by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
Emmett shut off the engine. He steeled himself and got out of the car. Back straight, head up, he ascended the steps and extended his hand. “Emmett Dewey, sir.”
The man engulfed Emmett’s hand in his own. “Brian Boyd.”
Emmett kept his expression mild, even though the bones in his hand were grinding together in the man’s grip.
“Is that Lorelei?” Another voice rang from within the cozy confines of the farmhouse.
Emmett shoved his bruised hand into his pocket. A soft, round woman came into view, drying her hands on her apron. She had the same strawberry-blond curls as her daughter, hers sprinkled with white; the same smattering of freckles over nose and cheeks; and the same steady gray eyes.
“Child, you’ll be the death of me.” The woman wagged a reproving finger at her daughter.
Miss Boyd frowned. “Please don’t say that, Momma.” In a rush, she flung herself into her mother’s arms. “Otto’s family auctioned off his land.”
Mr. Boyd peered at Emmett through small, dark eyes. “Is that true? The wee German fellow’s family sold his orchard?”
Emmett nodded. “I bought the property at auction.”
“Otto was a good man.” Mr. Boyd shook his head. “I suppose I should thank you twice, once for bringing my daughter home and once for not having her arrested for trespassing.”
“It’s not a problem—”
“You’ll join us for pie and coffee.” It wasn’t a request. “Maggie, dear, would you put on a fresh pot of coffee and take out Lorelei’s pie for our new neighbor?”
“Of course, Brian.” Mrs. Boyd patted her daughter’s shoulder then leaned toward Emmett. “It’s nice to meet you, young man. Thank you for bringing my girl home.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Mr. Boyd clapped him on the back hard enough to make him suck air and propelled him inside after the ladies.
They took a sharp left into a warm kitchen. The men sat opposite each other at the scarred kitchen table while the women prepared cups of steaming coffee and plates of warm apple pie.
“So you’ve bought an orchard and a rattrap of a cabin.” Mr. Boyd appraised Emmett. “Judging from that automobile, I wouldn’t have pegged you for the orchard-owning type. Is this a new venture for you?”
“I intend to fix the place up and sell it for a profit,” Emmett replied.
Mr. Boyd chuckled. “You might be better off to dismantle the cabin and start over from scratch.”
Emmett rubbed his forehead. He’d thought the same when he first saw the place, but that would take far more time and expense than he was accustomed to investing on a single property. “What is it that you do, sir?”
Mr. Boyd flexed massive arms. “I came here from Wales to work the New Castle coal mines. After the second mine explosion in 1913, I bought land. I’m a sugar beet farmer now.” He grinned. “My Welsh ancestors, all coal miners, are turning in their graves.”
Emmett’s own father had died in a Kentucky mine cave-in, leaving his mother to raise five small boys on her own. His three older brothers had followed their father’s example: one died in an accident, one was ill with black lung disease at thirty, and one continued to pry coal out of the earth day after day, biding his time until the next disaster struck. Unwilling to perpetuate the tradition, Emmett had left home at sixteen to find his fortune. He’d done well for himself as an entrepreneur, and as a result, his youngest brother was currently at Princeton studying architecture.
“I’d say that was a wise choice, with a family to provide for,” Emmett said.
“We do what we must for our womenfolk,” Mr. Boyd agreed.
“And your womenfolk, in return, take care of you.” Mrs. Boyd placed mugs of dark, rich coffee before them.
Miss Boyd followed, distributing plates laden with thick slices of apple pie. “This is number twenty-three,” she said to her mother.
Emmett examined the pie. The crust was flaky and golden brown. Chunks of apple tumbled onto the plate, speckled with spices. He stabbed a piece of apple with his fork, added a bit of crust, and raised it to his mouth.
Delectable. He closed his eyes as flavors burst across his senses like fireworks: golden apple coupled with rich red cinnamon and clove and allspice and a surprising hint of citrus. It was reminiscent of the clove-studded oranges his mother had made every Christmas and surpassed all the apple pies he’d ever tasted. Delicious. Decadent. Delightful.
“So?”
His eyes sprang open. All three Boyds stared at him.
“It’s excellent.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin Mrs. Boyd had passed him.
“Do you taste the citrus?” Miss Boyd asked.
“I do, yes. It’s definitely different.” Emmett swallowed his second bite, which was at least as good as the first.
A wide smile graced Miss Boyd’s face. “That’s the Colorado Orange from Otto’s orchard.”
“I think this one is a winner,” her father said between bites.
Miss Boyd shook her head. “You say that about all of them.”
Emmett swallowed his third bite. “What do you mean by ‘number twenty-three’?”
“She’s been working on the best recipe for Apple Pie Days next week. This is her twenty-third version.” Mrs. Boyd said.
She speared Emmett with a steely gaze. “But without Otto’s apples, it would be an ordinary apple pie.”
Emmett’s mind danced with possibilities, not the least of which was finding a way to see more of Miss Lorelei Boyd. He’d trained himself to see potential, to analyze opportunities, and to choose the course most likely to guarantee success. He took another bite. Lorelei Boyd’s pies oozed with juicy potential. He wiped his mouth again and placed the napkin on the table.
“I tell you what, Miss Boyd. Now that I’ve tried your delicious pie, I’d like to consider affording you the use of my apples as your new silent partner.”
Relief washed over her face. Then a frown creased her lovely forehead. “On what terms?”
She was sharp—something he appreciated.
He pushed back from the table. “I never make a business deal without sleeping on it.”
“A wise practice.” Mr. Boyd nodded his approval.
Mrs. Boyd sipped her coffee, her gaze shifting between Emmett and her daughter.
Emmett focused on Miss Boyd. “I’ll come by to present my terms tomorrow.”
Her frown remained. She hesitated so long he thought she might turn him down flat. When she finally murmured her agreement through pursed lips, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. So did her parents.
“Excellent,” he said. “When is a good time for you?”
Mrs. Boyd stood and collected the empty plates and forks. “Why don’t you come for lunch, around one o’clock?”
“Mother!” Lorelei hissed.
“I’d like that very much, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Lunch it is,” Mr. Boyd said, hefting his bulk out of the chair. “I’ll see you out.”
“Good night, Miss Boyd,” Emmett said.
“Mr. Dewey.” She was still frowning.
He followed Mr. Boyd to the porch, said a polite good evening, and got back in the Paige. On the drive back to his tiny room at the Clark Hotel, his mind whirred with possibilities.
Lorelei Boyd’s pie was nothing short of amazing, worth far more than a blue ribbon and a title in a local contest. The excitement he sensed when he came upon a lucrative prospect stirred his senses. Usually that meant property of some sort in an excellent location, but he’d invested in other things over the years on a hunch, and those hunches had almost always benefited his bank account.
Lorelei rose before dawn, nerves abuzz over the terms—ransom—Emmett Dewey would demand for the use of “his” apples. She dragged on clean overalls, this pair blue-and-white-striped, over a plain white blouse. Her mother would urge her to put on a dress, but since Mr. Dewey—whose sparkling smile and beguiling dimples had invaded her dreams—had
already seen her in her overalls, what was the point?
By the time the sun cast its light through the kitchen window, Lorelei was sifting flour into the speckled enamelware bowl she used for mixing piecrust.
Momma shuffled in, yawning. “My goodness, you’re up bright and early.”
“I want to have a fresh pie for lunch in case Mr. Dewey needs added encouragement to let me use Otto’s apples.” She squeezed the sifter handle faster, until flour flurried into the bowl like a miniature blizzard.
“Do you think he’ll change his mind?”
Lorelei measured salt, dumped it into the bowl, and stirred the dry ingredients together. Then she pried the lid off the tin of lard. “How would I know? He’s a perfect stranger, and now I have to partner with him on the most important thing I’ve ever done.” She counted spoonfuls in her head as she scraped lard into the bowl.
Momma filled a cup with coffee from the pot on the stove and took the seat opposite her daughter. “Now, Lorelei, it’s just a pie contest. It isn’t life or death.”
Lorelei pressed her lips together. She hadn’t told her parents her real reason for wanting to win the contest. She used the tines of the fork to cut the lard into the salt and flour mixture. “Well, it’s something I care about very much, and he doesn’t care about the apples or the orchard.”
Momma sipped from her cup. “It would seem he does. Have you prayed about it, Lorelei? Perhaps you’re putting too much stock into this contest, allowing the idea of winning to become an idol in your mind.”
Lorelei grimaced. She knew it probably looked like that from her mother’s perspective. “I’m sorry, Momma. I should pray about it. Who knows?” She shoved a fist into the bowl of dough with unnecessary force. “Maybe Emmett Dewey is a godsend.”
Momma smiled. “Perhaps he is, dear girl.” She rose and put her cup beside the sink. “I need to get the eggs. One of the hens has turned into an egg eater. If I figure out which one it is, we’ll be having chicken and dumplings for supper.”
The back door banged shut after Momma. Lorelei kneaded the crust a few more times before turning the lump of dough onto the oilcloth. When she picked up her favorite rolling pin, she knocked loose a stack of envelopes that hadn’t made it to her father’s desk. She bent to pick them up. Cold dread prickled her flesh when she saw the return addresses. All six letters were from the bank.
They’d been getting letters for months. After the first few, her father stopped opening them. Curious, Lorelei had read one and discovered the bank was threatening to foreclose on the family’s modest, forty-acre homestead if they didn’t pay additional funds, citing incorrect paperwork and errors in establishing property value. For weeks after opening the letter, she’d mulled solutions. An article in Ladies’ Home Journal about a woman who sold a cookie recipe to a high-end restaurant inspired a plan to sell a winning pie recipe for enough money to save the farm.
Lorelei shoved the letters back into place. Whatever Emmett Dewey’s terms were, she would agree to them because Otto’s apples were the secret to winning the contest.
“Is something wrong?”
Lorelei jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice. “No. Just tired.”
Momma transferred the morning’s eggs from her apron to a wooden bowl on the Hoosier cabinet. “None of the eggs had holes pecked in them today, so maybe that hen was being temperamental.”
Lorelei offered her mother a benign smile. “We can hope so. Da gets cranky when he doesn’t have his fresh eggs in the morning.”
Chapter 3
Emmett paced the post office corridor, hat in hand, waiting for Jimmy’s reply. He’d met Jimmy Clarke in Chicago five years earlier. The two had become long-distance friends. Now he hoped that friendship would come in handy for Jimmy, and for Miss Lorelei Boyd, who had haunted Emmett’s dreams the night before.
“Telegram for Mr. Emmett Dewey.” The postmaster’s voice echoed through the empty halls. Emmett shook his head. The man was less than ten feet away, and Emmett was the only other person in the building. As he took the telegram, he thanked the elderly gentleman. He moved to the front window to read Jimmy’s reply:
SOUNDS LIKE A WINNER Stop GLAD YOU REMEMBERED I WAS LOOKING FOR NEW RECIPES Stop MEET YOU THERE NEXT WEEK Stop JIMMY Stop
Emmett grinned. Now he had to convince Lorelei Boyd to sell her prized apple pie recipe to the largest lunch-counter chain in America. But he would wait until after the contest.
Lorelei stirred crispy bits of crumbled bacon into fresh steamed green beans.
“Trying to impress the young man?” Momma asked from her seat at the kitchen table, which was already set for lunch. “You know your father and I are content with salt and a dab of butter.”
Lorelei made a face. “We had some bacon left over from breakfast, that’s all.” Was she trying to impress him? Maybe she was because she needed those apples, but she thought her mother suspected she had different motives. She wiped her hands on her apron. Maybe she should change into a dress.
Da boomed into the kitchen.
“Look who’s here already!”
Lorelei’s head turned toward her father and their visitor.
Mr. Dewey tapped his hat against his thigh and smiled. Oh, those dimples. Lorelei blinked and looked away. She blanched cold then flushed hot. Tiny beads of sweat peppered her forehead. She swiped at them with the back of her hand, appalled that she would react so strongly to Emmett Dewey’s presence.
“Welcome, Mr. Dewey. It’s good to see you again,” Momma said, rising. “Can I get you something to drink?” In her gracious way, she didn’t mention his early arrival.
“No thank you, ma’am. Mr. Boyd has offered to give me a local tour before lunch.” His voice was deep and smooth like the sweetest custard, with its slow Southern drawl.
“I suppose you’re taking your car, Mr. Dewey?” she asked.
“Why, yes,” Mr. Dewey replied, brows drawing together in confusion.
Lorelei stared at her father. Da’s chin dropped to his chest. He turned a dark red—she knew from whom she’d inherited her tendency to blush. Lorelei smothered a grin. Da loved all things mechanical. She wasn’t surprised he’d finagled a ride in Emmett Dewey’s fancy automobile.
“Why don’t you come along?” Mr. Dewey asked. “If it’s all right with your father, of course.”
Startled, Lorelei caught Emmett’s bold, blue gaze. A shiver rippled down her spine.
“Me? No, I can’t.” She searched her mind for a reason to refuse while her heart clamored for another ride in that beautiful car. “I have a pie to bake.”
He took a step forward. “We can wait.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Da said. “Come along, Mr. Dewey, I’ll show you everything there is to know about sugar beets. By the time we’re done, Lorelei will have that pie in the oven.” Da patted his daughter’s arm, kissed Momma’s cheek, and herded Mr. Dewey out the front door before Lorelei could ask what he’d decided about Otto’s apples.
With surgical precision, Lorelei made three identical slits in the top crust before sliding the pie into the oven and latching the door. This particular recipe, number twenty-four, might be the winning combination. She’d blended her grandmother’s no-fail, award-winning crust with a filling compiled from Otto’s suggestions, her mother’s recipes, and a hundred-year-old cookbook she’d unearthed in an abandoned barn.
Lorelei pulled her journal from a shelf, opened it to the next blank page, and scribbled the unique combination of ingredients she’d used under a heading of “Twenty-Four.” When she was done, she flipped back through the pages, scanning what she’d written.
She’d rated every version with stars from one to five, along with detailed notes about taste and texture. Thus far, none of her efforts had earned five stars, despite her parents’ ebullient praise of every pie she produced. She turned to the beginning of the book and reread the words she’d scribbled on the flyleaf.
Nothing is impossible with God.
&n
bsp; Winning the Apple Pie Days contest and having an award-winning recipe to sell was the only way Lorelei could see to save her family.
Footsteps interrupted her thoughts.
Lorelei looked up. Mr. Dewey stood in the kitchen doorway. Her pulse quickened.
“Your father wanted to know how long until you were ready to leave.”
Lorelei slapped the journal shut with a snap. “I’m ready. I’ll ask my mother to take the pie out when it’s done.”
He smiled. “We’ll be out front.”
She tucked the journal into its place on the shelf.
“Momma?” she called.
“Yes?” Momma replied from one of the back rooms.
“Will you take the pie out for me? I’ll set the timer. I’m going with Da and Mr. Dewey.”
“Of course, dear.”
Lorelei set the dial on the wall-mounted timer, tossed her apron over the peg behind the kitchen door, and hurried outside. She squeezed into the middle of the roadster’s front seat between her father and Mr. Dewey, who offered them goggles. Da refused, saying he liked the wind in his face. Lorelei put them on. She chuckled at her bug-eyed reflection in the tiny rearview mirror, causing Mr. Dewey to smile and her to flush with pleasure.
Emmett’s hands trembled when he wrapped them around the steering wheel. Lorelei Boyd’s effect on him hadn’t diminished overnight. If anything, he was now painfully aware of her, pressed against his right side from shoulder to hip in the front seat of the roadster.
As they drove, following Mr. Boyd’s erratic directions, Miss Boyd talked about the local residents. Opal Roberts’s baby was due any day. The Raley family was having a barn raising the following weekend. Ancient Mr. Green was moving in with his son and daughter-in-law. Emmett envied her connection to her neighbors, to community.
When they braked outside the Boyds’ home after their tour, the acrid odor of scorched apple pie tainted the air. Lorelei flung herself out of the car with a shriek and raced into the house.
“That doesn’t bode well for lunch,” murmured Mr. Boyd.