Sweet as Pie

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Damn.

  * * *

  A few minutes before closing time, Evans slid the apple pies into the oven and set the timer. Neva stuck her head in the kitchen.

  “Evans, there’s a man here to see you.”

  Déja vu. Jake? “Who is it?”

  Neva shook her head. “I don’t know. He has an accent, but I don’t know what kind.” That would not be Jake. Neva spoke Mississippi Delta. “He wants—I quote—‘that little pie with meat and other stuffs inside such as I have before.’”

  It was a hockey player wanting a pasty.

  “I can tell him you’re busy,” Neva said. “I was about to lock the front door.”

  But she was curious. “I’ll talk to him.” She wiped her hands. “Go ahead and leave. I’ll lock up.”

  The guy at the counter was all decked in Yellowhammer gear and looked familiar. He smoothed his straight brown hair behind his ears and produced a smile that he had probably practiced in the mirror.

  “Hi, Evans.” He smiled wider, leaned on the counter, and inclined his head in her direction.

  “Hi.” There was no point in pretending she remembered his name, if she’d ever heard it.

  “I am Miklos Novak. Thirty-nine.” Then he laughed a little. “Not in years. That is my sweater number. In years, I am twenty-seven.”

  She nodded. “How are you?”

  “Good,” he said, “but hungry. I just come from practice. Whole time I’m on ice, all I think of is the little pies you bring us.”

  Did he really think she would believe a professional hockey player thought about anything except hockey when he was on the ice? “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

  “I was hoping to purchase some, but I do not read them on your menu.” He gestured to the chalkboard wall.

  “The pasties were something I did especially for the Yellowhammer lunch. They’re not a usual menu item.”

  He sighed and looked crestfallen, like maybe his village had been burned, all the hockey sticks in the world with it.

  “You have none? My new favorite food?” He was a drama king, all right.

  She did, in fact, have some—the imperfect ones that had a bit of filling leaking out or uneven crimping. “I do,” she said slowly, “but they aren’t as pretty as they should be.”

  He brightened. “But the taste? It would be same?”

  “Yes, but I don’t sell things I’m not proud of.”

  He nodded and reached for his wallet. “Is the taste you should be proud of. I do not care about the pretty.” He put a little devil in his smile and let his hair fall in his eyes. “Except for pie bakers.”

  She laughed. He was probably the kind who flirted with everyone, but it lifted her spirits after such a hard day. “You really want those pies, don’t you?”

  “More than you know,” he said with mock earnestness.

  “I couldn’t sell them. It’s a matter of integrity, but I’ll give them to you.”

  “I respect your integrity, and I will take the pies any way I can get them. Is a favor you do for me. I will do same. I endorse Nike. They give me shoes. I will get some for you. Would you like that?”

  “Why not? Size seven.” He would probably never think of it again, but that was okay. She had shoes.

  “Good. I call tomorrow.” He placed his hands on the counter. “Now. I like the American beer Budweiser.” He said Budweiser like it was two words—a man’s name. “And I will have that.”

  Oh, good cow. “We don’t sell beer, Miklos. We’re more of a coffee, tea, and milk place. And besides—”

  He interrupted her. “Ah, well. Then I will have tea—not the cold tea that you like here, but hot.”

  “Hold up.” She put her hands in the air. “Here’s the thing. It’s closing time.” She gestured to the empty shop. “I’m going to give you the pies. You can have all I’ve got—about a dozen. But you’re going to need to take them home and bake them yourself.”

  Miklos wrinkled his brow. “In microwave?”

  “No. They will need to be baked in a regular oven.”

  His mouth formed an O and he looked perplexed. “Cook? No. I cannot do that thing. Impossible.”

  * * *

  Ridiculous. Anybody who had enough sense to make millions of dollars playing hockey could certainly use the oven.

  “I’ll tell you how. It’s easy. All you have to do is preheat the oven to 375º, put the pasties on a parchment-lined pan, and bake for forty-five minutes.” With every word she spoke, he looked more puzzled. She took her tone to a bright new level. “And you can have a beer with it at home.”

  “These words you speak—” He waved his hands. “I hear them, but they make no sense.”

  She ran what she’d said back through her mind and tried to discern what—if anything—could have been remotely unclear.

  “You don’t have parchment?” she asked.

  He looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “I don’t have pan.” He looked pitiful. It was contrived, but Evans was somewhat amused that he was going to the trouble. “Could you do for me? You say is easy.”

  She hesitated. Why not? She could throw the pasties in the oven and tell him to pick them up in forty-five minutes. She’d be here anyway, minding the apple pies. Unlike a lot of things she agreed to, she actually wanted him to have the pies. She wasn’t attracted to him any more than he was attracted to her, but he was cute and he amused her.

  “All right.”

  But before she could tell him to come back later, before she could cross the shop to lock the door, before she could even take a breath, that door opened and in came two of the guys from Jake’s table—Dietrich Wingo and Able Killen. And there were two more guys behind them.

  Miklos turned. “Able! Wings! Christophe and Mick, whose name has the sound of my own! My teammates. Come in!”

  No. The shop is closed, even if I haven’t managed to lock the door. Baking a few pasties for cutie pie here is one thing, but a hockey party is another. So, don’t come in.

  But they did. “Hi, Evans.” Able gave her a sweet little smile, let his eyes rest on the display cases and come back to meet hers. “This is the best place I’ve ever been. And I’ve been to Disney World, the Grand Canyon, and Niagara Falls.”

  “Thank you. Disney, you say? High praise.” Especially since the cases were almost empty.

  Miklos piped up. “She give me meat pies. I give her shoes. Nike Air Max, I think.”

  “Yeah? I just signed endorsement deals with Campbell’s soup and Gillette,” Able rushed on. “I can get you some soup and razors.” He looked like an eager puppy.

  Soup? Razors? Her gut told her that Able might produce what he promised. The thought of opening her door to find cases of chicken noodle soup and plastic razors was not appealing.

  “Thank you, but—”

  “I’ve got a deal with Visa and Under Armour,” Dietrich Wingo said. “I doubt I can get you a free credit card, but I can get you some shorts.”

  “Uh...no. I’m good.”

  “Wings, Able!” Miklos burst out. “The pies are mine. She give to me, though I will share. But she has no beer. Christophe, Mick, go get us some beer while Evans bakes pies. Budweiser.”

  “No!” Damn. She had forgotten about the other two—Christophe and Mick, apparently, who either had no endorsements or weren’t willing to barter for pie. But they were already leaving. One of them said, “I’ll call Davis and Dempsey.”

  Wingo and Able were pushing tables together. They were about to turn Crust into a potluck, beer-swilling free-for-all!

  Evans knew when she’d been beat; she always had. Practice made perfect, and she’d had plenty of practice. But what the hell? There was leftover pie in the cases. They could eat what they wanted of that, too. There would still be some for St. Ann’s soup kitchen.

  She laug
hed and shook her head. Maybe a little free-for-all would do her good.

  “I’m going to put the pasties in the oven,” she said. “Someone lock the door.”

  Chapter Seven

  That was an hour of his life that Jake would never get back.

  Leland Puckett considered himself the god of skate sharpening. He hadn’t liked how Jake’s skates had looked on the ice, so he’d insisted on sharpening them at a different angle and watching Jake skate a few laps. Jake had never been as particular about his skate blades as some guys, so that had been all well and good, but after the third time Leland insisted on going through the resharpening and skating routine, Jake had had enough.

  He had to admit that his skates did perform better in the end, but he knew for sure that by now Crust was closed, and Evie would have had to deal with Miklos and Able on her own. Evie wasn’t helpless, but she was a little sheltered. She would have no idea how hungry hockey players were when they came off the ice—for food and sex. Maybe he’d go see her after he ate. He didn’t know where she lived, but he could text and ask.

  He climbed into his bright green Lamborghini—the consolation prize he’d bought for himself the day his divorce was final—and drove down Main Street toward home, considering food. He could stop at Hammer Time. Some of the guys might still be there. Or he could head out toward the interstate where the fast food places were. He should buy groceries—should have already. Maybe tomorrow.

  Most of the businesses on Main Street were dark, but—what was that? Were there lights on at Crust? He slammed on his brakes and backed up.

  Hellfire and brimstone! It looked like there was a hockey player party going on in there. And there was Evie—waltzing around with a water pitcher in her hand, filling their glasses. Who the hell did they think they were, letting her wait on them like they were little kings and she was a servant?

  Jake did a U-turn in the middle of street and parked the Lamborghini in the Employee of the Month space in front of the bank. He threw open the door and tried to get out without unbuckling his seat belt. It didn’t work. Finally, his feet hit the pavement and he stomped down the street, seething as he went. He was spoiling for a fight, but breaking up a party would have to do.

  When he went to jerk open the door of Crust, it didn’t budge. Locked. He rattled the knob. No one looked his way.

  Oh, hell no. Pretty boy Christophe Bachet got out of his chair, took Evie by the arm, and led her to the pie case. He pointed to a pie and Evie said something. Then he pointed to another, another, and another. They laughed together like pie was funny. Evie went behind the counter and Wingo, Davis, and Able rushed up like catfish in a pond at feeding time—all pointing at pies.

  He did a quick inventory. No Ryan Bell. That was something. Still, he had to get in there. Rattling the knob again did no good, so he pounded on the glass. They were all laughing and partying so hard they didn’t hear that either. Evie sliced a pie—his Mississippi mud, if he wasn’t mistaken—and handed it to Bachet.

  He started banging on the glass again, and this time he didn’t stop until Evie saw him. She looked surprised, but then she smiled. Good. She would come let him in and he would get control of this situation, explain to her what letches hockey players could be. At best, they were taking advantage of her good nature by making her stay late and pour them water and cut them pie. At worst, they were trying to get in her pants—or her bra, as Bell had so eloquently put it. He would tolerate neither. As soon as she opened the door, he would pull her outside and explain things in no uncertain terms.

  But she didn’t come to open the door. Instead, she said something to Miklos Novak, pointed toward the door, and kept cutting pie.

  Miklos turned and looked at Jake through the door, gave a wave, and got to his feet—he took his sweet time doing it, too. After an eternity, Miklos unlocked the door.

  “Ahoj, Sparks,” Miklos said.

  “Hmm.” More like annoy.

  “There are no more little meat pies. We ate them all, but Evans has promised to put them on her menu, and we have promised to buy them. Now Evans is giving out sweet pie. Perhaps she will serve some to you.”

  Perhaps? Perhaps? He was tempted to tell Miklos that yesterday Evie had not only served him a piece of pie, she had given him a whole pie. Even if she was doing them a favor by allowing them in her shop after hours, she was selling them pie. So there.

  “She is not taking money.”

  She was giving them pie? Didn’t she know they were multimillionaires? She had a living to make.

  “She say the sweet pies will be stale in the morning after sitting out whole night. A church picks them up to feed people who are poor.”

  “You are not poor,” Jake growled.

  “No,” he said happily. “I was once poor, but no more.”

  “See to it that you leave her a tip—a very generous tip. And see to it that the other guys do, too.”

  Miklos narrowed his eyes, and they turned mean. “She is very nice to me. I know what to do in return. I do not need lessons from you, Sparks.”

  Jake didn’t reply, but brushed past Miklos and headed straight for Evie. Apparently, she had been dishing out pie for a while because there was lots of pie eating going on. His teammates called out to him. He gave a general wave in their direction, but didn’t slow down. They looked like a bunch of idiots sitting on those fancy little iron chairs with the heart-shaped backs that were meant to hold women drinking tea and eating little cakes. Never mind that he had logged some time in one of those chairs.

  “Hello, Jake,” Evie said. “Here you go, Dietrich.” She handed Wingo a plate. “Apple cranberry walnut. I hope you enjoy it.”

  “Hey, Sparks.” Able was the only one who hadn’t gotten his pie. “What do you recommend?”

  Oh, brother, you don’t want to know.

  “Jake likes Mississippi mud,” Evie said, “but I just gave Christophe and Mick the last two pieces.”

  She was on a first-name basis with them? Jake didn’t even know all their first names. And they’d had the last of his pie. Damn them.

  Evie went on, “But the cherry is very popular. I macerate the fruit in brandy before I make the filling. It adds a little something extra. There’re some ground almonds in the crust. You aren’t allergic to nuts, are you?”

  “No allergies. I don’t know what macerate means.” Able tried to give her a flirty look. He wasn’t good at it. “But if you say it’s good, I’ll have that. Any chance you’ll come sit down and have some, too?”

  “She doesn’t eat pie,” Jake said.

  Evie frowned at him. “That’s not exactly true. I taste pie all day long. I just don’t usually eat a whole piece.” She took the pie out of the case. It had a crisscross top crust made up of little sparkly cherries.

  “That looks nice,” Able said.

  She smiled like she meant it. “Thank you. I try to make them pretty.”

  Jake let his eyes wander to the case. There were only partial pies left, but he could see that she had taken pains with them, putting little leaves, flowers, acorns, and such on the edges and making fancy tops with braids, strips, and cutouts. He hadn’t noticed if his Mississippi mud yesterday had been decorated.

  “Not pretty,” Jake said. “They’re beautiful. You’re an artist.”

  “Why, thank you, Jake.” She put her hand over her heart for a second. “Not everybody notices the extra touches. Sometimes the decorations give a hint to what’s inside.”

  He pointed to a pie with bees around the edge. “Are there bees in that pie?” He gave her a little wink.

  She laughed that laugh that reminded the world she was a happy person. “No. No bees, but it’s honey pear, one of the fall specials.” She handed the cherry pie to Able. “Here’s your pie, Able.”

  “Please come sit with me?” Able asked.

  Not if I have anything to say a
bout it. Which, Jake realized to his horror, he did not.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I need to clean up and box some pies for early pickup tomorrow.”

  Able stood there a moment, like he didn’t know what to say—which he obviously did not. “Sparks, get some pie and come have a seat. We’ve got some beer left.”

  Jake just looked at him.

  “Beer? Really?” Jake asked once Able had gone back to his little chair of torture.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “They brought it. Don’t ask.”

  “What are they doing here anyway? You’re supposed to be closed.” He suddenly felt like he was the grown-up in charge of a bunch of wild eighth graders. Maybe he had it coming. He and Robbie had certainly given some of the more senior Sound players some headaches.

  “Long story.” She wiped her hands and returned the cherry pie to the case. “Would you like pie?”

  “No, thank you.” The thought made him a little queasy.

  “Too full from dinner?” she asked. “I can wrap up some for later.”

  “I haven’t had dinner. I’m starving, but—”

  “Sugar on an empty stomach. I get it. Come with me,” she said. “I have some good sourdough bread, and I can make you a hot ham-and-cheese sandwich.”

  His mouth watered and his stomach twisted in anticipation. “Can I have two?”

  “If you’re good.” Her apron bow danced up and down as she walked away.

  Damn that bow—not that he didn’t enjoy the sight, but his barbarian teammates were probably enjoying it, too.

  He followed her though the employees-only door into the industrial kitchen. Take that, guys. See where I’m getting to go and you’re not.

  With its stainless steel appliances and stark white walls, the room should have felt cold and sterile, but there was something about it that felt homey. Maybe it was the smell of cinnamon or the black-and-white checked floor that reminded him of Anna-Blair’s shop in Cottonwood. Maybe it was Evie herself.