by Marina Adair
Kennedy’s mouth was watering from the heavenly aroma, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch. It was one of the downfalls, she was learning, to being a baker. With all their time spent baking and tasting, there wasn’t a moment to actually eat.
“What’s all of that?”
“Dinner,” Paula said. “I’ve got twice-baked chicken, sautéed green beans, and a nice salad, all made from my garden. Plus a four-cheese potato torte, which is just fancy talk for potato and cheese casserole.” Paula sat down and patted the chair next to her. “Might as well eat it while it’s hot.”
An unfamiliar sense of warmth rolled through Kennedy at the unexpected gesture. “You didn’t have to bring me dinner.”
“I wanted to,” Paula said, serving up both plates. “You worked all day baking up treats for everyone else, making their day sweeter. Giving of yourself all day like that is gratifying, but taxing.” Paula placed her napkin in her lap, but didn’t touch her food, as if waiting for the entire table to be seated first. “You need a little pampering and care of your own.”
Not wanting to disappoint the woman, Kennedy took her seat and awkwardly placed her napkin in her lap. Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of having her mom cook a dinner for her exactly like this. Until the day her mom had called and said that she’d enrolled Kennedy in the school across the street from Edna’s. After that, Kennedy had been content eating with her grandma while they watched Wheel of Fortune in the front room.
“Thank you,” she said, her throat tight with gratitude. “I don’t know what to say.”
Paula laughed. “Start with telling me how wonderful the chicken is, so I can pass it along to Fi. Sometimes I think she cooks just to one-up the rest of us.”
Kennedy took a bite of the chicken and moaned. “Well, bragging rights are more than deserved. This is fantastic.”
“She’ll be delighted.”
Kennedy took a bite of the fancy cheese and potato casserole. It was rich and creamy, with a kick of spice and a texture that was so unexpected, her eyes slid shut in ecstasy. “Is that nutmeg?”
Paula leaned in to whisper, “Among other spices. I sprinkle my apple pie spice over cauliflower, roast it, then puree it in the cheese sauce.”
“Cauliflower?”
“When Luke was six, he got the chicken pox and decided that it was a reaction to the vegetables he’d eaten at dinner. The boy’s so hardheaded, he convinced himself of it, so if he sees anything remotely vegetable shaped on his plate, he starts scratching. Instead of arguing with the mule, I got creative, pureeing every vegetable I could find and hiding it in things.”
Kennedy pictured a defiant mini-Luke, and imagined it was similar to the way he looked earlier—when she refused to sell her apples. “What did he do when he found out?”
“I still put carrots in my marinara sauce and cabbage in the mashed potatoes. Never once has he come down with even a touch of a hive.”
With a mischievous smile, Paula opened the bottle and poured them both a glass. She lifted her glass in a toast, and Kennedy, touched by this moment of sharing, did the same. “To another successful National Apple Day.”
Kennedy went to take a sip and the warmth from their earlier moment faded a bit. It wasn’t wine at all. It was a family-size bottle of Two Bad Apples Hard Cider. “So do we toast and then you tell me that you made a mistake, and Luke needs his apples back?”
Paula’s eyes went round with surprise. “No, dear, giving Luke his apples back would be the worst possible thing for him.”
“How is that?”
“For most of his life, things came too easy to him. Then his father passed.” Paula stopped to take a shaky breath, and patted her chest. “Sorry, no matter how many years pass, it still makes my heart ache. I lost my best friend that day. But Luke, my poor boy, he lost so much more. He lost his direction, and before he can find his way back to us, he needs to remember that, just like cauliflower doesn’t cause him hives, happiness doesn’t rest in a company or a silly few acres of apples.”
Kennedy wanted to ask where happiness did come from then, because Paula seemed to have found hers. For a woman who’d lost her husband and lived with debilitating pain, she was one of the most joyful people Kennedy had ever met. Happiness radiated from her.
Kennedy had been looking for that kind of happiness for as long as she could remember. Only, just like Luke, she was relying on a shop and those apples to see her through. But what if after everything, she didn’t find it here?
There wouldn’t be anyone to blame. Not her mother. And certainly not a man. If Kennedy couldn’t find that kind of peaceful existence she was searching for, then maybe she never would. And she’d have to admit that it wasn’t the situation lacking—it was her.
Kennedy took a sip of the cider and her head nearly spun right off. It was crisp, tart, and unlike anything she’d ever tasted. “Is this Luke’s?”
“No, that bottle is from his father’s collection. My Orin had a magic hand when it came to apples.” Paula gave a sly wink. “And the ladies.”
Kennedy ignored that image, and asked, “This was made from the apples in the orchard, I assume. Wow, now I know why Luke wanted them.”
“Like I told you before, it isn’t the apples that are so remarkable.”
“Then what is it?” Based on the way Luke all but snuck into the orchard and stole her apples, he seemed to agree.
Paula rested her hand on Kennedy’s in a maternal gesture that had Kennedy leaning closer. “It’s love, dear.”
Chapter 5
Early Sunday morning, Luke was at the Penalty Box helping Hawk set up for the Apple Festival. This year, the bar was hosting the second annual Bob for Cider booth, where anyone over the age of twenty-one who still maintained the majority of their original teeth could bob for a Bad Apple bottle koozie, redeemable for a complimentary cider. It was a fun way to give back to the community that had been a big part of their success, while bringing attention to their new autumn brew.
“You hear back from Matt Rogers?” Hawk asked, setting a massive metal basin on the hay strewn under their festival tent.
“Yeah, talked to him late last night.” Luke had called him the second he’d left Sweetie Pies. No sense pissing off the new pie shop owner if Rogers wasn’t onboard with the updated delivery dates. “He’s willing to give us until December for the California rollout, but that was his hard limit because he has the new Hollywood location opening New Year’s Eve.”
Hawk looked up from the bin, clearly impressed. “This shit is really going to happen, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Luke said, feeling a little impressed with himself as well.
Five years ago, Luke had lost his father to cancer, Hawk his hockey career to a shattered kneecap. Floundering, disillusioned, and angry with the world, they’d both found themselves back in Destiny Bay, looking for an outlet. So when the old lumber yard in town went up for sale, Hawk approached Luke about opening a bar. At first he’d been hesitant, still dealing with his dad being gone and the financial shit storm he’d left behind.
Between saving the family business and taking care of his mom, Luke didn’t have the time, or the energy, to take on a new project.
Unless he could merge the two.
He’d crunched some numbers, researched different markets, and the dream bar became a brew and cider house, serving over a hundred local ciders and beers on tap. Within a year Hawk had the Penalty Box open and turning a profit.
The next step was to make a hard cider that was rugged enough to take on beer, but had enough finesse to appeal to the wine crowd. Even though Orin couldn’t balance a spreadsheet to save the farm, literally, the man knew his ciders. And Two Bad Apples brew was one of the best.
Now it was all about expansion. Reaching the right markets, a job that fell to Luke. If he could solidify this deal with Rogers, they would shave three years off their time line. And that was damn impressive.
“Did you talk to the cute shop girl about buy
ing back the apples?” Hawk asked, picking up another basin and filling it with koozies.
Irritation pricked Luke’s neck as he glanced down the road toward Sweetie Pies, and watched as Cute Shop Girl stepped out onto Main Street in a flimsy little number that was sweet, sophisticated, and sexy in that office girl kind of way. It was blue with little white dots and tiny straps that disappeared beneath her practical cardigan sweater.
That she was smiling as if the day couldn’t be better didn’t bode well for his offer. That he’d stood there watching her flip the sign to OPEN didn’t bode well for his self-control.
“We talked. I made her the offer.”
Hawk paused and looked up, all business. “Did she bite?”
Luke was surprised she didn’t leave marks. “She pretty much told me to go fuck myself.”
“Well, if that’s what it takes, then go grab the lotion,” Hawk said, zero bullshit in his tone. “Because we need those apples.”
“I know, which is why I offered her double for the apples.”
Hawk’s eyes bulged. “Double? Please, God, tell me she took the offer. Wait, no, don’t tell me.” He held up a hand. “Double?”
“She’s thinking about it,” Luke said because once Kennedy realized she was being stubborn, she would see what she was actually passing up. A damn good return on investment.
“What do we need to do to get her to think faster?” Hawk asked.
Neither of them were all that practiced with patience when it came to the business, which was why they’d accomplished so much in such a short amount of time. But Luke had a bad feeling that if they pushed Kennedy too hard, she’d push back, because it was what came naturally.
“She just needs to be finessed a little,” Luke said. “I need a few days to watch her, see what it is she really needs, then close the deal.”
Years in corporate development had taught Luke that everyone had a need that drove them, an emotional desire that the physical goal represented. Kennedy wasn’t holding on to the apples; she was fighting for what those apples meant to her. The key to closing a deal was pinpointing what she needed, then delivering before she realized what had happened.
“Amateur,” Hawk scoffed. “I could go over there right now, sweet talk her a little, soften her up with a few choice words, maybe dinner, maybe more, then show her how accommodating we can be.”
“Sleeping with her won’t work,” Luke said, so sharp, Hawk held up a hand.
“Jesus, man, I was kidding. Not that I’d be opposed to sharing a pie in her kitchen. She’s sexy in that uptight teacher kind of way, and I’ve always had a thing for sexy schoolteachers.”
“She was an accountant.”
“Accountants work, too, as long as she wears one of those buttoned-up sweaters and a tight little bun when she talks about taxing me,” Hawk said with a grin that got him laid regularly, which faded the second he saw Luke’s look. “Oh, you meant me sleeping with her isn’t going to happen because you want to sleep with her.”
Luke wasn’t warning Hawk off just because he wanted Kennedy to himself. Although he absolutely did—in a skip the dinner, definitely more, red dress optional kind of weekend.
Nope, Luke didn’t want Hawk, the legendary hockey and hookup bad boy, anywhere near Kennedy because there had been a moment when she was talking about her grandmother that he’d seen a hint of vulnerability. A brief flash of someone who’d had a rough go of it, knew deep disappointment and loss, but wasn’t willing to give in.
And that was as sexy as it was impressive.
She was rallying, but still tender around the heart. Kennedy talked a big game, but she wasn’t as tough as she wanted everyone to believe. And that, he feared, was what got to him more than the red dress. He knew all too well what it was like to keep going even when everything seemed hopeless.
“What I want is her apples.”
Hawk snorted. “Apples, peaches, call it what you want, you’re hot for her pies.”
As true as that was, what drove Luke was the overwhelming need to fulfill his promise to his dad.
* * *
Kennedy wasn’t one to dwell on the past. If she allowed herself to give in to regrets, she’d be too busy crying to get anything accomplished. So worrying over her decision to buy a pie shop on the other side of the country without clarifying that she had been given the complete financial accounting was pointless.
What she needed was a plan—and she’d come up with a great one.
Armed with her sunniest dress and the official DESTINY BAY APPLE FESTIVAL SHOP STOP sign in her window—letting the crowd know that she was a proud participant and local apple supporter—Kennedy opened her shop door with a smile, and stepped out into the morning sun.
It was a perfect fall day. Main Street was brimming with apple enthusiasts, the sky was clear, and clusters of red and yellow leaves danced down the cobblestone sidewalks. The crispness in the air was a reminder that the holidays were almost here. A sentiment that had inspired her latest creation.
Fall had officially arrived, and so had Kennedy.
Deciding that the Apple Festival was the perfect opportunity to see what non-apple items she should add to her menu, Kennedy had stayed up all night baking new treats. And she had come up with a winner—she knew it.
Now, she just needed to convince the town’s people of it.
She was clear out of apple pies—traditional, deep dish, old-fashioned lace, HumDingers, even the turnovers—yet not a single pumpkin tart or pecan pie had been purchased. So she’d locked up her shop, tossed on her tennies, and grabbed a wicker basket she’d found in the storage room, deciding to take her tarts to the people. She walked them up and down, along the cobblestone sidewalk of Main Street, talking to every person she came into contact with.
“Would you like a pumpkin spice pecan tart?” she asked the friendliest face she saw.
Ms. Collins, head of the Destiny Bay Welcome Committee as well as the Sunshine Girl for the senior center, looked into the basket and gave Kennedy a disappointed look. “Is there apple in that?”
Kennedy briefly considered lying, because she knew that look. In the South, it was usually accompanied by the phrase Bless your heart or Isn’t that the sweetest, which was just a polite way of saying someone was slow in the head. But Kennedy didn’t believe in lying, especially when it came to grannies with rosy cheeks and silvered haloes. She believed in her tarts, so she smiled and said, “This tart is made of slowly roasted pumpkins and Georgia state pecans.”
Ms. Collins didn’t look impressed. “So no apples?”
“No,” Kennedy said, the first signs of doubt creeping in. “But it tastes like a little slice of the holidays. Who doesn’t love the holidays?”
Ms. Collins took a second look in the basket and Kennedy held her breath, because she didn’t care if other people loved the holidays like she did. She cared if people liked her pies. And embarrassingly enough, if they liked her.
“It’s September,” the older woman said with a warm confusion in her tone. “Apple season.”
Kennedy glanced down at her basket full of golden browned tarts, flaky on the outside and soft and creamy on the inside, with just enough pecans for a nice crunch. Each was hand wrapped and tied with a yellow ribbon and a matching new item coupon, which advertised twenty percent off their next order.
Telling herself there wouldn’t be a next order if she couldn’t get a first, and putting that belief she talked about into action, she said, “Actually, for today only, they’re free.”
“Well, if they’re free.” Ms. Collins snatched not one, but two, and quickly shoved them in her canvas shopping bag, then saw the coupon. “That twenty percent you’re tooting. It’s good on Sweetie Pies apple pies, too, not just the pumpkin, right?”
A thin sheen of perspiration broke out on Kennedy’s forehead. She hadn’t taken into account that people would read the coupon that way. She had intended it to be applied to the new menu items, to encourage people to branch out from t
heir favorites and perhaps find a few new favorites to add to their list, but she hadn’t exactly specified that. But twenty percent off her apple pies? Her bestselling HumDinger used over five pounds of apples—half of them heirloom.
She’d lose money on each sale for sure. But if she didn’t accept the coupon after passing out over a hundred, she’d lose loyal customers.
“If you don’t love those tarts, then I will apply it toward a treat of your choosing.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet,” the older woman said as if the entire thing had been Kennedy’s idea to begin with. She gave Kennedy’s hand a parting squeeze. “I’ll be sure to let the ladies at the bobbing apples booth know.”
“You mean bobbing for apples?” Kennedy asked, but Ms. Collins was already making a beeline for the candy apples booth.
“Nope, bobbing apples,” a woman about Kennedy’s age said from behind a festival booth. “Two Bad Apples sponsors the booth every year. They bus in some co-eds from the local university, put them in white T-shirts, and then send them bobbing.”
The woman was petite with piercing green eyes and chin-length dark, curly hair that had a mind of its own, and somehow she managed to look feminine while rocking a pair of coveralls and a beat-up ball cap—both boasting STEEL MAGNOLIAS FLOWER AND GARDEN ART. The flower part in her title explained the soil marks on her knees and thighs. The soldering iron and lethal-looking cutters told Kennedy that the garden art was most likely made of steel.
“Of course they do,” Kennedy said, glancing at the growing crowd amassing at the end of Main Street, rolling her eyes when she spotted two blond Barbies in cowgirl boots, denim shorts, and Bad Apple mini-tees, which showed off their enhanced apples.
“People put their money on who they think will pull the most apples. Winners each get a VIP pass to next week’s VIP Cider Tasting, and a photo with the biggest apple bob. All the proceeds go toward helping needy families in the area. Mostly farmers.”