Sweet as Pie by Alicia Hunter Pace

Chapter Seven

That was an hour of his life that Jake would never get back.

Leland Puckett considered himself the god of skate sharpening. He hadn’t liked how Jake’s skates had looked on the ice, so he’d insisted on sharpening them at a different angle and watching Jake skate a few laps. Jake had never been as particular about his skate blades as some guys, so that had been all well and good, but after the third time Leland insisted on going through the resharpening and skating routine, Jake had had enough.

He had to admit that his skates did perform better in the end, but he knew for sure that by now Crust was closed, and Evie would have had to deal with Miklos and Able on her own. Evie wasn’t helpless, but she was a little sheltered. She would have no idea how hungry hockey players were when they came off the ice—for food and sex. Maybe he’d go see her after he ate. He didn’t know where she lived, but he could text and ask.

He climbed into his bright green Lamborghini—the consolation prize he’d bought for himself the day his divorce was final—and drove down Main Street toward home, considering food. He could stop at Hammer Time. Some of the guys might still be there. Or he could head out toward the interstate where the fast food places were. He should buy groceries—should have already. Maybe tomorrow.

Most of the businesses on Main Street were dark, but—what was that? Were there lights on at Crust? He slammed on his brakes and backed up.

Hellfire and brimstone! It looked like there was a hockey player party going on in there. And there was Evie—waltzing around with a water pitcher in her hand, filling their glasses. Who the hell did they think they were, letting her wait on them like they were little kings and she was a servant?

Jake did a U-turn in the middle of street and parked the Lamborghini in the Employee of the Month space in front of the bank. He threw open the door and tried to get out without unbuckling his seat belt. It didn’t work. Finally, his feet hit the pavement and he stomped down the street, seething as he went. He was spoiling for a fight, but breaking up a party would have to do.

When he went to jerk open the door of Crust, it didn’t budge. Locked. He rattled the knob. No one looked his way.

Oh, hell no. Pretty boy Christophe Bachet got out of his chair, took Evie by the arm, and led her to the pie case. He pointed to a pie and Evie said something. Then he pointed to another, another, and another. They laughed together like pie was funny. Evie went behind the counter and Wingo, Davis, and Able rushed up like catfish in a pond at feeding time—all pointing at pies.

He did a quick inventory. No Ryan Bell. That was something. Still, he had to get in there. Rattling the knob again did no good, so he pounded on the glass. They were all laughing and partying so hard they didn’t hear that either. Evie sliced a pie—his Mississippi mud, if he wasn’t mistaken—and handed it to Bachet.

He started banging on the glass again, and this time he didn’t stop until Evie saw him. She looked surprised, but then she smiled. Good. She would come let him in and he would get control of this situation, explain to her what letches hockey players could be. At best, they were taking advantage of her good nature by making her stay late and pour them water and cut them pie. At worst, they were trying to get in her pants—or her bra, as Bell had so eloquently put it. He would tolerate neither. As soon as she opened the door, he would pull her outside and explain things in no uncertain terms.

But she didn’t come to open the door. Instead, she said something to Miklos Novak, pointed toward the door, and kept cutting pie.

Miklos turned and looked at Jake through the door, gave a wave, and got to his feet—he took his sweet time doing it, too. After an eternity, Miklos unlocked the door.

“Ahoj, Sparks,” Miklos said.

“Hmm.” More like annoy.

“There are no more little meat pies. We ate them all, but Evans has promised to put them on her menu, and we have promised to buy them. Now Evans is giving out sweet pie. Perhaps she will serve some to you.”

Perhaps? Perhaps? He was tempted to tell Miklos that yesterday Evie had not only served him a piece of pie, she had given him a whole pie. Even if she was doing them a favor by allowing them in her shop after hours, she was selling them pie. So there.

“She is not taking money.”

She was giving them pie? Didn’t she know they were multimillionaires? She had a living to make.

“She say the sweet pies will be stale in the morning after sitting out whole night. A church picks them up to feed people who are poor.”

“You are not poor,” Jake growled.

“No,” he said happily. “I was once poor, but no more.”

“See to it that you leave her a tip—a very generous tip. And see to it that the other guys do, too.”

Miklos narrowed his eyes, and they turned mean. “She is very nice to me. I know what to do in return. I do not need lessons from you, Sparks.”

Jake didn’t reply, but brushed past Miklos and headed straight for Evie. Apparently, she had been dishing out pie for a while because there was lots of pie eating going on. His teammates called out to him. He gave a general wave in their direction, but didn’t slow down. They looked like a bunch of idiots sitting on those fancy little iron chairs with the heart-shaped backs that were meant to hold women drinking tea and eating little cakes. Never mind that he had logged some time in one of those chairs.

“Hello, Jake,” Evie said. “Here you go, Dietrich.” She handed Wingo a plate. “Apple cranberry walnut. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Hey, Sparks.” Able was the only one who hadn’t gotten his pie. “What do you recommend?”

Oh, brother, you don’t want to know.

“Jake likes Mississippi mud,” Evie said, “but I just gave Christophe and Mick the last two pieces.”

She was on a first-name basis with them? Jake didn’t even know all their first names. And they’d had the last of his pie. Damn them.

Evie went on, “But the cherry is very popular. I macerate the fruit in brandy before I make the filling. It adds a little something extra. There’re some ground almonds in the crust. You aren’t allergic to nuts, are you?”

“No allergies. I don’t know what macerate means.” Able tried to give her a flirty look. He wasn’t good at it. “But if you say it’s good, I’ll have that. Any chance you’ll come sit down and have some, too?”

“She doesn’t eat pie,” Jake said.

Evie frowned at him. “That’s not exactly true. I taste pie all day long. I just don’t usually eat a whole piece.” She took the pie out of the case. It had a crisscross top crust made up of little sparkly cherries.

“That looks nice,” Able said.

She smiled like she meant it. “Thank you. I try to make them pretty.”

Jake let his eyes wander to the case. There were only partial pies left, but he could see that she had taken pains with them, putting little leaves, flowers, acorns, and such on the edges and making fancy tops with braids, strips, and cutouts. He hadn’t noticed if his Mississippi mud yesterday had been decorated.

“Not pretty,” Jake said. “They’re beautiful. You’re an artist.”

“Why, thank you, Jake.” She put her hand over her heart for a second. “Not everybody notices the extra touches. Sometimes the decorations give a hint to what’s inside.”

He pointed to a pie with bees around the edge. “Are there bees in that pie?” He gave her a little wink.

She laughed that laugh that reminded the world she was a happy person. “No. No bees, but it’s honey pear, one of the fall specials.” She handed the cherry pie to Able. “Here’s your pie, Able.”

“Please come sit with me?” Able asked.

Not if I have anything to say about it.Which, Jake realized to his horror, he did not.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I need to clean up and box some pies for early pickup tomorrow.”

Able stood there a moment, like he didn’t know what to say—which he obviously did not. “Sparks, get some pie and come have a seat. We’ve got some beer left.”

Jake just looked at him.

“Beer? Really?” Jake asked once Able had gone back to his little chair of torture.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “They brought it. Don’t ask.”

“What are they doing here anyway? You’re supposed to be closed.” He suddenly felt like he was the grown-up in charge of a bunch of wild eighth graders. Maybe he had it coming. He and Robbie had certainly given some of the more senior Sound players some headaches.

“Long story.” She wiped her hands and returned the cherry pie to the case. “Would you like pie?”

“No, thank you.” The thought made him a little queasy.

“Too full from dinner?” she asked. “I can wrap up some for later.”

“I haven’t had dinner. I’m starving, but—”

“Sugar on an empty stomach. I get it. Come with me,” she said. “I have some good sourdough bread, and I can make you a hot ham-and-cheese sandwich.”

His mouth watered and his stomach twisted in anticipation. “Can I have two?”

“If you’re good.” Her apron bow danced up and down as she walked away.

Damn that bow—not that he didn’t enjoy the sight, but his barbarian teammates were probably enjoying it, too.

He followed her though the employees-only door into the industrial kitchen. Take that, guys. See where I’m getting to go and you’re not.

With its stainless steel appliances and stark white walls, the room should have felt cold and sterile, but there was something about it that felt homey. Maybe it was the smell of cinnamon or the black-and-white checked floor that reminded him of Anna-Blair’s shop in Cottonwood. Maybe it was Evie herself.

She opened the big refrigerator and began to pull things off the bottom shelf—ham, cheese, mayonnaise, and a dish with a partial stick of butter. He opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t like mustard, but she left it where it was. She remembered. Over the years, their families had grilled hundreds of hamburgers together. There had always been two kinds of potato salad—one with mustard and one without.

She walked toward the counter with her arms full. “Would you mind closing the refrigerator door for me?”

“Sure.” He was about to do that when he caught sight of something interesting behind the cartons of yogurt—a half-eaten pie that looked like one of his favorite things in the whole world.

“Is this chicken pot pie?” He held it up. It had to be. The chunks of chicken, potatoes, peas, and carrots were suspended in rich, yellow gravy. The crust was brown, flakey, and had been oddly embellished with what looked like Santa’s sleigh and half his team of reindeer—the other half gone by the way of someone’s fork.

Evie looked up from the bread she was opening. “Oh. That. Yes. I had some leftover dough, and I made it for the staff’s lunch a couple of days ago. I wanted to practice for some Christmas pie decorations.”

“Can I have this? Instead of the sandwiches?”

She had been about to slice the bread, but stopped. “Are you sure? It’s not what I would call fresh. This bread was just baked this afternoon, and it’s fabulous. I trade savory pies for bread from Kirstin’s Bakery.”

She sure worried a lot about how old stuff was.

“My rule is if there’s no green growing, it’s good.”

She shuddered—actually shuddered. “You’re welcome to it.”

“Chicken pot pie is my favorite food.”

She looked surprised. “I didn’t know that. I thought tamales were.”

“It’s my non-Delta favorite food. There was a diner in North Dakota that made chicken pot pie. I got in the habit of eating it the night before a game.”

“I’ll warm this. How much do you want?” She held up the pie.

“I can eat it all—save it from getting a day older. That ought to make you happy.”

“There is that.” She removed the plastic wrap and covered it with aluminum foil.

“Hey, you can’t put aluminum foil in the microwave. Even I know that.”

“It’s not going in the microwave. It would come out soggy.” She walked over to a contraption with glass doors and racks underneath. “A convection oven is almost as fast.”

He gathered up the sandwich makings and returned them to the refrigerator. “I usually eat the frozen kind.”

“Here. Sit.” She gestured to a small round table for four in the corner that held a laptop, a mug of pens, a notebook, some cookbooks, salt and pepper shakers, and a stack of napkins. He sat down. Thankfully, these chairs were real—wood with high backs and seats that would hold a hockey player.

“Do you still eat chicken pot pie the night before a game?”

“I try to. It doesn’t always work out when I’m on the road.”

“Is that for luck?” Evie opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk from a gallon jug.

“I don’t worry about luck like I used to.” That was true, though it didn’t mean he didn’t worry at all. “I eat the pie because it’s high carb, and I like it.”

She set the milk in front of him. “Even the frozen kind? You must be easy to please.”

Not that easy.But just then she smiled all the way to her eyes until they sparkled and he realized, easy to please or not, she pleased him. She wasn’t wearing a lot of makeup and no jewelry except for some small silver earrings shaped like leaves.

“I would only consider frozen chicken pot pie emergency food.” She wrinkled her nose. So cute, so flirtatious. He smiled back at her—and then made himself stop.

There were about a hundred reasons he couldn’t be attracted to Evie—good reasons, even aside from the bet. One: she was his ex-wife’s cousin. Two: she was his childhood friend. Three: she was the daughter of his parents’ best friends and his godparents. Four: he had just gotten his friend back and found a piece of home. He couldn’t ruin it.

That might have seemed like only four reasons, but the last one counted for at least ninety-six times. Maybe he needed to say something to remind himself—and possibly her—that there could be no flirtation or anything else beyond friendship between them.

“It is a chicken pot pie emergency if you don’t have anyone to make it for you, and you don’t know how yourself.” He took a drink of his milk. “Your cousin used to make it for me.” With those words, he placed an elephant in the room, to remind himself of reason number one.

Evie nodded but she didn’t change her facial expression at all. He’d been wrong. She hadn’t been trying to flirt with him. She was just a happy person, spreading smiles and joy for those who would take it. “I could teach you to make it.”

He laughed. “I don’t see that happening. Maybe you could just make them for me.”

“You play how many games? Eighty-something? I don’t see that happening.”

“Not all of them are home games. I wouldn’t need a whole pie for every game. One per series would do me.” He sipped his milk.

Evie closed her eyes, and her face went sad. “I should have said this yesterday, but I’m sorry about all that happened with Channing. Do you miss her?”

The question caught him off guard. He did not miss Channing. He missed who he’d thought she was and what he’d expected them to have together. There didn’t seem to be a right answer.

“It’s hard to miss a woman who put you out of your house on game day because ‘it wasn’t like she thought it would be.’” Time to lighten the mood. “I for sure don’t miss the house. It was like Pinterest threw up in there. Lots of jars with candles, and chalkboards with sayings on them.”

Evie smiled. “Pinterest can lead you astray if you let it.”

“She got her chicken pot pie recipe from Pinterest, too. It had canned mixed vegetables, chicken, and soup. She used those frozen crusts.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” But from the purse of Evie’s lips and the tone of her voice, it was clear just how little she thought of that.

He laughed. “You’re such a pie snob.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” she repeated and raised an eyebrow—just one. “Stick around. I’ll turn you into a pie snob, too. I’ll ruin you for all other pies.”

Their eyes locked and a moment of pure, light amusement passed between them. How long had it been since he’d felt that? Just the joy of being with another person, with no complications? No one was trying to get into anyone’s pants. No one was trying to get a game-worn jersey. No one was trying to get a giant diamond ring and a mansion in which to hang lying chalkboard signs that spouted philosophy about forever. It was just a fall night, a glass of milk, and a girl who felt like home.

A little ding sounded and broke the spell. Evie snapped her fingers. “Your food is warm.”

He closed his eyes to keep from watching her walk away. He was in a good place now, and he wasn’t about to let a bow do him in.

“Here you go.” She set the pie plate on the table and hurried across the kitchen. “I’ll be right back with a plate and fork.”

“Just a fork,” he called after her. “No need in dirtying up a plate.”

“As you like.” She handed him a fork, closed the laptop, and pushed it to the side. “Let me get this out of the way.”

“Is this your office?” he asked.

“Yes.” She sat down across from him, opened a bottle of water, and drank deeply. “And our lunch table. Sometimes our dinner table if we have to stay late.”

“Like tonight?”

He took a bite of the food—and immediately knew food was too generic a description for the morsels in his mouth. The parade of flaky pastry, rich gravy, and tender chicken might have brought him to his knees if he’d had a little less pride. It was pure buttery and creamy comfort.

“Like tonight? What do you mean?” Evie spoke and broke the food spell.

He swallowed and got his brain out of his mouth. “Tonight?”

She gave him a puzzled look. “Yes. Like tonight. It’s a dinner table tonight because I stayed late. Have you been hit in the head too many times?”

“Probably.” He took another bite. “But I was distracted by this manna from heaven.”

“Ha! That’s not manna from heaven. The Israelites complained about the manna.”

He laughed. “You’re pretty cocky about your talents, aren’t you?” It struck him that Evie displayed more confidence here in her shop than he remembered her ever showing anywhere else.

Suddenly, some things made sense. She was prettier, funnier, happier, and more charismatic than he’d ever seen her—and it was all because she’d found the place where she was entirely comfortable in her own skin. That was what drew his eye to the bow on her apron and made him want to bask in her laughter.

She shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be cocky? You’re the one who was so distracted by that pie you couldn’t remember what we’d been talking about.”

“About that...”

“About what?” He liked how she leaned forward a little when she asked a question, like she cared about what his answer would be.

“That you’re here late.”

“What about it?” She leaned in a little more.

He pointed toward the door that led to the shop. “You shouldn’t let them run over you. You should have made them leave.”

“It wasn’t any big deal. I had to stay anyway. I had things to do.” She gestured to some pies on the counter and sat back again. “Besides, it was sort of fun.”

Fun? “They were taking advantage of you.”

Her smile faded a bit. “No. Miklos came in first, wanting pasties. He thought they were a regular menu item. They aren’t, but I had some left and was glad for him to have them. We had a little bit of language barrier, and the next thing you know, I had a shopful of hockey players—and a case of beer.”

“I don’t think you understand how hockey players can be. They can have ulterior motives.”

A storm cloud descended over her face. “Ulterior motives? Are you implying that they praised my pie in hopes I would have sex with them? One at a time, Jake? Or all at once? Either way, I can take care of myself, but I’m just wondering what imaginary tale you have racing around in your head.”

Fuck. This was going all wrong. “No. That’s not what I meant. They didn’t even pay you!”

“It was my food to give away—food that I wasn’t going to sell anyway. You must not think much of me if you think they were just being nice to me to get free pie.”

“I think the world of you. That’s why—”

Evie didn’t seem to hear him, but plowed ahead. “Though I’d like to point out that they don’t need free pie. I suspect there’s not a person on your team who couldn’t buy and sell this shop ten times over—land included.”

Worse and worse.

She stood and put her hands on her hips. There were probably more disagreeable things than a woman looming over you with her arms akimbo, but he couldn’t think of much right now. “Do you think I’m so hungry for attention that I have to buy it with pie?”

No, Evie, I don’t think that. I’ve passed enough time with enough puck bunnies to know what a woman hungry for attention is like.“That wasn’t what I meant,” he repeated.

“Then, tell me: what did you mean?”

He took a deep breath. “It’s just that hockey players are unpredictable. You can’t trust them. They say one thing and then forget it in a flash. And they can be a little wild.”

She nodded. “Oh yes, they bought a whole case of Budweiser. Beer and pie today and what next? Driving through cotton fields? Rolling yards? Setting up dogfights?”

“I never knew you had such a sarcastic mouth on you. You’ve always been so nice.” He knew the minute it came out, he’d said the wrong thing.

“I’m plenty sarcastic in my head. I just don’t usually get mad enough to let it out. And I never knew you could be so insulting.”

That wasn’t fair. He had not insulted her. It was time to take this situation in hand, and he was going to do it on his feet. He did not, however, put his hands on his hips.

“I did not insult you. I was trying to look out for you.”

How could such a sweet face suddenly look so huffy? “I think I’m a better judge than you whether or not I have been insulted.”

“No.” He crossed his arms. “You are a better judge of whether you feel insulted. I am a better—no, the only—judge of whether I meant to insult you. And I did not. That’s not the guy I am.”

She looked a little uncertain or at least a little less huffy.

Time to go in for the kill. “I know hockey players. They’re used to getting their way. They think every woman they run across wants to sleep with them.”

I know because I have been that guy, and I’m trying to not be anymore.But she didn’t need to know that.

“There’s been a lot of...virtue surrendered to a lot of hockey players.” He made sure his voice was soft. She wrinkled her forehead, which he took to mean she was considering what he’d said. Placing his hand on her arm hadn’t been a conscious act, but there it was. There was warmth there and a little slow burn sparkle. She felt it, too. It was evident in the way she briefly looked down where he held her arm. He ought to remove his hand. “I can’t let you be a casualty at the hands of one of my teammates.”

She jerked her arm away from his hand. “A casualty? If you think I can’t take care of myself, you know less about me than I know about hockey players. Furthermore, you’re not the boss of me.” Her eyes blazed.

There was no pure, light amusement and fun between them now. No slow-burn sparkle either—not a bit. She had some hellcat in her and he’d brought it out. And somehow that was very appealing.

“I—” he began, but his mouth went dry and images that were wrong, wrong, wrong moved in. He should not be thinking about backing Evie up against that big stainless steel refrigerator and lifting her against that part of him that had a mind of its own.

He began to sweat. He didn’t really want Evie. It had been a long dry spell and he had that fresh-off-the-ice horny adrenaline going. Combine all that with the knowledge that women were forbidden fruit right now, with Evie the most forbidden—the apple that would doom all of mankind—and you had yourself some impure thoughts.

Hellfire and brimstone, times a hundred.

Maybe he should apologize, even if he had meant well—get things back on a friendly even keel. Maybe if he explained himself a little better, she would get it.

He hurried to add, “There was a time when you would have listened to me when I tried to warn you about something, when I was trying to help you.”

She nodded. “I agree. But that was back before you abandoned our friendship.”

His gut bottomed out and he suddenly felt hollow inside. “You said you forgave me.” At least his impure thoughts took a hike. “You said it was behind us.”

She nodded. “I did forgive you. I do. I meant what I said. But it happened, Jake. We can go on from here, but we have to deal with the new reality, where we didn’t talk three times a week and share everything that went on in our lives. There are things that are off-limits that wouldn’t have been before.”

Before.Before was exactly what he wanted—before Channing.

And what if there had been instead of Channing? His mind wandered back to that Christmas party when he’d almost asked Evie to the Sigma Chi formal. Funny thing. He hadn’t been planning to invite her, wouldn’t have thought someone so smart and focused would have been interested in going out with a guy who had a pro hockey pipe dream and no backup plan. Besides, the dance had still been a long way off and his head firmly in hockey season. But he and Evie had been laughing about something and she had pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked at him a certain way and it suddenly just seemed right that he should ask her. He would have if Channing hadn’t appeared and he hadn’t gone out of his mind over her. What would have happened if Channing had arrived five minutes later?

Well, that ship had sailed. Probably for the best. But he wanted—needed—this friendship back. He didn’t want anything to be off-limits. He needed to apologize. Again. More. Better.

“Evie—” But before he could finish and just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, who should come through the kitchen door but the clean-shaven, Midwestern picture of morality and integrity, wholesome Able Killen? And he was carrying a stack of dirty plates.

“Evans, I told the other guys to go home and that I’d make sure everything was cleaned up.”

I’ll just bet you did.

Evie turned to sunshine again. “Oh, Able. How nice. But you didn’t have to do that.”

“No way I’d leave you with this mess.” Would Jake have cleaned up after himself? Maybe. He wasn’t exactly known for it, but he had put the sandwich stuff back in the refrigerator. “If you’ll show me the way to the sink, I’ll just wash these dishes up.”

“No need to do that. We’ll put them in the Hobart.” Evie turned her back to Jake. “This way.”

Jake stepped away from the table. “I’ll help. I know how to run a Hobart.” And he was almost sure that was true. The church back at home had one. He’d never actually done it, but he’d hung around and seen it done.

“Sit back down and eat your chicken pot pie, Jake. We’ve got this.” Her flat tone said it all. Don’t you dare follow me.

“This was really nice, Evans,” Able said as they walked away. “I’d like to take you to dinner to say thank you.”

“Oh, Able, you’re sweet! No thanks are necessary.” But, again, her tone said it all. That would be just grand!

The bow bounced when she walked.

He ate another bite of chicken pot pie.

It tasted like glue.

It was lucky that Evans had driven to work today because it was raining when she left Crust—which matched her mood.

Challenging anyone wasn’t like her; challenging Jake was unheard of.

Even when he’d joked about her making chicken pot pies for his pregame meals, her first inclination had been to say yes, that she would absolutely do that—just tell her how many and how often. But then she’d seen that little glint in his eye that indicated he was teasing. She’d been down that road before—before she’d understood what that glint meant. He would ask for something ridiculous—clean his room or gas up his car—and yes girl would answer the call. Then he’d have to admit he was kidding, and she’d get red-faced, aware that she’d just shown how eager she was to please him.

Awkward, but that would have been preferable to the clash of the decade.

She wasn’t even sure who had been more wrong—Jake for acting like a caveman in charge of all other cave people or her for throwing the past in his face. After ordering him to eat his food while she and Able loaded the dishwasher, she’d returned to find him gone—the pie with him. Their relationship might be lost again, and this time permanently. Maybe she ought to call him.

As if it knew she was thinking of it, Evans’s phone rang as she pulled her Honda CRV into the entrance of Bungalow Circle. Maybe it was Jake! Maybe he wanted to settle things between them, too. But no. Her mother. She let it go to voice mail. She wasn’t avoiding Anna-Blair, but it could wait until she changed from her rain-splattered clothes and made a cup of tea. Once settled on the sofa under a throw, she made the call.

“Hello, Mama. Sorry I didn’t pick up. I was driving.”

“That’s good. Don’t drive and talk. Were you out doing something fun?”

“Just getting home from the shop.”

“It’s late to be working.”

“Early pickup order tomorrow.” Evans chose not to mention the hockey player pie-eating convention.

“Have you seen Jake yet?” Anna-Blair had said yet because she couldn’t fathom a world where Jake and Evans would be in the same town and not get together. Her family must have known that she and Jake had not had as much contact during the last few years as they once had, but they probably marked it up to his marriage, their careers, the end of his marriage, and a hundred other things. She’d never discussed it with them and had been evasive when Jake was mentioned.

“Yes. I’ve seen him a couple of times.” Three in fact. The first time for pie and apologies. The second, for pie and some Delta reminiscing. The third, for pie and ruining our friendship—again.

“I called because I wanted to tell you I just talked to Christine.”

Great. Jake’s mother. What fresh hell was about to be visited on her? Had he called and reported in about their dustup tonight?

“You talk to Christine every day. She’s your best friend.”

“True. But I wanted to tell you that we’re coming with her and Marc for Jake’s first home game—the preseason game with Vancouver.” No. No. Jake and I may or may not be speaking. At best, it will be awkward. At worst, humiliating—for me. “So, put it on your calendar so we can all go together. In ten days. You can do that, can’t you?”

Not a chance. I’ll be in Boston making lobster pot pie for Harvard’s rowing team.

“Of course I can. It’ll be good to see you.”

“Great. Christine and Marc are staying with Jake, but I made a reservation for your father and me at the Laurel Springs Inn.”

“You could have stayed with me.” Though she was grateful that wasn’t going to happen. She loved her 1940s bungalow, but it was small.

Jake, on the other hand, probably had lots of room. She’d heard those condos were sweet—not that she expected to see it.

“No,” Anna-Blair said. “We don’t want you to have to sleep on the sofa. We’re looking forward to a great weekend with all of us together—like we used to have.”

“You bet!”

Damn it all to hell.