Sweet as Pie

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  And the hell of it was he hadn’t done one thing wrong. She was his friend, his buddy, his pal. He’d brought her balloons and sat with her for hours when she’d been sick on Valentine’s Day the year she was fifteen. Of course, he’d left in time to take the girl of the moment to the sweetheart dance. It was entirely reasonable that he would want to hang out with her when he wasn’t otherwise romantically occupied. But no more.

  She had to start saying no to Jake, and now was as good a time as any. She would go to the game. It was expected of her—by her parents and his. There would probably be some shared meals, but this breakfast wasn’t going to be one of them.

  “No, Jake. I don’t think so. But thank you for asking.”

  “What?” Wide-eyed, he whipped his head around and had to jerk the car back onto the road. Of course he was surprised. Why wouldn’t he be? She fought off the inclination to turn into yes girl, set on pleasing Jake, but she couldn’t stop herself from offering an excuse.

  “It’s not a good time for me. It’s going to be a busy weekend. I want to sleep late on Sunday. It’s the only day Crust is closed.”

  He looked baffled. “But my parents are going. And yours. I called my mom earlier and she said so. They’ll want to see you before they leave town.”

  She nodded. “And they can—after they’ve gone to the breakfast and after I’ve slept late.” After you’re on that plane reading ghost stories, headed to Winnipeg.

  He gave half a nod. “All right.” She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him speak so quietly—and he remained quiet for a while before he broke the silence. “Are you sure?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and smiled a little, but he didn’t cock his head to the side and bite his lip. “It would be fun to have you there.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.”

  The silence in the car was heavy and tense. She should have been proud of herself—and maybe she was, at least a bit—but she was also miserable. She might have been able to say no, but she hadn’t liked it. Maybe she never would.

  At last, he turned down her street. More than ready to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere of the insect mobile, she went through the keys on her ring until she found her house key. If she was quick, she could escape inside before he had time to get out and open her door.

  Then, suddenly, a quarter of a block from her house, Jake slammed on the brakes and pulled to the curb. “Hellfire and brimstone! There’s someone sitting on your porch!”

  Curious, she turned and looked. Sure enough, there was. Even though the moon was bright and the streetlights lit, it was impossible to make out who. Then she noticed that parked behind her car was the biggest, bluest pickup truck she had ever seen.

  “I wonder who it could be,” she said idly. “I don’t recognize the truck.”

  “Truck?” Jake turned his head and focused. He didn’t say anything, but barely changed his expression—enough that she got the idea he knew who it was. “Idaho plates,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Idaho?” She didn’t know anyone from Idaho.

  “You stay here,” Jake commanded, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll take care of this.”

  For a second, she was grateful that he was willing to investigate why a random stranger was sitting on her steps, but then the person in question rose and the light hit him just right—Able Killen. Having spotted them, he waved and walked toward the insect mobile.

  “This shouldn’t take long.” Jake opened his door.

  “Simmer down, Jake,” she said. “It’s Able. I didn’t know he knew where I live.”

  “He’s stalking you. I’ll take care of this,” he said again.

  “There’s nothing to take care of, Jake,” she said a little more forcefully. “It’s Able.”

  “He’s got no business skulking around your house.”

  “He’s not skulking. He was sitting on the steps in the full light of the moon. Stalkers don’t do that. They hide in the bushes.” Able was almost to the car.

  “What do you know about stalkers?” Jake sounded like a huffy child who’d been denied dessert. “I’ll find out what he wants.”

  Well, Jake, apparently he wants to see me—not you. Otherwise, he’d be waiting on your doorstep, not mine. He went to some trouble to see me and that feels pretty good. So you run on.

  But she didn’t answer. She just got out of the car. “Hello, Able.”

  He stepped in front of her and smiled. “Hi, Evans. Sorry for showing up like this, but I don’t have your cell number, and when I called Crust, they said you were off.” He looked past her. “Hey, Sparks.”

  Evans turned and looked. Jake was out of the car—of course he was.

  “Killjoy.” He nodded toward Able.

  Able broke into laughter. It was a nice sound. “Killjoy,” he repeated. “I like it. I thought I might be the last living hockey player without a nickname. They used to call me Lincoln, but it died out after juniors.”

  “Lincoln?” Jake said.

  “Yeah. First it was Abe, then Honest Abe, then...well, you know.” He grinned. “I never liked it much. Killjoy sounds much meaner.”

  “Right.” Jake seemed to have only one-word responses in him.

  Able turned to Evans. “I don’t want to interrupt. I just had something I needed to ask you.”

  “No problem. You’re not interrupting a thing. I went with Jake to help him buy some things for his kitchen, but we’re done. Good night, Jake.”

  “I’ll walk you to your door,” Jake said grimly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Able will keep me company.” Even with the emphasis on the word, Jake didn’t seem to get the reference. He just gave her a blank look, mumbled good night, and drove away.

  “Sparks didn’t seem too pleased,” Able said. “Are you sure I didn’t cut your evening short?”

  “I’m sure.” She turned, walked toward the house, and Able fell into step beside her. “It had already gone on too long.” They reached the porch. “Would you like to come inside?”

  He hesitated—clearly torn. “I would, but I’d better not. Early skate tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” She got the impression he really regretted turning her down—though she was glad he had. She felt like a tin can full of marbles rolling down a hill. Despite her polite and expected invitation, she wanted to be alone and quiet.

  “I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

  “Of course not. You said you needed to ask me something?”

  “Yes. Are you coming to the game Saturday night?” He laughed a little. “Though that wasn’t really the question I came to ask.”

  “I’ll answer it anyway.” He truly was charming, though it seemed random and accidental. Maybe that was the best kind of charm. “I am. My parents are coming, and Jake’s. You know, we grew up together.”

  He nodded. “I’ve been appointed captain that night.”

  “Congratulations, Able. That’s great.”

  He grinned. “It’s not that big a deal. There’s going to be different captains for the preseason games. It doesn’t mean I’ll be permanent.”

  “It must mean you’re in the running.”

  “Maybe. I don’t think they know yet.” He took a deep breath. “But about what I wanted to ask you—there’s a breakfast Sunday morning for the team and guests. I’d like you to come with me.”

  She hesitated. That darn breakfast again. Wait. Did that mean she’d be meeting his family, like she would have if she’d agreed to go with him to Hammer Time after the game?

  He might have read her mind, or he might have gotten lucky. Either way, he said, “My family has to fly out early Sunday morning, before the breakfast.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.” Jake could make of that what he would.

  They exchanged cell numbers and he gav
e her a brief wave before getting in his truck, a vehicle that could have accommodated every turkey roaster known to man—and Williams-Sonoma.

  Once inside, Evie sighed and sagged against the door for a full minute. What a night. Then, she picked up her remote, cued up the DVR, and watched the Sparkle commercial one last time before erasing it forever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jake paused outside the door of his condo Friday when his phone signaled that he had a message.

  His mother. We should be there within an hour. Can’t wait to see you!

  He answered with a thumbs-up emoji. She hated that, but it was all he had in him right now. She responded with a frowny face. He didn’t respond at all. She hated that more than the thumbs-up, but she let it go—which was unusual for her.

  It was game day eve for the Yellowhammers and he had just had the worst practice, if not in his life, certainly in recent memory. Back when they’d played together, Glaz had always been encouraging when someone had a bad practice. “Suck it up, Sparks,” he would have said. “Bad practice means good game.”

  That was not what he’d said today. There had been a lot of yelling and cursing—mostly in Russian, but Jake knew cursing when he heard it, whatever the language. Then, before skating off, he’d said, “Go to your house and think of this!”

  Well, he was at his house, but he didn’t know if he was going to have time to think about the Glaz lecture—or much of anything else.

  The interior designer—Lucy Kincaid—was supposed to be in there with her crew making magic. After discerning that he had no sense about furniture or any preconceived ideas about how his surroundings should look, Lucy had given him a book, had him point to pictures of rooms he liked, and told him she’d take care of it.

  Given his luck lately, Lucy probably hadn’t shown up. All he needed was for his mother to say that she had told him so, that he ought to have let her come to Laurel Springs and square things away while he was in Europe. And maybe he should have. Knowing what he ought to do—and ought not to do—wasn’t always easy.

  Evidently, he’d pissed Evie off Wednesday night—and he didn’t know if it was something he’d done or not done. He could never remember her getting mad at him before he moved here. She had certainly never practically banished him from her presence, forcing him to leave her standing on the side of the street with Able Killen—who, by the way, had skated like an Olympic champion today to the point that everyone was banging their sticks on the ice chanting, “Killjoy, Killjoy, Killjoy!” How had he got the word out that he had a new nickname—which, by the way, Jake had meant as an insult—anyway? Probably Twitter. He’d probably announced it there and changed his handle to something like Killjoy23412.

  Jake had tried to call Evie yesterday, but she hadn’t picked up or returned his call. That had never happened before.

  The whole thing made his head hurt. He needed to get his mind on hockey. Anybody who’d seen practice today could attest to that.

  A crash behind the condo door startled him. How long had he been standing there? And a better question: what had Lucy Kincaid broken—if it was, in fact, Lucy who was inside? It could be a burglar in there, but burglars were supposed to steal stuff, not break it. He punched the code into the keypad, swung the door open, and moved through the foyer to the living room.

  It was startling to see a house that looked like someone lived there. Lucy looked up from where she was arranging pillows on a leather couch.

  “Jake! Hello.” She folded a blanket over the back of a chair and came toward him. “What do you think?”

  “Looks good.” There were rugs, lots of big furniture, and lamps. The sound of a vacuum cleaner emitted from another room. He wondered if he owned that vacuum cleaner now. If not, he’d probably have to buy one and hire somebody to run it.

  “We’re just finishing up,” Lucy said. “Everything is clean. The beds are made. The dishes are washed and put away.” She gestured to the door that led to the rest of the house and took a half step in that direction. “Are you ready to do a walk-through with me?”

  He was not. He wanted to have a beer and decompress—maybe even take a short nap—before Christine blew in with big ideas and lots of opinions. But the nap would have to wait until after he called Blake. He needed to talk to him about the bad practice and maybe about pissing Evie off.

  Blake. His stomach went cold and his scalp prickled. He wasn’t going to call Blake, could never call him again. How had he forgotten that, even for a split second? He must be losing his mind. Then a new realization came to him, something he was amazed he hadn’t thought of before. This would be the first hockey game of his life where he wouldn’t at least text with Blake on game day. More than likely, he would have been there.

  He felt Lucy’s stare on him and snapped back to the matter at hand. She wanted to do a walk-through.

  “Are you all right, Jake?” she asked.

  “Fine. I heard a crash. Is everything okay?”

  “I knocked over the metal coat rack in the foyer. No harm done.” He hadn’t noticed a coat rack, but he’d take her word for it.

  “A coat rack is a good idea. At my place in Nashville, my couch was also the coat rack,” he answered on autopilot.

  He hadn’t needed a coat here yet, but he’d damn sure needed one in Vermont. He’d been cold in North Dakota. He’d been cold in Canada. He’d even been cold in the Delta when the weather took a notion to be contrary. But he had never known cold like that Vermont cemetery with the gravestones that were so old they were illegible. Would Blake’s headstone one day be illegible? How long did something like that last? Maybe he’d see a lawyer, make a will that stipulated it be replaced every hundred years or so. Or maybe not. Maybe it was best to let time and weather erase the pain of the past.

  Lucy Kincaid was laughing. Apparently he was funny when he was on autopilot. “Which would make sitting tricky. We moved your sofa into the den, along with the television and gaming systems. It’s a nice piece.”

  He took a deep breath, then another, and another. It was like he’d been in a different dimension, but was phasing back in. He was here having a conversation with Lucy, who mistakenly thought his surroundings were important.

  “Come and let me show you. I think you’ll like the bar and the media storage system.”

  This woman was determined to make him look at his new stuff. “I’ll take a look later. I’m sure it’s great.”

  She frowned. “You don’t want to make sure everything’s to your liking?”

  He gestured to the living room. “Does it all look like that?”

  “Not exactly—but I was going for a masculine English country look, and that theme is carried throughout.”

  “Thanks. Do you have a bill for me?” He reached for his wallet.

  “No. I’ll send it once you decide you’re satisfied.”

  “Sounds good.” If his mother had a place to lay her head, he’d be satisfied—which did bring a question to mind. “Which room did you fix up for my parents?” He would have bet dollars to doughnuts that she would try to make him look at it, but it seemed like she’d gotten the message.

  “The yellow room down the hall from the master suite. It’s the second largest and has a full bath.”

  “Good.”

  Lucy looked hesitant. “I hope they’ll be happy with it. I hope you’re happy.”

  “What I’ve seen is great.”

  She seemed as happy as a decorator who wasn’t getting to do a walk-through with her client could. “Fine. I’ll be going now. Call me if there’s something that you want to change.”

  “I will.” He wouldn’t. “Send me that bill.”

  After closing the door behind Lucy and her army, Jake went to the kitchen for a beer, but thought better of it. Maybe he would lay off the beer until the preseason games were over. It wasn’t as if what little he was drinki
ng would affect his game, but it was a good exercise in discipline.

  All that fancy cookware he and Evie had bought was suspended on racks from the ceiling, and there was other stuff scattered around, including his outstanding new coffee maker. The place looked like someone was going to come in and cook any minute.

  He had thought that would be Evie.

  Jake was reaching in the refrigerator for a bottle of water when his phone buzzed.

  His mother, no doubt. Yep. Maybe they would go to dinner as soon as they got here. He could pick up a frozen chicken pot pie to have before bedtime. He wasn’t superstitious about that but, after practice today, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  He opened the text.

  We’re downstairs. You didn’t tell us we needed a code to take the elevator. That would have been a more productive text than the thumb.

  He laughed a little and sent a thumbs-up, followed by the number sequences for the elevator and the key pad to his door. Minutes later, his parents sailed through the door, his father loaded down with luggage and his mother carrying only her purse and a white bakery box—probably something from Anna-Blair’s shop.

  “Well, if it’s not Christine and Marc Champagne, the Ole Miss Homecoming Queen and her escort, 1923.”

  His dad laughed and set down the three bags he carried. “I feel that old after that drive.”

  Christine closed her eyes and shook her head. She was slicked up and powdered, looking every bit like the credit to Omega Beta Gamma Ole Miss Royalty that she was. “I’ve a mind to turn right around and take myself back to the Delta this instant.” She set her little purse and the box down on a table by the door that he hadn’t noticed before.