Apple Pie Promises (The Alphabet Sweethearts #1)

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Hale

I 'm restocking shelf three—organizing by size, not product type, because apparently I'm that far gone—when Hazel appears like a particularly determined ghost.

"Don't even think about pretending you're too busy to talk to me, Hale Fletcher."

I set down the can I'm holding. "I am busy."

"Rearranging perfectly good shelves isn't busy, it's avoiding." She plants herself in front of me, silver hair catching the morning light. "Just like you've been avoiding everything else these past few days."

"Hazel—"

"No." She cuts me off with a sharpness I haven't heard since third grade. "You're going to listen, because Mae Arden was my friend, and I won't stand by while you break her niece's heart."

The words hit like a physical blow. "I didn't?—"

"You stood there." Her green eyes flash. "You stood there and let Henry Caldwell tear down something beautiful, something that would have made your mother proud."

I grip the edge of the shelf, feeling the worn wood dig into my palm. "Don't bring my mother into this."

"Why not? She's been in this from the beginning, hasn't she? Her recipes, her techniques, her memory. That's what's really keeping you from opening up to that girl."

"You don't understand?—"

"I understand that you're scared." Her voice softens. "Scared of feeling something real again, of letting someone see past those walls you've built. But Margaret didn't teach you to bake so you could hide behind her memory forever."

My mother's name makes me flinch. "I'm not hiding."

"No?" Hazel reaches into her sweater pocket, but instead of her usual mints, she pulls out an envelope, yellowed with age. "Then why haven't you given Tessa this?"

I stare at the familiar handwriting on the front. "Where did you get that?"

"Found it when I was helping you clean out the back office last spring. You were so quick to pack away your mother's things, you missed this one." She holds out the envelope. "It's time, Hale."

My hands shake slightly as I take it. "I can't?—"

"You can. And you will." She turns to leave, then pauses. "The contest starts at two. Don't be late."

She's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with the familiar handwriting and the weight of too many memories.

The morning of the contest dawns clear and cold. I've read the letter so many times I have it memorized, but I read it once more anyway, sitting in my truck outside Tessa's cabin.

The porch light is on, warm yellow spilling onto the frost-covered steps. Through the kitchen window, I can see her moving around, probably doing last-minute preparations.

"This is crazy," I mutter, but I get out anyway, the envelope tucked carefully in my pocket.

She answers my knock almost immediately, surprise flashing across her face. "Hale?"

All my carefully prepared words desert me. She's wearing that ridiculous pie shirt again, the one with the math joke, and somehow that makes everything harder. "I found something. Something you should have."

I pull out the envelope before I can lose my nerve. "My mother kept it. It’s from Mae back when..."

Tessa takes the envelope gently, recognition softening her features as she sees the handwriting. "This is from my aunt?"

I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "She wrote it to my mother, when she got sick. Mom saved everything from her friends, but one was special."

Tessa opens the envelope carefully, unfolding the paper inside. I know what it says. They are words of encouragement, of friendship, of believing in yourself even when everything seems impossible. Words that somehow feel meant for Tessa as much as they were for my mother.

"'Remember,’” Tessa reads aloud, her voice catching, "'that you are never alone in this fight. Your strength amazes me, but on days when you can't find it, I'll be here to remind you how remarkable you are.'" She looks up at me, eyes shining. "She really wrote this?"

"Mom kept it on her nightstand. Said reading Mae's words made her feel less afraid." I swallow hard. "I thought maybe you should have it now. A piece of who she was."

"Hale, I..." She trails off, clutching the letter. "Thank you."

We stand there for a moment, the morning air crisp between us, so many things unsaid.

I clear my throat. "I could give you a ride. To the contest. If you want."

A smile tugs at her lips. "I'd like that."

She disappears inside to gather her things, and I try not to peek as she carefully covers the dish she's bringing. But when she returns, I catch the familiar scent of warm spices and something else—something uniquely Tessa that makes my chest ache.

"Ready?" I ask, holding the door for her.

She nods, clutching her precious cargo. The mid-day sun catches her hair, turning it to copper and gold, and the confident set of her shoulders reminds me so much of Mae it hurts.

"Hale?" She pauses at the truck. "This doesn't fix everything."

"I know."

"But it's a start."

Something loosens in my chest. "Yeah," I say softly. "It's a start."

As we drive down the mountain, I steal glances at her profile, at the way she holds the covered pie like it's something precious. Like it's something that matters.

The smell of warm pastry and spices fills the community center as the judges make their rounds. I hang back, keeping an eye on their expressions as they sample each entry. After fifteen years of watching the judging, I know their tells. The way Martha's eyebrows lift when something impresses her. Or how Rob takes a second bite of his favorites.

When they reach Tessa's pie, I hold my breath.

The design catches my eye first. It's nothing like the traditional lattice work I taught her. She's created something entirely her own, weaving delicate strips of golden crust into an intricate pattern that reminds me of autumn leaves dancing in the wind. At the center, a perfectly crafted apple sits surrounded by detailed leaves, each one unique, each one perfect.

It's art and tradition woven together, just like Tessa herself.

Martha's eyebrows shoot up at first bite. Rob reaches for a second taste before he's finished his first. Even Henry Caldwell looks reluctantly impressed.

When they announce the winners, I'm not surprised to hear Tessa's name called for second place. What does surprise me is the pride that swells in my chest. Not because I taught her a few techniques, but because she took what she learned and made it uniquely, beautifully her own.

She accepts her ribbon with grace, thanking the judges, and congratulating Henry on his win. But I see the triumph in her eyes, the joy that has nothing to do with placing and everything to do with proving herself.

Later, as the crowd begins to thin, I find her gathering her things.

"Can I show you something?"

She looks up, surprised. "Now?"

"If you trust me."

"That sounds like a loaded question."

"I deserve that." I take a deep breath. "But yes, now. Please."

The drive to the falls is quiet, but not uncomfortable. The late afternoon sun filters through the autumn leaves, painting everything in gold and amber. When I pull off onto the narrow trail, Tessa looks at me curiously but doesn't ask questions.

The waterfall appears through the trees, silver and flowing against dark rocks. Mom used to bring me here when I was small. She told me the sound of falling water could wash away any trouble.

"It's beautiful," Tessa breathes, stepping closer to the edge of the small clearing.

"My mother loved this place." The words come easier than I expected. "She'd bring her sketchbook, spend hours drawing the way the water moved. Even at the end, when she couldn't make it up here anymore, she'd talk about the sound, how it reminded her that life keeps flowing, keeps moving forward."

Tessa turns to face me, her eyes soft with understanding. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

"I'm sorry." The words burst out. "For staying silent that day, for letting you think even for a moment that you didn't belong here. I was a coward."

"Hale—"

"No, let me finish. Please." I run a hand through my hair, searching for the right words. "When Mom got sick, I thought if I kept everything the same, kept her recipes perfect, kept her memory exactly as it was, somehow I wouldn't lose her. But then you came along with your extra cinnamon and your terrible puns and your way of seeing beauty in everything..."

I step closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. "You made me remember that life keeps flowing. That holding onto grief doesn't honor the people we've lost. Living does. Creating does. Loving does."

Her breath catches. "Loving?"

"Yes." I reach up, cupping her cheek in my palm. "Loving."

"Even if I put pineapple on pizza?"

A laugh escapes me, rough with emotion. "Even then."

She smiles and leans into my touch.

"Tessa?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to kiss you."

"About time."

When our lips meet, it's like everything slots into place—like the perfect ratio of butter to flour, like the exact moment a crust turns golden, like coming home to a kitchen full of warmth and possibility.

She tastes like victory and vanilla and something uniquely Tessa, and when she winds her arms around my neck, pulling me closer, I feel the last of my walls crumble.

The waterfall sings behind us, a steady rhythm of life moving forward. Somewhere in the distance, a whippoorwill calls out. Not lonely this time, but joyful.

When we finally break apart, she rests her forehead against mine. "So," she murmurs, "does this mean you'll teach me to make croissants next?"

"Don't push your luck."

But we're both smiling, and when she kisses me again, I taste the future. It’s sweet and warm and full of promise.

Like the best recipes, some things need time, trust, and a little bit of faith to turn out perfectly imperfect.

And as the sun sets behind the mountains, painting the falls in shades of purple and rose, I hold her close and silently thank two remarkable women for teaching me that love, like the best pie crust, is worth the risk of getting your hands messy.

Even if it means occasionally tolerating pineapple on pizza.