Sweet as Pie

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Jake’s mouth went dry. Robbie was going to ask him to bet his puck—the puck, the Miracle on Ice puck that Blake had given him. Of course, Robbie didn’t know Blake had given it to him. He only knew that it always resided in Jake’s hockey bag or locker room stall and that, sometimes between periods when he was having a bad game, Jake took it out and turned it over in his hand three times.

  And now Robbie was going to ask him to risk it—something Jake knew in the bedrock of his soul that Robbie would not do if he knew where it came from. But maybe it was fitting. That puck was part of the foundation of the person he’d been and the person he needed to find again.

  Sure enough, Robbie crossed his arms, laid them on the table, and leaned forward to say the fateful words. “Your puck.”

  Jake could have played dumb and tried to pretend it was one of the game pucks that Jake had from various games where he’d scored the winning goal, but what was the use? His mouth had gotten him into this bet and that puck would get him out. Aside from the sentimental value, that puck was his good luck charm. Except maybe baseball players, there wasn’t a breed alive more superstitious than hockey players. On the one hand, Jake saw the irrationality in that, but on the other, the puck had brought him this far and he would not lose it.

  But Robbie was going to have to risk something, too.

  Jake nodded. “All right. My puck against your St. Sebastian medal.”

  Robbie’s eyes widened and he clasped his hand to his chest over the medal, as he had done earlier in Glaz’s office.

  “But it’s sacred.”

  “No more sacred than my puck,” Jake said. “Not to me.”

  “Don’t even say such a thing!” Robbie looked around like he was expecting a legion of angels to enter and take Jake away to a dungeon. “I couldn’t expect a Protestant to understand. It was blessed by the Holy Father. My aunt—who I might add is a nun—brought it to me from Vatican City.”

  Jake shrugged. “If you’re afraid...”

  Robbie’s nostrils flared. He hated nothing more than having his courage challenged. He nodded. “All right. There’s no risk anyway. There’s no way you’ll make it three months. Longer, if you count time served this summer. But we must agree on the rules.”

  “Rules? What rules? It’s simple. I’ll remain celibate until this time on December thirteenth.”

  “And just what does celibate mean? No kissing? No fooling around? How about hand-holding and dancing? You know how you love to dance.”

  “None of that has anything to do with celibacy, but we’ll let the dictionary decide.” Jake whipped out his phone. “Here we go. ‘Abstaining from marriage and sexual intercourse.’ Doesn’t say anything about kissing and dancing.”

  “Fair enough,” Robbie said, “but remember where kissing and dancing leads.”

  “I’m not fifteen years old. I can control myself.”

  “We’ll see.” Robbie bit into his burger.

  “I suppose next, you’ll want to know how you’ll know if I stick to my word.”

  The amusement left Robbie’s face. “I’ll know because you’ll tell me. We’ve never lied to each other.”

  Jake’s gut twisted. Maybe he didn’t have to worry about the strength of their friendship, after all. “Right. Sorry. I guess I forgot that for a moment.”

  Robbie grinned and cast his eyes at the women at the bar. “What you say we forget something that’s worth forgetting? Like this bet for now? Have one last go, and let it start tomorrow?”

  Jake laughed. “No, I’m all in. You go ahead. But they might be ice girls, and you don’t even have a bed.”

  “No bed? How is a hockey player to get any rest?” Jake heard the voice before he saw the woman. She sounded like private school and country club brunch.

  He and Robbie met eyes before they looked up. She appeared to be about the age of his mother. Maybe. It was hard to tell.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Claire. Don’t get up.” Telling them not to get up might have been construed as a reprimand since they had made no move to rise—but Jake didn’t think so. She just seemed like the type men always stood up for. Her handshake was firm. “I own this little establishment, and I wanted to welcome you.”

  “Everything was grand,” Robbie said. “Thank you for stocking my ale.”

  “My pleasure. We want you boys to feel at home here.” Jake hadn’t noticed that she carried the Crust bag that contained his pie until she set it on the seat beside him. “I see you have been to my girl’s shop. You’re in for a treat.”

  Her girl? What did that mean? He used to know everybody Evie knew.

  “Ah, the pie maker. She’s Sparks’s childhood friend. She makes a good pie, does she?” Robbie prattled on.

  “Indeed, she does,” Claire said. “I’m very proud of her. In fact, I have three girls under my tutelage who I’m very proud of. They all have beautiful shops on Main Street. I’m sure you’ll meet them as time goes by.”

  Oh. This was the investor Evie mentioned.

  Gretchen walked up. “Ms. Watkins?” Watkins? That rang a bell. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I needed to catch you before you leave. Chef asked me to tell you he has one more question about tomorrow’s lunch.”

  “Of course, Gretchen.” She looked back at them. “Jake. Robbie. Again, welcome. Let me know if we can do anything for you.”

  “You can put our jerseys on the wall,” Robbie said. “The Big Skate in Nashville had our jerseys on the wall.”

  Claire gave them a steely smile—one that let anyone who was paying attention know just what a force of nature she was. “I intend to do just that—one by one, as you earn it.” And she was gone in a swish of silk, leaving behind the scent of something spicy.

  “Who was that woman?” Robbie asked.

  “If I am remembering right, she’s our landlord—and one of our bosses. I think she owns a piece of the team.”

  “I might be a little afraid of her,” said the Scot who never admitted to being afraid of anything.

  Chapter Four

  “We’re out of chocolate caramel and maple pecan.”

  Evans looked up from the brandy peach cobbler assembly line to meet Neva’s eyes. “So early?” Running out of pie wasn’t unusual, or especially undesirable, depending on the time of day. Evans never sold products more than twenty-four hours old. But it was highly unusual to run out of top sellers before closing time, and it wasn’t even three thirty yet.

  Neva sighed as she made her way to the laptop on the table in the corner of the kitchen where she would note the time and the shortage on a spreadsheet. “Afraid so.” Neva did not approve of running out of pie or refusing to sell day-old pie. After all, people ate on a pie at home for several days. But then Neva had managed an office supply store and the china department of a jewelry shop. Though she had a fantastic head for business and was super organized, her philosophy didn’t always jive with the artisan mindset. “It’s been a busy day.”

  They had been busy, but not much more so than usual. Had Evans not been fooling with meat pies and cobblers all day, she would have been on top of this and replenished midmorning.

  “How’s the coconut holding out?”

  “There’s plenty of French coconut, but we’re low on coconut cream.” She paused. “Your friend took the last Mississippi mud.”

  Apparently, Neva did not approve of giving away pie either—though, as a rule, neither did Evans. But let’s face it. She’d give Jake Champagne a kidney. There certainly was no alternate universe where she wouldn’t give him a pie.

  She shook her head to clear her mind of Jake thoughts. She would not—could not—go down the Jake road again.

  Forgive him? Of course. It was already done. Be his friend? Certainly. She’d meant what she said about their friendship going back far and deep. But she could never again let him dance around her every tho
ught and breath.

  “How’s it going?”

  Evans jumped. She’d been so deep in her musings that she hadn’t noticed when Neva had come to stand beside her.

  “Done.” She covered a peach cobbler. “Everything is ready for the oven. I’ve got about a dozen meat pies that didn’t turn out.” Meaning they weren’t pretty. Either the staff would bake and eat them or they would end up at the Episcopal Church’s soup kitchen like her other failed and day-old products. “If you’ll print me a list of what we need tomorrow, I’ll get the crusts ready.” Thankfully, freezing unbaked crusts had no effect on the quality, so she always had some stockpiled, but it was never enough.

  “I’ve already done that.” Neva laid the printout on the work table. “You know, Evans...” And Evans did know; she knew exactly what Neva was going to say. “Maybe you could let Ariel and Quentin help out with the crusts. You’ve got a lot on you with this luncheon.”

  “They make the crumb crusts for the black bottom cherry cream, key lime, and peanut butter banana icebox.”

  But crumb crusts were one thing. Pastry was another. Evans had tried and tried to explain to Neva that an inferior crust made an inferior pie. “You’re exhausted,” Neva said. “It’s not as if I’m suggesting you buy frozen crusts at Piggly Wiggly. Quentin says he can make a crust. I’m not saying that Joy and Dory should start whipping up lemon meringue, or, God forbid, that I should.” Joy and Dory were college students who worked part-time minding the front and cleaning up. “But Ariel and Quentin are your assistant bakers and they spend as much time working the front as they do in the kitchen.”

  Evans began to ferry cobblers to the refrigerator. “I’ve got it, Neva.” Quentin and Ariel could probably learn to make crusts to her standard. She just hadn’t had time to work with them enough yet. Eventually, she would.

  Neva opened her mouth to speak again, but the doorbell jingled. “I’d better get back out there. After-school crowd.”

  When Evans went to store the cobblers, she caught sight of the two pear pies she’d made earlier for a special order. Kate Johnson was supposed to pick them up this afternoon. She’d package them and move them to the case out front.

  And she wouldn’t think of Jake. She would concentrate on lowering Kate’s pies into boxes without breaking the fluted pastry edges. Done. Now she’d think about the logistics of transporting the pasties and cobblers to the ice center tomorrow and keeping it all warm until serving time.

  After all, she wouldn’t want Jake to eat cold food or—even worse—be embarrassed for her that she had served cold food to his teammates. Or maybe he wouldn’t be embarrassed. Maybe he wouldn’t acknowledge her.

  He might—

  He might what, Evans? Exactly what is it that Jake Champagne might or might not do? Be sure and consider every possibility like you would have when you were sixteen years old. Don’t leave anything out and don’t forget to mull over what your various reactions could be. You certainly want to revert back to those good times.

  It all slammed down on her, all the things she hadn’t thought of in so long, the pieces of her life that brought her to a good day that went bad at Christmastime four years ago—birthday parties, cotillion classes, those shared family vacations, preschool story time at the library when she’d held his hand because he was afraid of the clown puppet.

  Her heart raced. She had to stop. And she would—starting now, by taking these pies out front.

  She pushed the swinging door open just in time to hear Claire Watkins ask Quentin, “Is Evans available?”

  Suddenly, Evans felt centered. This was her shop, full of people having after-school snacks. She was among her employees and her mentor. She had exited the Jake Road without incident.

  “I’m right here, Claire.” She held out the pie boxes to Quentin. “Would you put these away? They’re special orders.” She stepped around the counter. “Would you like to have a seat, Claire? Can I get you anything?”

  Claire shook her head, moving away from the counter near the wall. “No time.” Evans followed her.

  Claire was a good-looking woman for any age, whatever that age might be. Evans didn’t know and Claire wasn’t telling. From time to time, it was a subject for debate among Claire’s girls, and they had deduced that she was somewhere between fifty and fifty-five. She looked younger—especially since her month-long vacation to Aspen last year. She wore her blond hair in a messy, low bun—though there was nothing messy about Claire. Evans imagined that it took a great deal of effort to achieve that devil-may-care look. Today, she wore an amber silk wrap blouse with brown pants, and butter-soft loafers with bows.

  Even in the flat shoes, she stood a head and half taller than Evans. If they had been of an age, Claire would have probably appealed to Jake.

  Damn. There he was again.

  Claire frowned. “Are you all right, Evans?” Now that Evans noticed, Claire looked a little grim. She hoped it wasn’t because of something she had done—or not done. She couldn’t think of anything, but the Jake Road took up a lot of energy.

  “I’m fine. What can I do for you?”

  “Two things,” Claire said.

  Sure, Claire. Make it three. I’ll add that on to making pies and this hockey hell lunch.

  “First, I want to touch base with you about lunch tomorrow. I just left Hammer Time and everything’s on track there. Ten of my waitstaff will be there to help. I’m sending over macaroni and cheese, assorted salads, and drinks an hour prior to lunch. The facility has dishes.”

  They had been over all this before, but this was the cue for Evans to assure Claire that her part of the meal was in order. “My part-time girls are helping me transport the food and they can help with the serving, too. I have the pasties and cobblers ready to be baked in the morning. I had ice cream for the cobbler delivered to the ice center today.”

  Claire nodded. “Good. Now for the second thing—I need to cancel our little dinner tonight.”

  “All right.” This was a relief. She could make pie crusts tonight.

  “I have to go out of town for a few days on Thursday, so I’d like you, Ava Grace, and Hyacinth to get together on your own this weekend to talk about your plans for the fall festival. Then we’ll all meet and go over it.”

  Which meant Claire wanted final approval for their decorations, refreshments, and activities for the Laurel Springs Fall Festival. It was understandable. A lot of people turned out for the street fair that had taken place the Saturday before Halloween for years.

  “We can do that,” Evans said. “I’ll get everyone together.”

  Claire nodded. “Thank you and I do apologize. My uncle and nephew came into town today and are spending the night with me so they don’t have to turn around and drive back tomorrow for the first day of training camp.”

  That would be Claire’s charming, eccentric Uncle Tiptoe and her nephew by marriage, the former Yankee star Polo MacNeal—the principle owners of the Yellowhammers. They lived about forty-five minutes away in Merritt, Alabama.

  “They came this morning because there was an unexpected Yellowhammer meeting,” Claire went on.

  Did unexpected mean emergency? And if it did, what did that mean for Jake?

  Evans smiled and tried to look nonchalant. “Trading players at this late date?”

  Claire steadied her gaze on Evans and narrowed her eyes. “Some of that, yes.” She hesitated. “It’ll be common knowledge soon anyway, but we fired Coach Kelty. He sexually harassed some ice girls where he coached a few years back. There’s no room for that here—or anywhere. Nickolai Glazov is taking over. Everything’s fine, but please don’t talk about it.”

  Oh, sure. Fine for the team. But what about Jake? What if he’d been traded to Winnipeg where it snowed all the damn time? He would be miserable. Like every other Southern child, he had once loved snow on the rare occasions when they had it, but h
e’d come to despise it in North Dakota.

  “But the players traded—” Evans began.

  “I am not at liberty to say who.” Claire dropped her eyelids. “But your friend Jake is still with us.”

  Evans let out a breath of relief. Where did that woman get her information? She’d never told her she knew Jake.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Claire looked over Evans’s shoulder. “Maybe I’ll get a pie to serve Uncle Tiptoe and Polo.”

  “We’re out of Mississippi mud, maple pecan, and chocolate caramel.” And who the hell knew what else with the onslaught of the after-school crowd?

  “It’s hard to keep up with all the crusts, isn’t it?” Claire asked. “When you insist on doing them all yourself.”

  Oh, hell. Why did she have to mention they’d run out? Claire would have never known the difference. “It’s not that bad,” Evans said. “It’s just been busy—getting ready for the lunch.”

  “But now that you want to do some catering...” Claire’s voice trailed off and she raised her eyebrows.

  But I don’t want to cater! Evans’s inner voice screamed.

  “Yes,” her outer voice said. “I do hope that can work out. In time.”

  Claire nodded, with a satisfied expression. “Good. Did you know,” she said slowly, “that there is a machine called a pie crust press that can turn out five hundred pie crusts in an hour?”

  This was a prime example of why everyone should not be allowed access to the World Wide Web.

  “Yes, Claire, I do know about those, but I don’t need to produce five hundred crusts per hour.” That was four thousand crusts in an eight-hour day. How many if you made crusts around the clock? A lot. Too many.

  “But who knows what the future holds?” Claire persisted. “And I know you love to decorate your pies with those pretty cutouts of leaves and flowers and such. That would give you more time to spend on that. The press is quite an investment, but I think it’s worth it. I would be willing to front you the money.”