Sweet as Pie by Alicia Hunter Pace

Chapter Thirty-Two

“The chocolate chess are going fast.” Quentin handed off a tray of mini pies to Joy to replenish the tiered serving trays on the refreshment table.

Fall fest was in full swing and, thanks to Ava Grace, who had showed up at Crust to work some magic with her surplus pumpkins, leaves, and amber twinkle lights, the shop had never looked prettier.

Magic. A word Evans tended to throw around to describe things that others were good at, but she was not. Jake had said there was no such thing. He was right. In the end, it was a bit of talent and a lot of hard work. Maybe there were those who thought pie making was magic.

Evans couldn’t quite stop herself from picturing Jake spinning his ghost stories against the backdrop of autumnal splendor at Heirloom. She took a deep breath. A dozen times she’d wanted to call him and take it all back, say that she was here, ready and waiting to be his yes girl—because anything was better than how she felt now.

But a dozen times, she’d resisted. It was getting easier, but she felt like Swiss cheese—still cheese, good, entirely edible cheese, but with holes.

“Here, Evans.” Able Killen zoomed through the door and handed her a piece of paper. “It’s the name and contact info for the winner of the first round of cornhole. I took his picture, tweeted it, and tagged Crust. I hope that’s okay.”

She should have thought of that. “Great, Able. Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” He winked and smiled, but in a friendly rather than flirtatious way. She’d wondered if he would change his volunteer job, but he was carrying through with his commitment without showing a trace of awkwardness. “I’ve got to get back. Time for the next round.”

She watched through the window as Able and Miklos lined up people and handed out beanbags.

Ariel drifted up. “Why does that hockey player have a C on his hockey shirt? You called him Able. Shouldn’t he have an A?”

Ariel, Ariel. God love her. Evans hid a smile. “He’s team captain. That’s what the C stands for. And the shirt is usually called a jersey or a sweater.”

“Oh.” Unless Evans missed her guess, Ariel was looking at Able with a little more interest than she usually showed in anyone. “But it’s not a sweater.”

“No. But they used to play in sweaters when they played outside.” Just then, Able squatted and showed a little girl how to throw the beanbag. He patted her shoulder and she looked at him like he was the greatest guy in the world.

Maybe he was—not that Evans had any regrets. Just because she’d decided she couldn’t be with Jake didn’t mean she wasn’t still in love with him. Maybe in time it would pass. Maybe not, but she’d learned her lesson about trying to distract herself with another man.

“Why do they call it cornhole?” Ariel leaned a little more toward the window.

“No idea,” Evans said. “Ariel, could you do something?”

Ariel looked at Evans though her eyelashes. “What do you need?”

“I’d like you to make a nice tray of treats and take it out to our volunteers.”

“Out there?” She pointed to Able and Miklos. “To him? I mean them?”

“Yes. They’re our only volunteers.”

“I can do that.” And Ariel drifted away.

Evans had never done any matchmaking and she wasn’t going to start now, but why not provide an opportunity for a little interaction?

For the next two hours, Evans moved through the shop, helping serve, selling pies from the case, replenishing platters, and making coffee.

Everything was going splendidly.

At last, the night was winding down. Able delivered the name of the last cornhole winner. Cleanup was well underway and Miklos and Able had put away the cornhole boards. Evans glanced out the window just in time to see Ariel go out to retrieve the tray she’d taken out to Able and Miklos earlier. Able finished signing an autograph and turned to talk to Ariel. They both smiled and that made Evans smile.

It was almost time to lock the door when Evans heard a voice behind her. “You look pleased with yourself.”

She turned. “Hello, Claire. It has gone really well.”

“I see that. The pie case is almost empty.”

“Yes, and we took lots of orders for Thanksgiving. People seemed to like cornhole.”

“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“Can I get you anything? There’s still a few cranberry pear and ginger pumpkin.”

“Oh, no,” Claire said. “I’m stuffed. I had cake at Trousseau and a doughnut and cider at Heirloom. I can’t remember the last time I ate a doughnut.”

“Those Krispy Kremes are hard to resist.” Jake had probably had a few. “How were things with Ava Grace and Hyacinth?”

Claire laughed and looked heavenward. “Hyacinth was about to come unglued. Robbie McTavish was over there playing piano, but he didn’t pay a bit of attention to what she wanted played. When I was there, he was playing ‘Werewolves of London.’”

“Uh-oh.” Hyacinth had drawn up a playlist of wedding music and sent it to him over a week ago. Evans was sure she’d hear all about it at the after party the Chamber of Commerce was holding to thank the volunteers and merchants. She wondered, not for the first time, if Jake would go. If so, it would be the first time they saw each other since the night she’d sent him away, and it was bound to be uncomfortable. But seeing each other was going to happen and it might as well be tonight. “Hyacinth does not like to go off script.”

“No, but her courtyard was full of people singing and dancing. The photo booth tweeting has been phenomenal. I’d call it a win.”

Evans had to ask. “What about Ava Grace?” And Jake? How did he do?

Claire smiled. “You know, I was skeptical, but that Champagne boy was fabulous—so charming. He had everyone in the palm of his hand.” Of course. “I kind of hate to admit it, but I stayed through two sessions to listen to him. That’s why I was so late getting here.”

“Maybe he can have a second career after he’s done with hockey,” Evans said breezily. “Good for Ava Grace. She needed a win.”

Claire nodded. “You had a win here, too, Evans. I’m proud of you. I’ll see you at the party?” she asked as she headed toward the door.

“For sure.”

She had a win—a win on her own terms. No catering, no mass market pies, no pastry press. She ought to be happy. Maybe she was, somewhere deep in her broken heart and around all that Swiss cheese. But a broken heart didn’t mean a broken life.

“I closed out the register,” Neva said, bringing Evans back to Earth.

“I’m sorry,” Evans said. “I meant to do that.”

“It’s fine. You were busy with Claire.” She held up a bank bag. “Is it all right if I go ahead and take this to the bank?”

“Sure,” Evans said. “Tell everyone else to go, too—to get to the party and enjoy themselves. I’ll finish cleaning up.”

Neva frowned. “I don’t think there’s much left to do, but are you sure?”

“Yes!” Evans clapped her hands together. “Everyone has worked really hard. I’ll catch up.”

Truth be told, she was in no hurry to get to that party.

Quentin was the last to leave and Evans began to straighten the chairs. She paused at the table where she and Jake had sat that first day. If she could call it back, she would do things differently. Or maybe not. Maybe it needed to play out exactly as it had for her to move on.

Suddenly, feeling weary, she sat pressing her back against the heart-shaped wrought iron of the chair. She’d just sit a minute before checking to make sure the kitchen was clean. Then, she supposed there was no escaping changing into her party clothes and heading out to Fairvale, Ava Grace’s ancestral home, where the party was being held.

Then the hair on the back of her neck prickled, like it does when you’re sure you’re being watched. But she wasn’t afraid. Call it intuition, call it witchcraft, call it a lifetime of longing, but she knew who it was before she looked out the door.

Jake leaned against the doorframe, his forehead against the glass—just waiting, it seemed. When she met his eyes, he lifted one corner of his mouth, though that couldn’t be counted as a real smile. He silently tapped his index finger against the glass.

He had finally come. But why? It might be a mistake to let him in, but that was the only way to find out. And she had to find out, even if it crushed what little was left of her heart.

“I wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” he said after stepping inside, bringing with him the scent of soap and doughnuts. Her head hadn’t let her heart know it wasn’t supposed to speed up for him anymore.

She sighed. “I said we couldn’t be in a relationship. I didn’t say I’d never open the door for you again. Our lives are way too tangled up for that.”

“Do you wish that wasn’t so?”

Did she? Who knew? “If wishes were Lamborghinis, all teenagers would speed.”

He smiled. “You do know what kind of car the bugmobile is.”

She shrugged and lifted her eyebrows.

He gestured to the dining area. “I know we have a party to get to, but can we sit? Just for a bit?”

She hesitated, but nodded. “Would you like pie?” Old habits died hard.

“No, thanks.”

They went to the table where she’d been sitting, where they’d sat together before—only this time she sat in his chair and he sat in hers.

“Still no recliners. They have them in movie theaters now, you know.” He set down the Yellowhammer bag he’d brought in with him.

“Could be the next big thing.” Pie and recline.

“I’ve been thinking, Evie, and I’d like you to hear me out.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to respond that they’d said all there was to say, but she was too curious to not hear him out. Even if he was just here to tell her she was right, that it would never have worked. She nodded.

“First, I need to tell you I forfeited the bet. I took the puck to Robbie and made him take it right after the last time I saw you.”

“That’s too bad. I know Blake gave you that puck.”

“Robbie doesn’t. He would never have asked me to bet it if he had. He’s not that kind of friend.” He closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. “Anyway. It doesn’t matter. Having the puck won’t bring Blake back, or change what we meant to each other. And it doesn’t have any effect on how I play hockey.”

Her heart hurt for him. “Be that as it may, I’m sorry. You’ve had it since you were a little boy.”

“The bet was stupid and pointless. Like I told you before, I had already decided to ‘straighten up and fly right,’ as my nana would say.”

They smiled together at the shared memory of the woman with fresh flowers on her hat, whom no one argued with.

“So...” It seemed he’d said what he came to say. Evans made to rise.

But Jake spoke again. “I’ve been telling ghost stories tonight—thinking about ghosts.”

Or not.She settled back into her chair. “I hear you were a hit.”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t call it an MVP performance, but maybe a goal.” He didn’t widen his eyes and bite his lip, but he grinned.

“Did you scare anyone?” She smiled, though she wasn’t feeling it. “Scare yourself?”

He shook his head, but he didn’t laugh. “Ghosts aren’t real—at least the kind that spook around in stories.”

“There’s another kind?”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. “The ghosts of Jake and Evie past. We’ve spent a lot of time living with those ghosts.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“Ghosts. Mistakes. Good intentions, gone bad. Bad intentions, gone to hell.”

“Jake, we’ve been through this...”

“You’re right.” He nodded emphatically. “We have—over and over. But the truth is you have never forgiven me for abandoning you.” She would have protested then, but something in his face stopped her. “And—I couldn’t forgive myself either. But now I have.”

Those were such goodbye words. “That’s good. You should.”

“Yes, I should, but not because I deserve it. Because it’s what has to happen to move forward.”

This was it—the big goodbye. If she’d felt like Swiss cheese before, now—despite that she’d said it had to be this way—she felt hollow. But she had to respond, had to find her voice.

“I understand. Moving on from us is the right thing.”

“No.” He reached across the table and, for the first time tonight, he touched her. There was warmth in his fingers on the back of her hand—not hot, sizzling electricity, but something else. “You don’t understand. I didn’t say move on. I said move forward.”

“There’s a difference?”

“I’m not here to say goodbye, Evie. I’m here to ask for another chance.”

Her heart hadn’t gotten the message that it couldn’t tap dance with joy—not when nothing had changed. Unless...unless, maybe it had. Another chance. Did she owe him that? He’d had a point when he’d said she hadn’t really forgiven him. Still—wouldn’t this be same song, second verse?

“Jake, I’m not sure—”

“Wait!” He reached into the bag at his feet. “I brought you something.”

Well, hell. The tiny, sputtering flame of hope Evans had been harboring fizzled. If Jake Champagne thought he could buy his way back into her good graces, he had another think coming. She closed her eyes to delay seeing whatever frivolously expensive, completely thoughtless geegaw he’d picked up to bribe her with to get his yes girl back.

“There!” She heard the pride in his voice before she opened her eyes and saw it in his face. “See!”

Reluctantly, she let her eyes drop to the table, but there was no Tiffany blue box or anything that resembled a fancy gift at all. Instead, there was a round dish covered in aluminum foil.

“What? Did Ava Grace send me Krispy Kremes?”

“No.” He smiled and pushed the dish toward her. “It’s from me. I made it myself.”

“Got to be scrambled eggs,” she mumbled as she removed the foil. “That’s the only thing you can make.”

“Not true. I can make toast and bacon. And now I can make this.”

She stared down at it in shock. “I didn’t see this coming.” Understatement of the century. What sat before her was a pie in the beautiful copper pan they’d bought ten thousand heartaches ago.

Nobody had ever made her a pie before.

“See how it’s decorated? Just like you do.”

“Yes, it is.” With silhouettes of chickens and her name spelled out in perfectly symmetrical letters. “Chicken pot pie?”

“Obviously. That’s why the little chickens.” He pointed to the rim of the pie. “I did it with a cookie cutter. The letters for your name, too.”

She covered her face. It was like she’d gone to sleep and woken up in an alternate universe.

“What’s wrong?” Jake asked.

She met his eyes. “Nothing. Or, I don’t know. It’s just a lot to take in. I don’t know what’s more dumbfounding—that you baked a pie or bought cookie cutters.”

His expression morphed to a mix of sorrow and sincerity. “I’d do anything, Evie. And just so you know, there are more chicken cookie cutters out there than you’d think.”

She was torn between laughing and crying and she couldn’t have said why she wanted to do either.

“I would be interested to know how you arrived at making chicken pot pie.”

“It’s a long story but, in the end, it was something you said that night at Hammer Time—that I just wanted you for a distraction and chicken pot pie.”

“So now you don’t need me for chicken pot pie.” She didn’t really like how that felt.

“Don’t get mad, but I wasn’t really interested in learning to make it when I asked you to teach me.”

“You don’t say.”

“Well...”

“I got that, Jake. Eventually.”

“I asked because I wanted to spend time with you. Anyway, I could have bought you something—really, anything. But I wanted to show you I was thinking about you. I needed to do something hard.”

“And it was hard?” She picked up the pie and gave it a closer look. The crust wasn’t quite brown enough, but it did look homemade. “You made the dough yourself? No one helped you?”

“No, ma’am.” He sounded a little incensed. “Unless you count YouTube videos, and I do not. I bet I watched thirty.”

She set the pie down. “Thirty? Really?”

He nodded. “For the insides, I had that recipe you left at my place. Only there wasn’t a crust recipe.”

She hid a smile and refrained from telling him the correct word for the “insides” was filling. “We were going to use refrigerated crusts.”

“I know. But you didn’t like it. So I watched all those videos and I kept trying. I had to go to the store for more flour three times. Cutting the fat in with two knives doesn’t really work. You need a pastry blender. I think I figured that out after about the third time.”

“Jake, how many times did you make this pie?”

He shook his head. “I don’t even know. At first, I never even got to the insides, because I had to keep remaking the crust. But I knew I had to get it right. I tried different recipes until I found one that was sturdy enough to roll. And then I made it two more times.”

A little joy shot through her. “You spent some time considering the crust.”

“That’s the foundation for the pie. That’s what one of the videos said. And isn’t the foundation everything?” He reached over tentatively and laid his hand on top of hers.

She got the feeling he wasn’t talking just about pie anymore. “Yes,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I considered other things, too. The ghosts. The forgiving. Turns out you have time to think when you’re making pie.”

“It’s true,” she agreed. “Maybe that’s why I overthink everything.”

“You do just the right amount of thinking.” He squeezed her hand and she didn’t pull away. “The insides part was easier, though I had to learn some new words. Sauté. Béchamel.” His eyes were huge. “Evie, I promise you I have been in chicken pot pie hell. I didn’t know if it would be enough, if it would prove anything to you. But I had to try. I thought I was going to wear that poor pan out. And, as much as it cost, that ought not be easy to do.”

“It’s a little late to be complaining about how much that cookware cost. I tried to talk you out of it.”

He nodded. “I couldn’t be talked out of it. I bought it because it made you so happy that I wanted to see you cook with it.”

The bottom fell out of her stomach. “You mean to say, all that talk that night about someone coming over to cook—you meant me?”

He nodded. “Well, yeah. I hadn’t quite figured things out then, but I knew I wanted to be with you. What did you think?”

“Never mind. Let’s just say I was jealous of ghosts.”

“All I’m asking for is a chance. If you find you can’t forgive me, can’t trust me, I swear, all you have to do is say the word. I’ll go and never come to you with this again. We’ll be friends.”

Was it possible? This chance he spoke of? Again, did she owe him? Or was a better question did she owe herself?

If it went bad, they would not be friends. There was no going backwards. She either had to give him a chance for more, or they would smile and exchange niceties when they ran across each other until one of them attended the other’s funeral.

She laughed a little to herself over the melodrama in her head—but still. It was sad. So sad.

“I was afraid you were bringing me jewelry.”

“It crossed my mind, but I decided it would take more than jewelry to impress you.”

“And Miss Violet wouldn’t have approved.”

“I know that’s a fact. ‘Ladies!’” Jake tried and failed to imitate the woman. “‘You must nevah—nevah—accept a gift of expensive jewelry from a gentleman, unless you are engaged to marry him.’”

“Don’t think we’re anywhere close to that.” She had to bring him and herself back to earth.

His face went serious. “I know that, Evie, but I can’t help thinking—someday. I’ve spent a lot of time missing you and wondering why I’ve missed you so much. It’s the liking. All my life I have taken for granted how much I like you. I like you with the kind of like that can grow into love. And it has. I like you more than anyone. And I love you more than anyone. And that’s always going to be true.”

He loved her.For so long, she’d wanted to hear those words, would have thought they would send her heart skyrocketing. That didn’t happen. It felt like something better—like being cold and having someone cover you with a warm blanket.

“Oh, Jake.” She rose and, though she never saw him move, they were suddenly in each other’s arms. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

And they kissed. And again. And again.

When they parted, he leaned his forehead against hers. “So how about it? Does this mean you’re willing to, maybe, eat dinner with me sometimes? Watch me play hockey? Ride home with me for Thanksgiving?”

“Why, Jake Champagne, are you asking me to go steady with you?”

They both laughed at her use of the phrase from a bygone era.

“Yes, Evans Arlene, I believe I am.”

“Only if you’ll teach me to ice skate.”

And they kissed again.