Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
Erica
T oday’s the bake-off.
My hands shake as I hit Post on a new blog entry. With any luck, I can announce our winning recipe in the next one.
All that’s left is for Mama and Aunt Margaret to make the perfect cinnamon apple pie.
I close my laptop and put it away. Then I grab my bag and check my hair and makeup before heading to town hall.
Paul’s pickup sputtered out of the drive about an hour earlier. He’s one of the judges, self-appointed since he claims this was his grand idea. Technically making it a county-wide bake-off was his idea, so I’ll give him that.
Georgia has done a good job at building suspense around town to keep the bake-off at the forefront of everyone’s gossip. Each week, she’d announce a new judge, and today there is a secret judge we won’t know about until after the competition. The public judges are Paul, County Sheriff Bradley Manning, and Mrs. Mary from the diner.
Mary is the most experienced cook I know, Paul has sampled every food made by anyone in the county at some point, and I assume Bradley brings the local celebrity appeal.
Speaking of Paul, he’s the first one to greet me when I walk through the door. I greet him back, then shade my eyes when his huge belt buckle reflects the sun.
Paul slides past me, brushing my arm with the stack of Styrofoam plates he’s holding. As I enter to a crowded lobby, Georgia smiles widely.
“Are all these people here for the bake-off?” I ask her.
“Yes! Isn’t that wonderful?”
I nod, my nerves buckling. It’s wonderful if we win, but I’m now more anxious than ever.
I press past people crowding in small groups until I’m in the main room. Mama waves to me from what I assume is the judges’ table. I go to her and spot our pie.
The crust is an ideal thickness, with tiny snowflakes etched in the design to complement the decorative edge and give it a festive look. And it smells amazing as always.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
Mama stands beside me, beaming. “Grandma helped us with the snowflakes. It was her idea to make it more festive than the typical lattice pattern.”
I bear hug my mama so tightly, she huffs. Her hand finds my arm and pats it.
“Thank you,” I whisper against her.
“You’re welcome.”
I release her and step back. “Can I get a picture of you and Aunt Margaret with it?”
“Of course.”
Mama calls to her sister-in-law, who’s across the room pouring a cup of cider. She hurries over. “The cider is a hit,” she says.
I scan the room and notice several refreshment tables in the corners. Mama and Margaret stand on either side of the pie, and I take several photos.
“You should try some of everything,” Margaret says after the photos. “Georgia invited everyone in the competition to bring samples of anything they wanted to make, and Mary made some stuff too.”
“Sounds delicious.”
I take a few more photos of the dessert entries. The only apparent apple dessert besides ours is a cobbler dish I assume is G-Maw’s.
“Hey.”
I turn to Ryan standing behind me with a plate of Carla’s cookies.
“Hey.” I smile.
“Big turnout.”
“Yes, it is.” I survey the room.
“The pie looks great.” He nods toward the table.
“Thanks.” I swell with pride at our entry. “Have you tried our cider?”
“The day of the tour.”
“That’s right.”
“But I could use more. Care to join me?”
I shrug, and he takes my hand. My heart speeds up. He shouldn’t have done that, and I shouldn’t have let him. He’s leaving tonight.
Instead of releasing his grip, I go with it, and enjoy a few more moments with Ryan.
We get cider and go around sampling other items. He eventually drops my hand to reach for a cookie. My arm tingles at the loss of his touch, and I silently scold myself for the reaction.
However, I blindly follow him to a corner of the room like a lovestruck teen after her crush. We stand together and chat a few minutes before Georgia’s voice comes over a microphone.
Half the people pay attention, half keep talking. Morgan steps toward the front and lets out an ear-bleeding whistle. This time, everyone pays attention.
“Thank you, Morgan.” Georgia winces and wiggles a finger inside her ear. “If the judges will take a seat behind the table.” She motions to the four chairs set up beside her.
“And I can finally announce”—Georgia smiles at Mackenzie’s cameraman in the back—“our guest judge for this event is none other than the founder of Spoon of the South publications, L.R. Walter.”
I’m so busy looking around the room with everyone else that it isn’t until I hear gasps that I notice Ryan left my side and is sitting in the fourth chair.
Our eyes meet and I give him a questioning glare. He nods, and his face is a mixture of apology and sympathy.
I watch as Georgia makes a big deal out of blindfolding the judges. He can no longer see me, but it doesn’t much matter.
I’m in no mood to stay and watch the outcome. The man I almost kissed last night and confided in about my dreams, aspirations, and past—including my family business and former engagement—is the same man overseeing one of the best-known food blogs and magazines in the South.
My stomach bottoms out and I fold my arms across my waist. He will know which dessert is ours for sure, and possibly everyone else’s who he’s buttered up to this week.
I hurry through the crowd and out the door. He played me like a trick card, and I hope I never see him again.
Ryan
E ating so many delicious foods with my eyes closed makes this feel like I’m dreaming. We’re given one plate after another, and it’s hard to keep from making a mess with some of them.
The crowd laughs as we fumble with forks and try a bite of everything. I’m sure the people filming this had a hand in that idea.
A half hour later, our blindfolds are lifted. Messy crumbs and dropped cobbler lay in front of us. I smirk and wipe my mouth with a napkin just in case I’m as messy as the table.
Georgia passes out papers and says we are to score our favorite dessert on a scale of one to five. Every judge has to give a score for presentation based on our viewing before anything was served and another score for taste from the blind testing.
Erica’s family’s pie was delicious, as was everyone’s entry. But once I tasted a chocolate cookie with icing, I compared everything else to that.
Something about it was so warm and comforting, it made me want more.
We all turn in our answers, and I scan the room for Erica. Other people are occupying the corner where we stood together before the contest. She could be anywhere in a room this crowded. Hopefully I can find her before I leave for the airport.
Georgia tallies the votes and announces that the cookie dessert wins. She holds it up and calls the baker to the front.
To my surprise it’s a young teenage girl. She explains that cookie crack is her late mother’s recipe, and that she and her aunt make it all the time. She decided last night to bake a batch and enter it in honor of her mom.
And that is the hometown story I need for my blog.
As soon as Georgia awards her a trophy and photos are taken, we’re released to mingle. I find the girl and ask if I can talk to her about the dessert.
She describes how she lost both her parents in a plane crash and introduces me to her aunt. They gladly allow me to share the background story and recipe.
I give her my business card and thank them. Several of the people I met the past few days come up and talk. Including Woody, who hugs me.
“I’m going to miss you. You’re the best renter ever.”
“Thanks,” I huff.
He releases me and smiles. His phone dings and he jerks it from his pocket.
“Oh, I gotta go. That’s Misty. Belle is having the puppies.”
“Good luck,” I call as he runs toward the door.
I cringe as he hits a table with his knee. He buckles over, then stumbles and hops out the door. I need to head for the airport. But I don’t want to go without saying goodbye to Erica.
I find her mother, who doesn’t know where she went, and I’m out of time. I go to the car and try calling her on the way out. No answer. I send a text for her to call me.
Then I spend the next several hours obsessing over whether she’s responded while I drive to the airport.
Holiday traffic gives me time to think of some new blog posts and several angles for featuring Apple Cart County and all its delicious foods, from Mary’s Diner and Carla’s Cookies to, of course, the orchard.
But the real hidden gem I found was Erica.
Not kissing her is something I may regret the rest of my life.
I go through the mundane motions of dropping off my rental car, checking into the airport, and finding my gate. I’m half dazed out, staring at a sign that reads, “No weapons, contraband, or taxidermy,” when my phone buzzes.
I reach for it in a panic, then roll my eyes. It’s one of those automatic notifications that it’s time to schedule my dental cleaning.
I try and call Erica one more time and leave a message.
“Hey, it’s Ryan. I looked for you before I left. I wanted to say bye and see you one more time. Please give me a call when you get this. Bye.”
The receiver beeps, and I stare at my phone. A few minutes later, my row is called to board the plane. I pocket my phone and start the last leg of my trip home.
Maybe Erica was meant to be nothing more than the best tourist attraction ever.