by Becky Wade
“Huh.” Sam dipped another chip.
“I need to show her that she can count on me to be truthful. That I’m not too macho to communicate my feelings. And that I’m not afraid to make a fool of myself for love.”
“Is that all?” Sam asked dryly.
“Do you have any ideas for me?”
“None. I’m terrible at relationships.”
“Help me brainstorm. How can I show her I’m truthful?”
“Tell her you think she’s gained weight?” Humor creased Sam’s expression.
Eli chuckled. “You really are terrible at relationships.”
“Told you.”
“Other ideas?”
“Tell her you don’t like how that guy who works for her always keeps talking after a conversation’s over,” Sam said. “Or tell her that her chocolate pie needs a touch more salt.”
“There’s no way I’m going to criticize her weight, her employee, or her pie.”
“I thought you wanted to be truthful.”
“But not critical.”
“How come she’s worried about your truthfulness? Have you lied to her about something in the past?”
“By remaining silent about something important, yes.”
“Then don’t make the same mistake. Talk to her about the thing you didn’t talk to her about the last time.”
Sam was right. Of course Sam was right. But, shoot. If he told her what he knew about his squadron’s future, that would put him in a position that sucked. “What about communicating my feelings? Let’s brainstorm that.”
“Write her a poem?”
“I don’t read or write poetry.”
“Which is why she’ll like it when you make the effort to write a poem for her.”
Eli regarded Sam doubtfully. “What if I write her a letter?”
“Sure. Or a song?”
“I could hang a banner above her apartment door.”
“You’re a pilot. Say ‘I love you’ through skywriting.”
Their server returned to top off their drinks. She gave them both a flashing smile. They resumed their conversation when she’d gone.
“She also wants me to show her that I’m willing to make a fool of myself for love.” Eli scratched the back of his head. “How do I do that?”
“Rent a hot air balloon and land it in front of her house?”
“I could buy up a whole day’s worth of pie from her, then give it away free to celebrate Penelope Day.”
“Get a megaphone and walk around talking about how great she is?”
“I could serenade her from the sidewalk.”
Sam shrugged. “All of those things will definitely result in you making a fool of yourself.”
He tried to imagine himself walking around Misty River with a megaphone. “If I, ah, need your help with any of these, you’d be willing, right?”
“Definitely not.”
“By definitely not do you mean yes?”
“Definitely not.”
• • •
Across town, Penelope and Cameron were on a date.
Penelope lined up the putter they’d given her at the Putt Putt golf counter. She swung carefully and connected with her magenta-colored ball. It rolled just past the hole and continued going until it plunked against the concrete lip.
“Sorry about that,” Cameron said.
He kept apologizing every time she missed. He didn’t seem to comprehend that she was not competitively invested in this game.
“Should I go?” he asked. He was a stickler for the rules. “I’m farthest from the hole, so I think it’s me.”
“Be my guest.” She stood her putter upright like a cane and crossed one foot over the other.
Cameron took a great deal of time checking his line and strategizing. Bless him.
He had very thick black hair and a strong, stocky body. He looked like he could be a mobster’s favorite son. But his personality belonged to a Kindergarten Sunday School teacher. Uncertain, earnest, squeaky clean.
The sun had almost finished draining color from the sky. A nearby light post lit Cameron’s pale blue button-down and beige pants. In the drone of the fake waterfall beside her, her thoughts wandered to a winter night and a secret dance and a stolen kiss—
“Penelope?”
She straightened, returning to the present. He’d sunk his shot. She putted. Missed.
“Sorry,” he said.
The next time, her ball finally went in.
Cameron made a dutiful notation on the score card using a miniature pencil. “Do you want to go on to the next hole? Or we could sit a while?” He indicated the indentation carved into a large imitation stone to create a bench.
“Let’s go on to the next hole.”
“Cool.” He gave her a besotted smile.
They arrived at hole nine, where it appeared the aim was to hit into a rectangular opening beneath a windmill.
“Would you like to go first?” he asked. “Technically, I should since I had the lowest score on the last hole.”
“You go.”
When it was her turn, her ball obediently sailed into the opening.
“Awesome!”
“Thanks, Cameron.” They progressed down to the circle of green where their balls had emerged.
“You’re farthest out,” he said.
He had so many good qualities. Cameron was brainy. Employed. He had straight white teeth. He did not live with his parents. Like her, he loved Legos and Jesus. Best of all, he was not in the Air Force.
But this would have to be their last date.
She was not enamored with the prospect of spending her days answering his questions. Would you like to open the door or should I, Penelope? Is it okay if I go to work now? May I lock the car? Can I get myself a drink?
Cameron didn’t have a Montana heritage or quick comebacks. He didn’t know that she liked fried chicken and he didn’t babysit his friend’s newborn baby and he didn’t make her laugh.
His name was not Eli.
Chapter Six
Penelope was spending the Fourth of July inside the 1955 Jewel camper trailer that she’d gutted and converted into a mobile pie shop. From her position at the window where customers placed orders, she had a view of the town’s central park. The old brick buildings framing the park contained a cute mix of shops, government offices, restaurants, and corporate spaces.
Every time the stress of the busy day had begun to fray her nerves, she’d lifted her gaze to the ancient, calming mountains in the distance.
Geologists speculated that the Blue Ridge Mountains had once resembled their young cousin, the Rocky Mountains—all jagged and high and self-important with youth. But the centuries had worn the range down in the same way that time wears down and matures all things. Because of that, the slopes, hollows, and aged forests of the Blue Ridge whispered to Penelope of their stalwart ability to endure and endure and endure.
Misty River had been founded in 1823. Like a child hesitant to stray too far from its mother, the town’s earliest buildings clung close to the river. Misty River’s hills wore forests that turned brilliant with color every autumn. Waterfalls carved pools into the earth. Mist often hovered low here. And clouds often hovered high.
Through the decades, the residents of this town had stitched a tapestry marked with shades of honor as well as shame.
When gold had been found in these mountains in 1829, European and American settlers flocked to the area and, in doing so, trespassed on the ancestral land of the Cherokee. The Cherokee fought for their rights in court. The government bowed to pressure from miners and corporations, eventually forcing the migration of the Native Americans via the Trail of Tears.
Later, when America hovered on the brink of Civil War, Rabun County voted not to secede from the union. They were overruled by urban centers. Georgia, and with it Misty River, had gone to war for the Confederacy and thus for the continuance of the abomination of slavery.
During World War I, a he
ro from Misty River gave his life to protect his fellow soldiers at the Battle of Cantigny and was honored with the Distinguished Service Cross.
In World War II, a nurse from Misty River had valiantly treated soldiers in Normandy after D-Day.
Penelope’s town had emerged from its pock-marked past humbled, wiser, and with a patriotic heart. It was famous for its beauty, its orchards, its vineyards, and a group of kids (now adults) known as the Miracle Five.
Ever since today’s Fourth of July parade and the ceremony honoring servicemen and women had concluded, throngs of people had been drifting to the classic car show nearby, the carnival rides at First Baptist Church, and Polka-Dot Apron Pies.
It was three thirty in the afternoon now and the onslaught had finally calmed. Blowing a tendril of hair out of her eye, Penelope smiled at the next customer in line, a cute little grandmother.
“Two slices of apple pie à la mode,” the older woman said.
“You bet. Anything to drink?”
“Just water, please.”
“Certainly.” Penelope passed the order along to her sole employee, Kevin.
Turquoise paint coated the outside of her trailer. Pink-and-white-striped wallpaper brightened the inside. Two windows crowned with awnings—one for ordering, one for pie pick-up—marked the exterior.
Penelope handed the grandmother her change.
Whenever she and Kevin worked the camper at the same time, like today, she ran the register and he plated. She had an easier rapport with customers and Kevin was fastidious at plating.
She passed over the two slices of pie, crowned with scoops of photo-worthy vanilla ice cream softening in cinnamony rivulets down the pie’s sides thanks to the day’s eighty-seven-degree temperature.
She glanced across at Kevin. “How’s our inventory?” It would be a travesty to run out of apple pie on America’s birthday.
“Running lowest on apple, but we’ll have more than enough to make it to the end of the day. Good planning, boss.”
“Thanks.”
A recent college graduate, Kevin was pale, slight, and already prematurely balding.
“Really good planning, boss.” Kevin nodded at her, retaining hopeful eye contact.
“Thanks again.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m impressed.”
She turned to take the next customer’s order.
“You made just enough.” Kevin was still holding up his end of their chat, despite that she’d moved on to a new conversation. She could feel his gaze on her.
“You really have a knack for calculating how much we’ll sell—”
She interrupted Kevin kindly. “One pecan, please.”
Glancing up to take the next customer’s order, she spotted . . .
Eli.
Eli.
Her heart executed a surprised somersault. It had been months upon months since she’d glanced up from her food truck window and seen him standing in her line. It was a Wednesday. But, of course, he was off work for the holiday.
Belatedly, she realized she’d completely missed the order the family of four had just placed.
“Sorry!” she told the mom. “Can you repeat that one more time, please?”
After inputting their order on the iPad and flipping the screen toward the mom to sign, she shot a surreptitious glance at Eli. He’d come alone, wearing a T-shirt that read USAF. She loved the fit of the jeans he’d chosen and his metal-rimmed sunglasses.
The two young women ahead of Eli in line kept sliding peeks at him. She’d spent enough time with Eli to have noticed that the admiration of women followed him wherever he went. This time, however, the interest of the women didn’t sit well with her. At all.
Penelope passed the family of four their pie order.
The black-haired woman standing in front of Eli struck up a conversation with him. Penelope wrinkled her nose, straining to hear what they were saying, but couldn’t quite make it out. Eli would answer politely, of that she was certain.
The black-haired woman gesticulated with her hands, laughed.
Eli smiled in return, his attention flicking up to Penelope just as he did so. Which tempted Penelope to suspect that his smile was for her.
Eventually, he reached the front of the line.
“Hi.” Not her best verbal opener.
“Hi.”
“Would you care for some pie?”
“Please.”
“The usual?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll bring it around.” She motioned with her head to the camper’s side.
“How much do I owe you?”
You owe me about a million apology notes for making me dream of you for the past three nights in a row. “This is my treat.”
She turned to Kevin. “One peach à la mode, please. And if you think you can man the fort, I’m going to take a break.” It might be smart, or it might be dumb, but she wanted some time with Eli.
“Sure, boss.”
She removed her yellow polka-dot apron. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes or so.”
“Happy to man the fort.” He handed her the slice of peach pie. “You can count on me.” He didn’t look away.
“I’ll be leaving now.”
“This is a great time for you to go. It’s not as busy as it was.” He gave her a pleasant look of expectation, as if waiting for her to say something more.
“Kevin, customers are waiting to place their order.”
“Ah!” He stepped toward the window. “I love all the patriotic clothing. It’s encouraging to see—”
She escaped out the door. Meeting Eli at the camper’s end, she handed him his pie. “Fancy seeing you here. Were you hungry for pie?”
“Always. But I came to see you.”
She got lost in his soft brown eyes. Gah! “Better get started on that.” She nudged her chin toward his pie. “As you know, I take it as a personal insult when people don’t eat it right away and let the ice cream turn into plain old cream.”
He lowered his vision to his dessert and released a sound of appreciation at the sight of its golden-brown flaky crust and filling of glistening peaches. He picked up his biodegradable spork. “What about you? Are you hungry or thirsty? If you can get away for a minute, I’ll buy you food.”
“I am hungry, and I can get away for a minute, but I’ll buy my own food.”
“I’m buying,” he said, unperturbed.
“That’s not necessary—”
He lifted his pie plate. “You just gave me pie. Did you notice how graciously I accepted it, without arguing?”
She smiled. “Fine. Rumor has it that your friend Sam’s selling sliders over at Sugar Maple Kitchen. You can buy me a few of those.”
Side by side they ambled down streets closed to traffic.
Ten years ago, Travel + Leisure had done a spread on Misty River, declaring it a hidden gem. Afterward, the town had become a not-so-hidden gem. The influx of tourists had brought an answering wave of businesses that had filled every previously empty retail space downtown. Almost all of those businesses had raised pop-up tents outside today, where they were selling their specialties, distributing freebies, or passing out flyers.
“Your pie is even better than I remembered,” Eli said, glancing at her.
“Thank you.” He’d always been an avid supporter of her business.
A family wearing matching flag T-shirts from Old Navy passed going the other direction. A girl with long pigtails holding an assortment of navy, white, and gold balloons ran down the street in front of them.
“You must’ve been in a good mood this morning,” Eli observed.
Her momentary confusion gave way to clarity. “Did you come to that conclusion based on my shoes?”
He made a sound of assent.
“Your deduction’s correct.”
Her parents and Theo and Lila and her other friends all knew that she was extremely loyal to her Vans and that she had enough of them that she could go two weeks straight without re
peating a pair. But no one except Eli had noticed that she chose her Vans based on her state of mind. And then chose her outfit based on her Vans. This morning, she’d selected a red pair, then matched them with a white tee under overall shorts.
She tipped her knock-off Cartier sunglasses from her casual up-do down over her eyes. Designer sunglass styles appealed to her, but she only bought knock-offs because she was the owner of a pie shop, not a Swiss bank.
A green tent shaded the serving table Sam had set up in front of Sugar Maple Kitchen. He stood before a small barbecue that was releasing curls of beef-scented smoke.
To her way of thinking, Sam was a genius with food. His dishes were an inspiration to her—creative, healthy, fresh, and blow-your-mind tasty. He’d moved to Misty River four years ago and she still vividly recalled the very first item she’d purchased at his restaurant, a Paleo cinnamon roll. It had been a revelation to her and, when she’d polished it off, she’d sought Sam out and introduced herself. He was so talented that talking to him made her feel the same way she felt when talking to her pastor, slightly self-conscious and dazzled.
Eli and Sam exchanged greetings, then Penelope requested two sliders and a glass of iced tea. Eli pulled out his wallet and peeled off bills, which he passed to the female employee of The Kitchen manning the cash box.
Eli winked happily at Penelope.
She rolled her eyes. If it delighted him to pay, fine. This was not a date. This was him showing up at her pie shop. And her hanging out with him during a work break.
Sam flipped her slider patties on the grill. Tall and strapping, with olive skin and brown hair, he was the embodiment of what every American woman imagined the ideal Aussie man should look like. Yet Sam didn’t come with the classic happy-go-lucky, easy-to-laugh, quick-to-throw-back-a-beer Aussie personality. He was closed-off somehow. Wounded, maybe.
Sam represented the trifecta of dating eligibility to the women in this town. He was 1) Respectable, 2) Handsome, and 3) Foreign. Several of her friends had crushes on Sam, yet he hadn’t asked any of them out, which had led to collective confusion and misery.
“Eli told me that Theo’s wife’s been in the hospital,” Sam said to Penelope. “How is she?”