by Gina Henning
“Try the main circuit or something, in the garage.” Megan pushes Brian out of the room and he runs towards the garage. I try to pull the flour off of the wall but the force of the suction is too strong. It’s like I’m playing tug of war with ten football players. I’m surprised I haven’t slid through the hole. I’m afraid to let go and get my hand caught or something. I hold onto the flour until the force stops. It’s so sudden that I fly backwards and the flour spills out all over me.
Megan and Brian hustle back into the room to find me on my backside covered in a white mess. They both crack up laughing. I try to brush the majority of the mess off of my outfit and then stand up.
“Ha, very funny.” I brush my blue and white gingham shirt. Luckily my shorts are white, but it’s still obvious I’m covered in flour.
“Lauren, it really is. Hold on, let me get my camera. I’ve got to save this for a future good laugh.” Megan palms the counter for her phone. “It’s not here.” She searches the back of the counter and gets on her hands and knees. “My phone—it’s gone.” She casts her gaze on Brian. “My phone has everything on it! You’ve got to find it.” Megan points at Brian with a finger that is sharper than a Ginsu knife. The tension in this room is more than I can bear. I glance at my phone. Shiat.
The doorbell rings. And the tune of Neil Diamond belting out “Coming to America” blares through my parents’ house—another one of Brian’s upgrades. One thing I can always count on is Jack to be on time. I go to the door and open it. Jack jerks his head back. “I thought you were supposed to make the pie at the fair?”
“I am.” I sigh. “Brian installed a central air vacuum and—” I side-eye and shrug my shoulders. I don’t even need to say anymore. Jack will completely understand.
“I see.” Jack pulls me in close to him and kisses my head and then traces my face with his fingers. “Looks like you’re the one with flour on their face this time.” I stick my tongue out at him. Over Thanksgiving when we were baking pecan pies together I drew two lines like a football player underneath his eyes with flour.
Jack laughs. “Still with the tongue.” He shakes his head. “Do you have everything? The contest starts in less than an hour and you still need to check in with your ingredients.”
I sigh and glance down at my outfit. “I should probably change, but there isn’t enough time. We have to go and buy flour. I don’t have enough anymore.” I wave my hands over my shirt and slide an annoyed glance to Brian and Megan.
“Yes, I think the flour is supposed to go in the pie, not on the baker.” Jack chortles.
“Hahaha, as if this is my doing.” I roll my eyes and hustle towards the kitchen to retrieve my box with the other ingredients. Megan has her mouth up to the vent.
“Have you found it yet?” Her voice oozes frustration. I’m glad to be leaving. I definitely don’t want to stick around while she prods Brian to find her phone. Especially not when she was already on edge about work.
I grab my box and my purse and Jack takes it from me at the door. We stroll down the sidewalk together and he pops the trunk to his car and places the box inside. Jack wraps his arms around me and his lips meet mine. His kiss is intense, full of exploding emotions. My body surges with the heat of my desire and I wish even more we weren’t going to this contest, but instead back to his place.
Jack releases me and I slide into the passenger seat. I reach for his arm. “What about the apples?”
Jack grins at me and reaches into the back seat and places a beige wicker basket in my lap. It’s filled with light red and yellow apples. I bite my inner cheek.
“These aren’t Granny Smith apples.”
“You’re right, they are not. If the finance biz doesn’t work out, you should really consider being a detective.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, Jack my recipe calls for Granny Smith, not whatever these are.” I shake my head.
“Those are Braeburns and they are special.” Jack wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I sigh. “I’m sure they are if they’re from you…however, my grandmother was specific about the ingredients I could change and the apples were not one of them. She said the pie had to have Granny Smiths.”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe, but this is your pie. Why not put your own spin on it and bend the rules?” Jack puts the car in gear and we drive away from my parents’ house. The rest of my family is already at the fair. My mom is in the parade. This year Winter and River are joining her dressed like fireworks. My dad is picking up my grandmother so she can be there for the pie contest, where I am supposed to be baking an apple pie made with Granny Smith apples.
“You have stop at the grocery store anyways; I can just get some Granny Smiths there.”
Jack focuses on the road and is silent. I slump my shoulders. I don’t want to insult him or not accept his offer of his special apples, but I’ve already promised my grandmother I would enter this pie contest. She will be really disappointed if I bake the pie with Braeburn apples instead of what’s on the recipe.
The car stops and we both hop out. We rush through the double doors of the grocery store. Of course the store is crowded with last-minute shoppers who didn’t plan ahead to buy their barbeque supplies and other ingredients to make their Fourth of July special. I grab a cart. I’m not going to carry apples and flour throughout the store.
“Can I see your ingredient list?” Jack raises an eyebrow at me.
“Sure.” I hand it over to him and hustle to the produce section. The Granny Smith apples are not bundled together, which means I have to decide which apples are the best to make a pound.
“I’ll meet you in the flour aisle.” Jack winks at me and disappears down the aisle.
Not sure what that is about. I grab a plastic bag and begin sorting through the various apples to find the perfect ones for my pie. I dig through the bin, inspecting each one for rotten marks or—even worse—worm holes. Finally, I think my bag is full enough for a pound. I place it on the metal hanging scale. One pound and one ounce. Close enough. I make my way to the flour aisle and Jack is standing in front of the cart staring at his phone.
“Hey.” I inspect the cart. It’s filled with the same ingredients that are in my box.
“Hey.” He sheepishly grins at me.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “What’s with all the extra ingredients?” I point at the cart.
“Not extras.” Jack winks at me.
My chest tightens. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing. Come on, we better hurry.”
Jack pushes the cart down the aisle and to the check-out. We speed through the whole experience and my mind is racing with reasons as to figure out why he would buy extra ingredients. I guess he is just looking out for me and making sure I got everything on my list. I’m somewhat insulted that he thinks I would make a mistake. But then again over Christmas we baked a red velvet cake together and I did forget the buttermilk, except the only person who knew about this was his Aunt Minnie. Did she tell him?
I check the clock on my phone. We have less than thirty minutes to park the car and get my ingredients to the inspection spot. This year they are scrutinizing each ingredient before it crosses over into the secure baking zone area. Jack parks and turns to study my face.
“Ready?”
I laugh. “Yes, I’m ready.” I don’t know why but every time he asks me if I’m ready I get all tingly inside and feel the need to giggle like a schoolgirl. I flutter my eyelashes. Jack meets me at the trunk with the basket of Braeburns. My stomach tightens. I really do not want to go over this again with him. Why can’t he just let it go?
I bite my lip and reach for the box.
“Here let me,” Jack says and puts the newly purchased ingredients into my box and lifts it out of the trunk. We stroll through the crowds until we reach the Baking Inspection Zone, as indicated by the red and white checkered flag waving above.
Jack places the box onto the table.
“Name?” an older woman with a pen in her h
and asks. She is wearing a baking detective T-shirt that is a mix between Don Johnson and Betty Crocker, no doubt ordered specially for this event. From her ears dangle earrings shaped like a sliced pie with ice cream.
“Lauren Hauser.” I write my name down on one of the name tags on the table and place it on my shirt.
“Pie?”
“Apple.”
The lady stares up at me; her pen is paused on her form.
I smile.
She nods at me.
I smile again.
“First timer…okay. What type of apple?” The woman places the pen’s point on the paper.
“Oh.” I laugh. “Um, Granny Smith.”
The lady writes down on her paper. “Next.”
“Jack Walker.”
Shut the front door. “What?” I stare up at him.
The pie inspector is unfazed. “Pie?”
“Braeburn apples.” Jack grins down at me and winks.
I cannot believe what I’m hearing. Jack is entering the pie contest with me? Well not with me but rather against me. I shake my head and swallow.
Jack places a name tag on his white buttoned-down short-sleeved shirt. The pie inspector studies each of our ingredients, nods, and places an “All Clear” sticker on the box.
We pass through the secured area and search for our baking area.
“Jack?”
“Yes, Lauren?” Jack’s icy blues are warming me up. But I’m not falling for them, not right now.
“Did you just enter the pie contest?”
“I told you, Lauren, you are really turning into a mighty fine detective. Nothing gets past you.” Jack places our box down on a table with two spots set up.
“Okay, right, hahaha, but why?” I close my mouth to avoid being a poster-child for the biggest slack-jaw.
“Lauren, I told you these apples are special.” Jack shrugs.
“Fine, so are mine.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Hey but listen, when you don’t win, just know you’ll always have first place in my heart.” Jack taps my nose.
My chest rises up so high it’s going to burst the buttons on my blouse. Oh he did not just say that! Right, challenge accepted.
“Oh it’s on.” I nod.
“Bring it,” Jack says and pinches my side.
I purse my lips to the side and scan my list. Well, Jack doesn’t know which ingredients I decided to change, so we’ll just see which ones he fiddles with.
With my slicer in hand I begin slicing up my Granny Smith apples. I cut my eyes towards Jack, who apparently also picked up an extra peeler at the store. Great. Perfect planning as usual.
“You’re so typical,” I mutter, assuming it is under my breath.
Jack moves his garbage bowl closer to me as he peels his apples. “How’s that?” He flashes me a shiny white-toothed grin. His teeth are like a shark ready to chomp me up. I will not be devoured by him. I can make this pie. I did well over Thanksgiving and I have the superior apples. I know this. Whatever reasoning behind Jack’s theory about his apples being special does not change the fact that my grandmother stipulated the pie be made with Granny Smiths. And she’s a trophy winner!
“Typical, in that you went and bought a peeler at the store.” I roll my eyes.
Jack laughs. “Oh, typical in that I plan ahead.” Jack shrugs. “That’s fair, and Lauren, I totally understand how it might make a poor planner a bit on edge around someone like me.”
“It’s a good thing the fair is outside. I don’t think we could all fit in the room with your big hea—”
Jack’s lips close over mine. He kisses me hard and pulls back. My breath has been swept away. I sway my head to alert myself to the present. “With my big head.” He chuckles. “Wow, comedy is not your thing, Lauren. Remind me never to take you to an open mic night.” He winks at me.
I press my lips together and take some of my peelings and stick them on his hands. He laughs and shakes them off his hand into his garbage bowl.
“Careful now, you don’t want to get disqualified for being so handsy with another contestant.” Jack grins at me.
“Oh okay.” I take out my cutting board and slice up my apples. I place them into a bowl and splash lemon juice all over them. Jack is already onto the next step of mixing his sugars and cinnamon. Darn, I wanted to see if he added both cinnamon and nutmeg. I flip my hair over my shoulder and mix up my ingredients carefully to add a bit extra of nutmeg. This is my secret adjustment. Most pies are heavy on the cinnamon—I’ve checked all the recipes—but I’m adding more nutmeg to mine. I think it will be the right kick to invoke the judge’s senses. And besides celebrity chef Rachel Ray is always talking about her secret ingredient to pasta dishes being nutmeg, so why can’t it be my secret ingredient for pie?
I glance over at Jack and he is already filling up his pie in the pre-made crust. Part of the pie contest rules are that everyone has to use the same piecrust from one of the sponsors. My grandmother was really bothered by this. “Well I’ll be, the crust is one of the key scoring points for any pie. How can they do this?” I almost thought she was going to cry when I broke the news to her.
Jack is watching me with an intense glare. I inspect my pie and my list. I didn’t forget anything. I’m sure of it.
“What?” I bite my lip. If he noticed me messing up surely he would tell me, not like my home economics teacher in sixth grade who supposedly knew from the smell of my muffins that I had mixed up baking soda with baking powder.
“You’re gorgeous, Lauren. I can’t wait till we are at our own place, in our own kitchen baking pies together.” He steps towards me. I back up.
“Hey, you don’t want to get disqualified for getting handsy with one of the other contestants.” I place my hand over my chest and shake my head.
Jack nods. “That’s fine, I can hold off on getting handsy until after the contest.” He laughs. “I’ll have my gorgeous fiancée in one hand and my winning trophy in the other.”
I smile. “I don’t know if they have trophies for sale here,” I laugh. I scan the crowd, pretending to look for a booth.
Jack chuckles and nods at me. “Let’s get these pies to the oven.”
“Yes, let’s.” I pick up my pie and we stroll together to the baking station. There are about fifty ovens set up. One of the pie inspectors motions for us to place our pies down in front of a form. I fill out my name, type of pie, baking time, and Jack does the same.
“You in the mood for some funnel cake?” Jack laces his fingers and mine together.
I scrunch up my nose. “I need a drink. I’m parched. All that award-winning baking has left me in desperate need—”
“Of some wine?” Jack wiggles his eyebrows at me.
“Yes.”
Jack whips the basket he had the apples in around. “Let’s go find a spot.” He leads me through the crowd to a grassy area. He lays out a picnic blanket.
Jack sits down next to me and pulls out a bottle of Cabernet Franc, the same one we had in the boat at Pearl Lake. I raise my eyebrows. Oh…maybe he brought some of the Braeburn apples from the inn and that’s why they are special?
“To the prettiest pie baker I know.” Jack raises his glass to me.
“To the best sore loser around.” I laugh and our glasses clink.
“It’s not good form to toast yourself.” Jack pinches my side.
I laugh. “You’re so ridiculous.”
“Well there you are.”
I glance up to see my mom, Winter, and River decked out like firecrackers. It’s almost like a skit from Saturday Night Live, with their blue tube bodies, letters spelling B-O-O-M down the center of them, and big white gloves. On top of their heads are silver and gold tinsel wigs. I blink several times to take it all in.
I laugh. “I would offer you a seat, but I doubt you would be able to get back up.”
Jack laughs. “Yeah or you might spontaneously combust.” We both crack up. My mom grins at us. “It’s good to see the t
wo of you so happy together.”
I look down, sheepishly.
“The parade is over, so we are going to go and change into something more bendy.” My mom winks on the operative word. I hope she is not making a sexual innuendo.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, the pie contest judging begins in about forty minutes.”
“Oh we’ll be there. Right, kids?”
“We wouldn’t miss it!” Winter jumps and River waves his big white gloves.
Chapter Eighteen
The stage in front of us is a mix of checkered red and white, a la Betty Crocker, and bursts of sparkling firecracker signs all woven in between a pattern of the sponsor’s logo.
My entire family has found a place in the crowd. They are not hard to miss even without the fireworks outfits. My mom’s shirt is sparkling enough to be the cause for the latest glitter drought. I swear her entire top is made of glitter alone. Not an inch of cloth is visible. And this doesn’t even touch on the red, white, and blue sequined skirt that is flaring out from her hips. Thankfully, she is wearing some sort of leggings underneath; one leg is red and white stripes, the other is navy with white stars. My mom comes up with the most interesting outfits.
I’m thankful she didn’t force me to wear the apple pie shirt she had specially made for me. I told her I got hung up at home with the air vacuum situation. I didn’t even tell her what happened. I’m hoping Megan and Brian will show up by the time the awards are given for the pie. I normally wouldn’t think I had a chance in this race, but I definitely think I can edge out Jack.
I glance over at him. He is stoic, wearing the official baking contestant apron. It’s a navy and red apron with Official Pie Contestant printed in a circle surrounding the sponsor logo. The master of ceremonies insisted that we all put on the aprons prior to the award ceremony. I’m sure it’s just to make the sponsors happy, as their company logo is front and center on our stomachs.
Jack is like the epitome of a celebrity chef. His hair is shining and free from any sweat whereas I know my hairline is wet. Not because I’ve been checking it constantly but because I’ve had to continually wipe the perspiration from my cheeks. The Fourth of July in Texas is hot. Very hot. And I’m sure I look like someone who has been baking in the sun too long. I’m ready to grab my award and head to the lake.