Drive Me Wild

by Melanie Harlow

  “How so?”

  “Letting her stay here.”

  “Well, what choice did you have? Blair was broker than her car, Mom was being top-shelf manipulative, and every place around here was booked. She had nowhere to go, Griff. Were you supposed to put her on the street?”

  I said nothing and took another sip.

  “I mean, I guess you could have loaned her some money so she could’ve stayed at the motel and rented a car. But you liked having her around, didn’t you?”

  “For a while.”

  “I could tell. So what changed? Why the big blow-up?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I take it Lanette called you.”

  “I saw her at the game tonight.”

  Shrugging, I tipped my beer up again. “It was bound to happen.”

  “Was it? I had lunch with Blair last week, and all she did was gush about you the entire time. I literally almost vomited in my lap, it was so disgusting. She has real feelings for you, Griff.”

  “What did she say?” I asked, then immediately regretted it. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “She called you a real man. She said how much she admired you for your work ethic, and your honesty, and your commitment to Dad’s legacy.”

  “I said I didn’t want to know,” I snapped.

  “She mentioned your bravery, the fact that you served your country. She hadn’t heard about your Silver Star, but don’t worry, I filled her in about that.”

  I breathed hard, my nostrils flaring.

  “And then there was all this stuff about your blue eyes, or maybe it was your big hands or your muscles—I don’t know, I was pretty grossed out, so I made her stop talking.”

  “Can I make you stop talking?”

  “My point is,” she went on, “the woman wants to be with you, Griff. Like, really, really wants to be with you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”

  She stared at me, took a sip of her beer, and sighed. “I wasn’t going to do this, but okay.”

  “Do what?”

  “I know about the parts.”

  “What parts?” I asked, although I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly.

  “The parts for her car that came in more than a week before you actually installed them.”

  Furious, I finished off my beer and cracked open another. “Fucking McIntyre. He told Emily?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I shook my head. “I swear to God, there is no privacy in this town.”

  “I’m not judging you, brother.” She held up her hands. “I get it. You didn’t want her to leave. What I don’t get is why you didn’t want her to stay.”

  There was no way to make her understand without telling her the entire painful history, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I loved my sister, but I couldn’t share everything with her.

  Not like I could with Blair.

  The realization that I trusted Blair more than I’d ever trusted anyone made me squirm. “I realized I’m better off alone, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”

  She sighed. “Whatever you say.” Then she looked around. “Where’s Bisou? You’ll be glad to know I think I found a home for her.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah. Just waiting on final confirmation.” Then she looked at me. “If that’s okay. You can keep her if you’d like. I just thought—”

  “I’ll keep her.”

  Cheyenne’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I want to keep her.”

  What the hell was I doing? That damn cat was just another reminder of Blair, and I didn’t need it.

  I already had one hanging in my closet.

  Twenty-Two

  Blair

  I could not have asked for a better start to my new life.

  My carriage house apartment was adorable, fully furnished, and perfectly sized for one person. Frannie’s parents, John and Daphne Sawyer, could not have been nicer or more welcoming. The evening I arrived, they insisted I join them for dinner along with Frannie’s family. On Sunday, I was invited to supper again, and I got to meet all five Sawyer sisters, their significant others, and Frannie’s niece and nephews.

  They were a huge, loving, noisy bunch, and they made me feel right at home.

  But something was missing. I felt like I’d left a piece of me behind.

  It wasn’t that I was unhappy—I wasn’t. I just missed him. I wanted to hear how he was doing. Was business picking up at the garage? Were people excited about the anniversary event? Did anyone ask about me? Had they won their old man baseball game?

  More importantly, did he ever think of me? Did he lie awake remembering things we’d said and done? Did he regret pushing me away?

  Or was he happier being alone?

  The unanswerable questions tortured me endlessly.

  Thankfully, I had work to distract me, and I threw myself into making a fresh start with everything I had.

  The coffee shop opened at seven, and I’d arrive by six, turn on the oven, throw on my apron, put my hair up with a bandana, and get to work. Frannie’s kitchen actually had windows, which was amazing because many kitchens can feel like dungeons.

  The morning routine, performed like a ballet while the sun came up, was comforting to me. First, I’d pull the yeast doughs from the cooler. While they were proofing, I’d start the scones. Frannie and I had discussed the menu and decided on two batches of sweet and one savory each day.

  While the scones were in the oven, I’d fill the case up front with items made the day before—cakes, shortbread, galette, strata. At this point, I’d often enjoy a quick cup of coffee, inhaling the scent of baking scones and my favorite dark roast with a little cream. Frannie would arrive by seven to greet customers, and I loved hearing them ask who the new baker was and compliment my pastries.

  The break didn’t last long, though, because there were cookies to bake, dough to make, questions to answer about specific ingredients because of allergies, and the occasional introduction to a happy customer who wanted to meet me. I was always hustling to keep the cases filled and rarely got a lunch break, but that was okay. Being busy meant less time for my mind to wander toward Bellamy Creek.

  By three o’clock, I’d be dead on my feet, and Frannie would try to shoo me home. “Go,” she’d say. “You open, I close. Remember?”

  But I didn’t mind staying to help her close up, and we often ended up having one last cup of coffee and chatting at the long marble counter.

  I really did love the job, and I was so grateful to Frannie for giving me the opportunity.

  But that tug on my heart refused to leave me be.

  If only it wasn’t trying to pull me back where I wasn’t wanted.

  One afternoon a week after I’d arrived, Frannie poked her head into the kitchen just after closing and smiled. “Hey. You have a visitor.”

  “I do?” Immediately I thought of Griffin—he knew where the coffee shop was, after all—but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Still, I brushed some flour from my apron and tightened the bandana knot on the top of my head.

  But when I walked out, it was Cheyenne I saw.

  “Hey stranger,” she said with a grin.

  “Cheyenne!” Excited to see her, I flew around the counter and hugged her. “What a great surprise! It’s so good to see you.”

  “You too. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Busy.”

  “Frannie said things are going well here.”

  “She’s amazingly talented,” said Frannie, who was wiping down the glass cases.

  My cheeks warmed, and I tucked my hands into my apron pockets. “I really love it here. The shop is great, the people are so nice, and Frannie’s family has been wonderful.”

  “She’s like an honorary Sawyer sister already,” joked Frannie. “My dad can’t get enough of her southern comfort strata. I think he’s been in here every day this week for lunch!”

  Cheyenne smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

/>   “How’s your family?” I asked.

  “Well, my mother still isn’t speaking to me, and Griffin isn’t speaking much to anybody.”

  “Why isn’t your mother speaking to you?” asked Frannie.

  “Because I aided and abetted the escape of her future daughter-in-law, AKA the mother of her future grandchildren.”

  “Griffin isn’t speaking to anybody?” I wasn’t sure how I felt about the news. I went back and forth between wanting him to be as heartbroken as I was and hoping he was doing okay.

  “Nope. And when he does, he’s grouchy as a bear.” Cheyenne dropped onto a counter stool. “The damn fool is lost without you, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.”

  “Men,” said Frannie with vehemence, rubbing at a stubborn smudge on the glass. “What’s Griffin’s problem exactly?”

  “His last relationship ended badly,” I said, hoping I wasn’t betraying a confidence. “And he sort of made up his mind at that juncture of his life that being alone suited him better.”

  “But everybody has baggage,” Frannie said. “Right?”

  “Griff also gets a lot of pressure from our mom to ‘find a nice girl and settle down,’” added Cheyenne, hooking her fingers into air quotes. “And there is nothing that makes my brother angrier than being told what to do. He’s got an independent streak a mile long, always has. Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did in the military.”

  “I think he liked the military for what it taught him about self-discipline,” I said.

  “He needed it.” Cheyenne laughed. “All that adrenaline was too much for one small town when he was young. But it’s amazing to me the way you understand him, Blair. It’s so obvious how good you are together.”

  I shrugged helplessly. “Not much I can do if he doesn’t feel the way I feel.”

  “But he does.” Cheyenne banged her palm on the marble. “That’s what kills me—he does. I can see it. My mother sees it. The whole town sees it!”

  “You know, if it makes you feel any better, Blair, Mack gave me a really hard time too,” offered Frannie.

  “Really?” It shocked me, because he was so crazy in love with her now.

  “Oh, God yes. You can ask his girls sometime. He was awful. He ended things because he was convinced that he would never get married again or have more children, and he knew I wanted those things. He looked at it like he was doing me a favor—breaking it off quickly so that I’d move on and find the right person for me.”

  “That’s what Griffin said too! That he was doing me a favor.” I shook my head as my eyes filled. “But it’s not true.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Frannie said, taking my hand. “What he’s doing is what Mack did—retreating so he doesn’t have to deal with his baggage. Face his fears.”

  “Exactly,” Cheyenne said.

  “And the worst thing is, there’s nothing you can do about it.” Frannie squeezed my hand. “He just has to be miserable enough without you to come to the conclusion that what you have is worth the risk.”

  “I don’t think that’s ever going to happen,” I said sadly. “And the sooner I face reality, the better.”

  “Listen, my bullheaded brother isn’t really why I came to see you. I have something for you.” Cheyenne pulled a large yellow envelope from her bag and slid it across the counter toward me.

  “What is it?” I picked up the envelope and looked at it. On the outside, my name was written in wiggly black ink.

  “It’s from Charlie Frankel,” she said with a giggle. “Maybe it’s a love letter.”

  “Who’s Charlie Frankel?” asked Frannie.

  “He’s a cute old widowed man in our town with a gigantic crush on Blair,” said Cheyenne. “He was devastated when she left Bellamy Creek.”

  “He liked my baking,” I explained, sliding my finger along the envelope’s seal.

  Cheyenne laughed. “I’m pretty sure he liked the entire package. He’s rich too, you know. Maybe he can be your sugar daddy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, no. He’s more like the grandpa I never had.”

  “Anyway, he went over to the garage and gave this to my mother—she’s back behind the desk now—and Mom asked me if I could get it to you. I was going to mail it, but I decided to come for a visit instead.”

  “She called me yesterday to tell me she was driving up,” explained Frannie with a guilty smile, “but I wasn’t allowed to say anything.”

  “It’s a great surprise,” I said, smiling as I pulled two pieces of paper from the envelope. “Thank you.”

  “So what is it?” Frannie asked curiously.

  The top page was a handwritten note from Mr. Frankel on plain white paper. “Looks like a letter and . . .” I looked at the second page, which was considerably older than the first. It was lined paper that might have been white once upon a time, but was yellowed now, its texture as soft as cotton, its corners frayed. I gasped. “It’s a recipe!”

  The handwriting was faded, but I could make it out. Betty’s Apple Pie, it said at the top.

  I scanned the list of ingredients and the instructions as a lump formed in my throat. I could see how over time, she’d adjusted things, changed her mind about certain amounts or techniques or spices. “Lard in the crust, doesn’t surprise me. But cardamom does!” I exclaimed in surprise. “She used cardamom in her filling!”

  “Is that . . .” Cheyenne’s tone was reverent, her eyes wide. “Is that Betty Frankel’s apple pie recipe?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh, my God! It exists!” Cheyenne squealed. “All these years there were people who claimed to have seen it, but no one was ever able to find it. It was like the Loch Ness Monster of Bellamy Creek!”

  “Who’s Betty Frankel?” asked Frannie.

  While Cheyenne explained the story, I turned to Mr. Frankel’s letter and read it with tears in my eyes.

  Dear Blair,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Since you left Bellamy Creek, I have been doing a lot of thinking about different things you said. I want to thank you again for visiting me and listening to me ramble on about the past. It meant so much to me.

  But I have been thinking about the future too, and I have realized that you were right about life’s journey being full of twists and turns. Some of the most joyful things in my life were the most unexpected, born of following my heart. I hope you continue to follow yours.

  You mentioned ending up in Bellamy Creek because of Betty’s apple pie. Although that pie hasn’t existed here in several years, I am sending you this recipe in the hope that it may again someday. (And then, you see, that little twist will become a loop . . . and perhaps a knot will be tied.)

  Or perhaps I am just a silly old man with romantic notions. I will leave that to you.

  Anyway, I kept the recipe to myself in the years since I lost Betty for several reasons—denial that she was never coming back, a selfish desire to keep something of her to myself, fear that if someone else were to bake her pie the magic surrounding her memory would vanish. But I know better now. And I trust you with her legacy.

  She would have loved your generous spirit . . . even if she might have been a little envious at how much I enjoy your baking!

  Sincerely yours,

  Charlie Frankel

  P.S. I have taken your advice and contacted Doris Applebee about the idea of a historic walking tour. We are meeting Friday afternoon for tea to discuss it. I suppose I am still a work in progress at age eighty-eight!

  “What did he say?” asked Cheyenne.

  “He said he kept the recipe to himself for personal reasons, but now wants me to have it because he trusts me with her legacy,” I said, wiping away tears.

  “Oh, that’s so sweet.” Frannie put a hand over her heart.

  “It really is,” Cheyenne added, her eyes shining. “Are you going to bake it?”

  “I want to. But it doesn’t feel right to just bake it and sell it here, you know?”

  “Hmm.”
Cheyenne thought for a moment. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why not bake some for the cakewalk my mom organized for the anniversary event at the garage this weekend?”

  “She organized a cakewalk for the event?”

  “Yes, and ticket sales will benefit the animal shelter.”

  I smiled. “That’s a great idea.”

  “So you’ll do it? I think there would be a lot of excitement once word got around that Betty’s apple pies are up for grabs!”

  I nodded. “Definitely. What are you serving in the lobby with coffee?”

  Cheyenne looked guilty. “Store-bought cookies.”

  “Good Lord. No.” I shook my head. “Let’s think—today is Thursday, the event is Saturday. I can make them tomorrow, along with a sheet cake for the lobby, and then drive them down in the morning.”

  “That would be perfect,” Cheyenne gushed.

  “I would be happy to help,” offered Frannie. “You can use the kitchen here, and we can even bring the girls in on it. You’ll have five sets of hands.”

  “You’re the best, Frannie.” I smiled at her. “I’d love that.”

  “So I’ll see you Saturday morning?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Yes. But Cheyenne . . .” I stopped and took a breath. “I don’t want to run into Griffin. Can I just drop everything at your mom’s house?”

  “Of course,” she said. “But are you sure you don’t want to just stop in and say hi? Maybe it would kick his ass into gear.”

  “Feel free to take the entire day off,” Frannie said generously. “The girls and I can cover the shop.”

  I shook my head. “No. He made his wishes very clear when he told me to go. Seeing him won’t help.”

  Cheyenne sighed. “I understand.”

  Frannie and Cheyenne invited me to have dinner with them, but I declined—I had a lot of baking to do. I did, however, ask Cheyenne if she’d mind stopping by Cloverleigh Farms before she drove home. I wanted to show her my new apartment, but I also wanted to send something back to Bellamy Creek with her.

  She said she would, so after they left, I went home and baked up a batch of blueberry lemon thyme scones for Mr. Frankel. Then I ran out to the drug store and grabbed a card. I wanted to write back, thanking him for his kindness.