Dear Mr. Frankel,
What a wonderful surprise I got today! Thank you so much for sending me a letter, and for the precious gift of Betty’s apple pie recipe. I have been reading over it nonstop, and I’ve so enjoyed imagining her rolling out the crust, adding a little more of this or that to the filling, brushing the top with cream and sprinkling the sugar on top. I cannot wait to try it out this weekend.
I understand completely your reasons for keeping the recipe close to your heart, and I do not believe anyone would blame you. I certainly don’t. But I also love that you’re looking toward the future now rather than clinging to the past. You deserve a lot more happy days!
Get that historic walk all planned out—I hereby request you take me on it someday. Bellamy Creek is such a lovely place, and I think of it often. I hope you enjoy these scones and think of me fondly.
You take care of yourself, my friend.
Sincerely,
Blair Beaufort
P.S. I like thinking of us both as works in progress. If we were already masterpieces, there would be nothing to do!
I sealed the card inside the envelope and slipped it beneath the string of the cardboard bakery box full of scones.
When Cheyenne arrived, she marveled over my carriage house home, took a walk with me across the grounds, peeked inside the inn and winery, and gave me a tight goodbye hug in the driveway. “I’m so glad to see you doing so well,” she said.
“Thanks. I really do love it here.”
“But . . .” she said as she released me, because she knew.
“But I miss him.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “I keep waiting for the morning I wake up and he’s not the first thing I think about. Or the night when he’s not the last thing. I know it’s only been a week or so since I left him, but it just feels like this ache is never going to go away.”
She sighed. “Don’t give up, okay?”
My throat closed. “I don’t want to feel this way forever.”
“You won’t.” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t tell you this, because he’d string me up by my toes if he found out, but then again, he’s the one being a big jerk. And I have gone over the conversation again and again, and I swear he didn’t specifically tell me not to tell you.”
Dizzy, I shook my head. “I speak three languages and I’m still not sure what you just said.”
She took a breath and closed her eyes a second. “Griffin had the parts for your car for over a week before he put them in.”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
“He didn’t install them because he didn’t want you to go.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Believe it. McIntyre found them, confronted him, and he admitted it. Oh, he made up some bullshit story about wanting to surprise you, but we both know what’s what. McIntyre told Emily, Emily told me, and I asked him if it was true.”
“And he said it was?”
She nodded. “He did. He was pissed as hell that his secret was out, but he didn’t deny it. He was falling for you, Blair,” she said. “And when he realized it, he panicked and retreated, just like Frannie said. Because he thinks that will be easier than taking a chance on love again.”
Of course, I knew there was more to it than that, but Griffin had told me things in confidence I’d never whisper to another soul. “Maybe.”
“I only hope he gets over himself before it’s too late. I mean, look at this place.” She held out her arms and glanced around. “It’s beautiful here. You have a great job. You’ve got a built-in family. And pretty soon, some guy is going to come walking into that coffee shop, eat a bite of that strata, and fall to his knees. It’ll be too late for Griffin.”
I sighed. “Part of me hopes you’re right.”
“And the other part?”
“That would be my heart.” Smiling sadly, I lifted my shoulders. “And it’s set on someone I can’t have.”
Twenty-Three
Griffin
Since the league championship would be played on Saturday of Labor Day weekend, we didn’t have a game on Thursday. Instead, the team got together for an extra practice, during which we felt pretty good. We were confident our last game had been an aberration and looked forward to decimating the Mavs in this weekend’s matchup.
Well, most of us were looking forward to it. I couldn’t seem to work up much excitement about anything these days. Not even baseball.
On Friday after work, I went over to Cole’s house for a run. When I got there, Mariah was jump-roping in the driveway.
“Hey, kiddo,” I said. “What’s new?”
She shrugged. “Nothing much. Lots of my friends are out of town for the holiday weekend, so I’m kind of bored.”
“Well, there’s going to be lots to do tomorrow. We’re having a big party at the garage.”
Her face lit up. “I know. Miss Cheyenne asked me if I wanted to help her run the cakewalk. I’m going to play the music.”
“Perfect. We’ll need lots of help, because we’re going to be really busy. I hope.” I crossed my fingers and held them up.
Cole came out a minute later, and we set off at our warm-up pace.
“How was your week?” he asked.
“Fine,” I answered.
A total lie. I’d been miserable since Blair left. It had been ten days, and every one of them seemed more lifeless and flat. Just twenty-four hours to get through before another one started over again. There were no bright spots whatsoever.
I missed her behind the desk at work—my mother was back in the chair, passive-aggressively ignoring me with her sighs and silences—I missed her smile and her voice and her scent in my apartment at night. I missed her singing that song about the rainbow in the shower, loud and off-key. I missed holding her close at bedtime, and every time I opened my closet door, I saw that fucking dress hanging there. Haunting me.
But I couldn’t let it go. The sight of it draped over the dumpster had gutted me, and I’d snuck it up to my apartment when no one was looking. I’d even had it dry-cleaned, and when the woman behind the counter had raised an eyebrow at me, I’d given her my grouchiest glare and said, “Don’t. Ask.”
“Should be a fun day tomorrow,” Cole said.
“Yeah.”
“And a good game.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” Cole looked over at me like I was nuts. “We’ve been waiting all summer for this game. And your family has put a lot into the party, haven’t they?”
“Yeah. Blair did most of the legwork.” God, why had I used that word? Now I was thinking about her legs.
“Think she’ll make an appearance?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
“Because I told her she had to go, and she knew that I meant it.”
“I thought you said it was a mutual decision.”
“When did I say that?”
“Last week at the game we lost to the Mavs.”
“Oh.” I gritted my teeth. “I lied. It wasn’t mutual. She wanted to stay, and I told her she had to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because I had to!” Suddenly words were tumbling from my mouth like an avalanche. “I was starting to feel things for her that were not okay. I kept getting distracted by these stupid ideas about us.”
“Like what?”
“Like—just—having her in my life. Her staying here. Us being together.”
“What’s so stupid about that?”
“Because it’s not what I want!”
Cole gave me the side-eye. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I said, aggravated. “I made up my mind years ago that I was never going to be in the position of needing someone. I was never going to fall in love again. Because it sucks when it all goes wrong.”
“I’m not sure that’s a thing your mind can decide,” Cole said in his assured, easy way. “You just fall for someone. You don’t really choose it.”
“You know what I mea
n. Even if you feel something, you don’t have to act on it. You have free will. You can choose to be strong enough to resist or ignore the feelings.”
“Or you can choose to be strong enough to take the risk. But I agree that it sucks when it goes wrong.”
I glanced at him, softened my tone. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to compare our situations. What you went through was a lot worse.”
“I didn’t think you were comparing. I was just agreeing that losing someone you love hurts like hell. But there isn’t one day with Trisha I’d take back, even knowing how it ended.”
Ashamed, I fell silent, and spent the remainder of the run trying to think of reasons why Cole was wrong and I was right. He didn’t say anything more until we were nearly back at his house again.
“We’ve been friends a long time,” he said. “What, like twenty-five years?”
“Something like that. Yeah.”
“You were the best man at my wedding. You’re my daughter’s godfather. If anything were to happen to me, I trust you to raise her.”
I glanced at him. No matter what was coming, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it. “Yeah.”
“So I would expect that if I was fucking something up in a big way, and being a real asshole about it, you’d tell me. Right?”
“Right.”
“So I’m going to tell you this.” He stopped running, so I did too. He put a hand out and grabbed my shoulder, holding me at arm’s length. “You’re fucking something up in a big way, and you’re being a real asshole about it.”
I shoved his arm off my shoulder. “Fuck off, Cole. You don’t know anything about this.”
He parked his hands on his hips. “You think I don’t know you? You think I haven’t picked up a few things in the twenty-five years I’ve been your best friend? You think I can’t see when you really care about something?”
I clenched my jaw. Dug in harder.
“I was there, Griffin. I was there when you came home and Kayla abandoned you. I know what you went through when your dad died. I know you think having control over your life means never needing someone you could potentially lose. But none of those things are reasons to shut out someone you love.”
“I’m not in love with her,” I snapped, although I wasn’t entirely sure about that.
“But you could be.”
I didn’t admit it. Couldn’t. Instead I doubled down on asshole, which I always did when I felt cornered.
“And what about you? I don’t see you putting yourself out there.”
“Our situations are totally different, and you know it. But you can be damn sure that if someone came along who got to me the way Blair gets to you, I wouldn’t push her away.”
I felt my armor cracking. “I can’t undo what I’ve done.”
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t even know what to say to her. She probably hates me. I don’t even think she’d listen.” It was an excuse, and my best friend knew it.
“She’ll listen. If you say the right thing.”
“What’s the right thing?”
“That you were wrong. That you’re sorry. That you said things to her you didn’t mean because you were scared.”
Jesus. Could I say that to her? “It’s not . . . easy for me to admit those things.”
“It’s not easy for anyone, Griff. Every time you step up to the plate, there’s a chance you’ll strike out. But there’s also a chance you’ll knock it out of the park. Don’t blow this by not even taking a swing.”
I exhaled, my shoulders sagging.
“Take the risk, man.” Cole’s voice quieted. His blue eyes were intense. “Do you know how lucky you are? How much you’ll regret doing nothing when you could have had everything? Just . . . take the risk.”
He left me standing there and went in to eat dinner with his family, and I went home alone to eat by myself.
Later that night, I lay awake, thinking about what Cole had said. Was he right? Was I fucking this up? Would I regret not even trying to make things work with Blair?
Maybe I would. Being alone was not the salve on the wound I’d hoped it would be. I missed her too much. I’d had a taste of what life could be like with her in it, and now that she was gone, it was like endless rainy days stretching out in front of me without any chance for sun. Things that I used to enjoy—even baseball—had lost their shine.
I thought about the kind of closeness I’d had with her. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. She made it so easy to share things about me that I’d never shared with anyone. She made it so easy for me to be myself. She made me want to be a better version of that self. More patient. Less angry. More hopeful. Less bitter.
She made me want to loosen the reins and open myself up to new possibilities—a different kind of future.
I didn’t want this lonely life for myself. I wanted to eat meals she cooked and do the dishes for her when she was done. I wanted to hold her during thunderstorms and tell her everything would be all right. I wanted to hear her chirping like a robin in the morning and telling dirty stories at night. I wanted to admit I’d been wrong, tear down my walls, and build something new with her right beside me.
But was I ready for the kind of change she would bring?
I stared at my ceiling in the dark, as if the answer was written there, and by morning I’d be able to see it.
“Wait—Blair was here? Today?” Panicked, I looked around the garage’s newly renovated waiting room like I might have missed her in the crowd. All morning I’d been smiling absently at the people milling around, shaking hands with old and new customers, fielding compliments on the new look. But I was totally preoccupied with thoughts of Blair. She should be here, I kept thinking. This doesn’t feel right without her.
The event was a huge success, as far as I could tell. From the moment we’d opened the doors, we’d had a steady stream of people in and out. The Bulldog Pub had a little sidewalk stand out front serving sliders and fries, and my ’55 Chevy was parked at the curb, where kids could climb in the back or get behind the wheel and have their pictures taken. The new logo Lola had designed was painted on the side of the truck in fresh white paint, and every time I looked at it, I wished Blair could have seen how great it turned out, since it had been her idea.
Everything had been her idea.
She should be here. This doesn’t feel right without her.
“When was she here?” I demanded.
“Not here at the garage,” my mother said. “She came to the house this morning to drop off the pies and the cake. Just look at these beauties.” She gestured toward six apple pies that did indeed look delectable. “It’s like Betty Frankel rose from the grave. To think Charlie had the recipe the whole time!”
“I don’t understand,” I said, caring less about the pies themselves than the woman who’d made them. “Blair baked these?”
“Of course she did. And the cake too.”
I looked at the cake—a large, rectangular cake covered in sky-blue frosting and decorated with a vintage red Chevy truck with our new logo on the side. I thought my mother had ordered it from a bakery or something. “Blair made the cake?”
“Yes. Your sister can tell you the whole story. She drove up to visit Blair on Thursday.”
“But you saw her this morning?” I asked, following my mother into the break room, where she grabbed more cups for the coffee in the lobby.
“Of course I saw her.”
Agitated, I trailed my mother back out to the front, where she stacked the cups on a table. Music from a live band up the street filtered in through the open door. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
She gave me a look. “Now you want to talk about Blair? After almost two weeks of telling me to mind my own business?”
“Yes. Now I want to talk about her.”
She faced me and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want to know?”
I shifted my weight from foot to foot, agitated. I fe
lt like a swarm of bees was under my skin. “How did she look?”
“Beautiful.”
“Was she . . . did she seem okay?”
“She seemed fine. We didn’t chat long because she was in a rush to get back up north to her job.”
“She likes it up there?”
“She said she loves it.”
My chest ached. Maybe she didn’t even miss me. Maybe she loved her new life so much, she never gave me a second thought. Maybe she’d even met someone new already.
The thought made me feel sick. How had I let her go?
“Did she ask about me?”
My mother huffed. “No, she didn’t. And I don’t blame her. After what Lanette told me about the way you sent her packing, I wouldn’t ask about you either!”
I frowned. “Lanette owes me twenty bucks.”
“You know, all this concern for Blair would have been nice before she left,” my mother snapped. “Oh, I see how broody and miserable you are without her, and it’s your own fault. I don’t feel sorry for you!” She turned to greet an old family friend, and I went outside, searching out my sister. Spotting her by the truck, I stormed over and grabbed her by the elbow.
“What the hell?” she said as I dragged her up the sidewalk a little, away from the crowd.
“Mom says you saw Blair on Thursday.”
She yanked her arm back from me. “Yeah, so?”
“So did she say anything about me?”
My sister shrugged. “She might have. I don’t remember exactly.”
I was at the end of my rope. “Cut the crap, Cheyenne. Did she say something or not?”
“Why do you want to know? I thought you decided you were better off without her.”
“Look, I may have been wrong about that, okay?” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m . . . I’m thinking about things.”
My sister’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Could you just give me a break, please? I’m a fucking wreck, Cheyenne. I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t sleep. Nothing tastes good or feels right. I can’t focus at work. I’m not even excited about the game tonight.”
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