from the store."

Tessa's laugh fills the kitchen, bright and unexpected. "The pie contest champion uses margarine? That should be grounds for disqualification."

"He doesn't anymore. Mom set him straight." The memory brings a reluctant smile to my face. "Rather forcefully."

We work in comfortable silence for a while, and slowly a passable pie crust takes shape. The filling is easier, though I have to stop her from adding too much cinnamon three times.

"But cinnamon is the best part," she protests.

"It's supposed to enhance the apples, not overwhelm them." I adjust the spices, pretending not to notice her sticking her tongue out at me when she thinks I'm not looking.

Finally, the pie goes into the oven. Tessa immediately plasters herself in front of it, peering through the glass like she's watching a movie.

"It won't bake faster if you stare at it," I point out.

She ignores me, still watching intently. "How will I know if it's done?"

"When the crust is golden and the filling bubbles." I start cleaning up, trying to restore some order to the chaos she's created. "About forty-five minutes."

"Perfect time for coffee?" She's already reaching for the pot, giving me a hopeful look. "Unless you need to get back to the store."

I should say yes. Should make my escape before this starts feeling too comfortable, too familiar. "Coffee's fine."

Her smile is like sunrise breaking over the mountains.

While the pie bakes, she tells me about her graphic design work, about moving from Charlotte, about finding her aunt's recipe card that first day. I find myself listening more than talking, watching the way her hands move when she's excited about something.

"I want to make her proud, you know?" She wraps her hands around her coffee mug, suddenly serious. "The recipe card says that pie won her an award. If I could even come close to that..."

I set my mug down carefully. "Tessa..."

"What?" She must read something in my expression because her face falls. "What's wrong?"

"You can't use that recipe for the contest. A winning recipe can't be entered again. It's in the rules."

"Oh." The word is small, deflated. "Oh no. I didn't realize that." She slumps in her chair. "What am I going to do now?"

"There are ways to modify recipes," I hear myself say. "Change the spice blend, try different apple varieties, add nuts, adjust the technique. Make it your own."

She lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "I can barely follow the original recipe with help. How am I supposed to develop a new one?"

Something twists in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like caring. I take a long drink of coffee, buying time, trying to talk myself out of what I'm about to do.

I fail.

"I'll help you," I say finally. "But we do this my way. Two lessons a week, early mornings before the store opens. You follow my instructions exactly—no extra cinnamon." She manages a watery smile at that. "And this is strictly about the pie. Nothing else."

"Nothing else," she agrees quickly, but there's a spark in her eyes that makes me nervous. "Thank you, Hale. Really."

The timer dings before I can respond. She practically bounces to the oven, and despite myself, I move to stand beside her as she opens the door.

The pie isn't perfect. The crust is a little uneven, the edges slightly overdone. But it's golden brown and fragrant, and the filling is bubbling just like it should be.

"We did it!" She beams up at me, and for a moment, I forget all my rules about keeping things strictly practical.

"Here." I reach for the pie, muscle memory taking over. "My mom taught me a trick for checking if it's done." I tilt the pie slightly, showing her how the filling moves. "See how it flows? Like slow honey? That's what you want."

"Your mom taught you a lot about baking," she says softly.

Just like that, the walls slam back up. I set the pie down carefully. "Let it cool for at least thirty minutes. Don't cut it before then or the filling will run."

"Hale..." She takes a step toward me, but I'm already heading for the door.

"Tomorrow morning, six a.m. Don't be late." I pause with my hand on the doorknob. "And Tessa? Wear something you don't mind getting flour on.”

Her laugh follows me out onto the porch, wrapping around me like warm butter and cinnamon and memories I thought I'd buried years ago.

This is a terrible idea.

But as I walk to my truck, the morning sun warming my face, I can't quite bring myself to regret it. Yet.