Apple Pie Promises (The Alphabet Sweethearts #1)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Tessa

M y hands shake slightly as I grab my purse from the passenger seat. It holds my application and the check made out to the Juniper Falls historical society. The morning sun feels too bright, too cheerful for the knot of anxiety in my stomach.

Will Hale be there today? Yesterday's almost-kiss hovers in my memory, making everything more confusing.

"Deep breath," I tell myself, squaring my shoulders. "You can do this."

The community center's parking lot is already full. It seems like the whole town has turned out for the pre-contest gathering. Through the windows, I can see people mingling, sharing coffee and conversation. My palm grows sweaty against the leather handle of my purse.

"There's our newest baker!" Hazel's voice rings out as I push through the door. She looks older than the last time I saw my aunt’s friend, but there is no mistaking her. She hurries over, charm bracelet jingling. "And don't you look lovely today."

I smooth my free hand over my dark blue dress. I fell in love with the fabric the moment I laid eyes on it in the thrift store. There are tiny apples printed all over it. "Thanks, Hazel. I hope this is okay."

"You look perfect." She loops her arm through mine, guiding me into the crowd. "Come meet everyone properly."

The next few minutes are a blur of introductions. Martha from the book club who makes her own jam. Rob who runs the hardware store and his wife Sarah who teaches third grade. Everyone is warm, welcoming, curious about "Mae's niece."

I search the crowd for Hale but don't see him. My heart sinks a little, even though I tell myself it doesn't matter.

"Well, well." A familiar pompous voice cuts through the chatter. "If it isn't our newest contestant."

Henry Caldwell stands by the registration table, his round glasses glinting in the fluorescent light. Something about his smile makes my skin crawl.

"Good morning, Mr. Caldwell," I say politely, pulling the application from my purse. "I'm here to register."

"Of course you are." He peers at my application through his round glasses. "Quite confident, aren't we? Especially for someone who couldn't bake a month ago."

The way he says it makes my cheeks heat. "I've been practicing."

"Practicing?" His voice carries across the now-quiet room. "Is that what we're calling it? Because I could have sworn I've seen Hale Fletcher's car at your cabin every morning this week."

My stomach drops. From the corner of my eye, I see movement. Hale slips in through the side door, freezing when he takes in the scene.

"I don't see how that's relevant," I manage.

"No?" Henry's smile widens. "Because I'm pretty sure the rules state that all entries must be the contestant's own work. Not the work of a..." he pauses dramatically, "stand-in chef."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. I feel their eyes on me, judging, assuming. "That's not... Hale was just teaching me the basics."

"Oh, teaching you?" Henry's eyebrows shoot up. "How convenient. Tell me, did he teach you using his mother's famous techniques? The ones he refuses to share with anyone else in town?"

The murmurs grow louder. I look desperately toward Hale, willing him to say something, anything.

He stands frozen, his face unreadable, his silence deafening.

"I can assure you," Henry continues, "that in all my years participating in this contest, we've never allowed professional assistance. It wouldn't be fair to the other contestants who actually do their own work."

"I did do my own work." But my voice sounds small, uncertain. The room spins slightly, and I feel tears pricking at my eyes. "Hale just showed me how to?—"

"Showed you his mother's secrets?" Henry interrupts. "The ones he's guarded so carefully all these years? Why would he do that, I wonder?"

More whispers. More stares. And still, Hale says nothing.

The tears are threatening to spill now. I look at him one last time, silently begging him to defend me, to explain, to say anything at all.

He meets my eyes for a brief moment, then looks away.

Something breaks inside my chest.

"I..." My voice cracks. "I need to..."

I turn and flee, barely aware of Hazel calling my name, of the door banging behind me, of anything except the need to get away.

My feet carry me without conscious thought, past my car, down the familiar path to the cemetery where Aunt Mae rests beneath an old oak tree. The morning dew soaks through my nice boots, but I barely notice.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, sinking to my knees beside her headstone. "I'm so sorry, Aunt Mae. I tried to honor your memory, but I just made everything worse."

The stone is cool under my fingertips as I trace her name. "Maybe they're right. Maybe I don't belong here. I'm not you. I can't bake like you, can't make friends like you did, can't..." A sob catches in my throat. "I can't make him trust me like you did."

Somewhere above me, a cardinal sings, bright and clear in the morning quiet.

I wipe my eyes with shaking hands. "I thought there was hope when he started teaching me, when he shared those stories about his mom. But he couldn't even look at me in there. Couldn't say one word in my defense."

The tears come freely now, splashing onto the dewy grass. "I feel so stupid. This whole time I've been falling for him, thinking there was something special between us, and he... he just..."

Another sob escapes. "I don't know what to do, Aunt Mae. I left everything behind to come here, to be close to your memory, to find a place to belong. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe sometimes home isn't a place you can find.

The cardinal calls again, closer now. A breeze stirs the oak leaves overhead, sending dappled shadows dancing across the headstone.

"I miss you," I whisper. "I miss you so much it hurts. And now I've lost him too, before I ever really had him. I don't know if I'm strong enough for this. For any of it."

I sit there until my tears run dry, until my knees ache from the damp ground, until the morning sun climbs high enough to burn away the dew.

But the hollow feeling in my chest remains.

The walk back to the community center feels longer, each step heavier than the last. My eyes are still swollen from crying, and my nice dress is damp at the knees from kneeling in the dewy grass.

"There you are." Hazel's voice cuts through my misery. She's perched on a bench near the center's entrance, as if she's been waiting for me. Knowing Hazel, she probably has. "Come along, dear. You look like you could use a cup of coffee."

"I need to—" I gesture weakly at the building.

"Whatever you're planning can wait fifteen minutes." She stands, linking her arm through mine with gentle firmness. "Novel Sips makes a wonderful lavender latte."

I let her guide me down the street, too exhausted to argue. The combination coffee shop and bookstore is warm and quiet, with most of the town’s residents still at the community center. Hazel steers me to a corner table and disappears to order our drinks.

When she returns, she sets a massive ceramic mug in front of me, topped with a delicate flower design in the foam. "Drink up. Sugar helps with shock, and you've had quite a morning."

I wrap my hands around the warm mug. "I'm withdrawing from the contest."

"No, you're not."

"Hazel—"

"Henry Caldwell," she says, pulling out her ever-present tin of mints, "is a small man with a smaller mind who thinks winning a pie contest makes him important." She pops a mint in her mouth. "Would you like to know what your aunt thought of him?"

Despite everything, curiosity stirs. "What?"

"She said he reminded her of a peacock who'd gotten into the fermented berries—all puffed up and strutting about, making noise without substance." Her eyes twinkle. "Mae had quite a way with words when she wanted to."

A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly. "She did?"

"Oh my, yes. She used to say the only reason his pies won was because the judges were too afraid of his endless critiques if they chose someone else." Hazel leans forward. "But that's not why you're really withdrawing, is it?"

The laughter fades as quickly as it came. "You heard what happened. What he said about Hale helping me?—"

"I heard a jealous man trying to diminish something beautiful." She stirs her coffee thoughtfully. "Tell me, dear. When you and Hale baked together, did he ever once make the pie for you?"

"No, of course not. He showed me techniques, explained why things worked, but..." I trail off, understanding dawning.

"But every measurement, every motion, every decision was yours." Hazel nods. "That's not cheating, Tessa. That's learning. That's growing."

"But Hale didn't defend me." The words come out small, hurt. "He just stood there."

Hazel's expression softens. "Hale Fletcher has spent the last five years hiding his heart behind those store walls. Being angry with him for not knowing how to open up is like being angry at a turtle for having a shell. It might be frustrating, but it's the only way he knows how to survive."

I swallow hard. "I thought I meant something to him."

"Oh, sweetheart." She reaches across the table to pat my hand. "You mean so much that it terrifies him. Why do you think he shared his mother's techniques with you? He hasn't baked with anyone since she passed. I’m not sure he’s baked much at all."

I stare into my coffee, watching the foam design slowly dissolve. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"What would Mae do?"

The question catches me off guard. "She'd enter anyway. She'd bake her best pie and hold her head high, no matter what anyone said."

"Exactly." Hazel's smile is gentle but firm. "This isn't about winning, honey. It's about honoring her memory. About showing up, about trying. That's what Mae did, every single day."

"But how can I do it without Hale?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

"The same way you've done everything else in your life. One step at a time." She squeezes my hand. "And maybe give that turtle a little time to realize his shell isn't as necessary as he thinks."

"I can't promise that."

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you not to give up—on the contest, on Juniper Falls, or on yourself." She releases my hand to dig in her sweater pocket. "Now, would you like a mint? Mae always said they help clear the head."

I accept the mint, letting the familiar sweetness dissolve on my tongue. Through the coffee shop window, I can see the mountains rising against the autumn sky, steady and strong. Like they're waiting to see what I'll do next.

"Okay," I say finally. "I'll enter. But I'm doing it my way this time. No help, no Hale, just me and Aunt Mae’s recipes."

Hazel beams. "That's the spirit. Though I should warn you—Mae baked at least fifteen terrible pies before she got her first good one."

"Fifteen?" I can't help but laugh. "She never told me that."

"Oh, there are lots of stories about your aunt that need telling." Hazel's eyes sparkle. "But first, you have a pie to bake."

Later that afternoon, I stand in my kitchen surrounded by ingredients. Aunt Mae's recipe card sits on the counter, worn and loved and full of possibility. Scribbled in the margins are my tweaks.

My hands don't shake as I measure the flour. The movements feel familiar now, muscle memory taking over as I cut in the butter. Cold butter, because some lessons are worth keeping even if you're angry at the teacher.

As I work, I think about what Hazel said. About showing up, about trying. About shells and survival and the courage it takes to be vulnerable.

The pie isn't perfect. The lattice is a little uneven, the crimping slightly rough. But it's mine. Every measurement, every decision, every imperfection is mine. And somehow, that makes it better than perfect.

I slide it into the oven just as the sun starts to set, painting my kitchen gold. For the first time since this morning, my chest feels light.

"Well, Aunt Mae," I whisper to the quiet kitchen, "I think I finally understand what you meant about baking being an act of love. Sometimes the love is for someone else. And sometimes it's for yourself."