That being said, she’d made enough piecrust in her life by the time she was in The Muffin Top that she didn’t need a recipe to follow. Sugar, butter, flour. A little salt. Maybe a dash of milk, depending on what kind of pie she was making. Maybe replace the butter with shortening—her grandmother still used lard, which could be hard to come by, but made the crust friggin’ delicious. Maybe a combination of butter and shortening. Piecrust was one of those things in baking that seemed deceptively simple but could be the most difficult thing in the world. Even now, her mom bought premade piecrust because she felt like she could never get it right when making it from scratch. Charlie’s grandmother was horrified by that and took great pride in the fact that her granddaughter wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Lies. Charlie had to confess, at least privately, that she would buy a premade crust at the store in a heartbeat if she didn’t have time to make one from scratch. But she would never, ever tell her grandmother…or let her taste that pie because she would know.
Charlie’s favorite part of making piecrust was when all the ingredients were incorporated, and she had to fold it over and over with her hands. It wasn’t quite the same as kneading bread—she had to be a bit gentler so as not to melt all the butter or shortening with her body heat—but there was something about the feel of the dough in her hands, the rhythm of the work. It cleared her head, much as she imagined running or yoga might for others. The feel of the dough, soft and smooth and pliable, the motion of folding it and pressing it, pushing her body weight against it, then repeating. It was almost hypnotic.
She’d never baked in a bakery before, and having all the ingredients—more than she needed—right at her fingertips was a luxury Charlie could absolutely get used to. Same with the tools. Plus, Sandy had all the newest equipment, which was awesome. She had a pastry blender, so Charlie didn’t have to use two forks like her grandma taught her. Endless mixing bowls and spatulas, all pink. There were stacks of cookie sheets and pie plates and muffin tins. Four huge ovens. A blast chiller. It really was a dream kitchen. The workspace was huge, and there was plenty of room for her to spread out and not get in anybody’s way. She separated the pie dough into four evenly sized balls, wrapped them in plastic, and put them in the enormous fridge to chill while she turned her attention to the cherry filling.
Two hours later, she was using a pastry cutter to make strips of dough for the latticework on the tops of the pies. Sandy told her that she didn’t have to go that far the first time, but if there was one thing Charlie had learned in marketing, it was that presentation is key—again with the We eat with our eyes first that her grandma had taught her—and when you thought about a cherry pie, you saw a pie with a latticework top crust. She wanted Sandy’s customers to be so drawn to the prettiness of the pie that they couldn’t resist at least a slice.
A tiny bell tinkled, indicating a customer had come in the front door. Charlie barely noticed it earlier that morning when they were bustling, but when things were slower, the little bell had a light and cheerful sound. It reminded her of Tinker Bell from Peter Pan.
“Hey, you,” she heard Sandy say. There was a large window in the kitchen so staff could see people in the front and people in the front could see what the staff was baking, but Charlie’s workstation was off to the side. She had no clear view of the front, but she could hear what went on pretty well.
“Ready for lunch?” It was a woman’s voice, one Charlie didn’t recognize, and she tilted her head to the side, listening, curious.
“You have no idea. What’s today’s special?” Sandy asked, and then Charlie could hear the rustling of what sounded like a paper bag.
“Chicken potpie,” the woman said, the pride in her voice evident. “It’s fabulous. Wait till you taste it. Emma outdid herself, I think.”
Emma?
“Oh my God, that smells amazing.” Bethany.
“Here are the shortbreads,” Sandy said. “And listen, I’ve got a new employee making cherry pie back there. Tell Emma I’ll send one over, and you guys can see what you think.”
“Pie, huh?”
Sneaking a peek made Charlie feel a little bit like a creeper, but she did it anyway. The woman was young. Very young. Maybe college age like Bethany. Stocky, curly red hair pulled into a ponytail, and bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, as if she couldn’t contain her own energy. “Yeah, definitely send it over. I’ll tell Emma it’s coming. And let her know what you think of the potpie.” Her voice faded a bit as she turned and headed out the front door, the little bell tinkling again. Charlie swallowed down whatever weirdness it was that had formed a lump in her throat and got back to work. She was sliding the two pies into the oven as Sandy came into the kitchen area—Charlie could feel her behind her.
“Wow, those are beautiful,” Sandy said, her voice quiet as if she worried she’d disturb Charlie’s movements.
“Thanks.”
“When they’re done, we’re gonna box one up, and you can run it across the street for me.”
Charlie swallowed. “Across the street?” Sandy wanted her to take the pie over?
“Well, kitty-corner across the street. Ever been to EG’s?”
“Not to eat, no.” Charlie hoped her face didn’t betray all the weird things she was feeling. Also, why was she feeling all those weird things?
“Oh, you have to,” Sandy said, buckling her knees slightly, obviously illustrating her weakness for Emma’s cooking. “Emma Grier is a genius in the kitchen. A certified genius. Occasionally, she sends over lunch for us, whatever she’s putting on special that night. I send cookies or lemon bars or something for her to serve with after-dinner coffee. It’s a nice trade-off. She’s been asking about things like cheesecake and pie because she doesn’t have a full dessert menu yet, but I haven’t been able to accommodate her.” She smiled at Charlie. “Until you.” She grabbed two forks from a drawer and handed one to her. “Today is chicken potpie, and I can only imagine how good it’ll be. Come and eat. You’ve been working nonstop since you got here.”
Charlie didn’t have to imagine how good Emma’s chicken potpie would be because she’d made it for her more than once when they were younger. Emma’s mom wasn’t terribly reliable, and she was a horrifyingly bad cook, so meals fell to Emma. Charlie was pretty sure Emma’s love of cooking came out of necessity.
She joined Sandy and Bethany at the cookie workspace where Sandy dished the two potpies onto three plates. It was still steaming, and the delectable aromas of chicken and vegetables were so different than the usual sweet scent of the bakery that it felt almost tangible. Like if Charlie reached into the air, she could literally touch the smell.
The three of them dug in, and at first, there was absolute silence. Then three different levels of moaning began. It was comical, and they looked at each other, then burst into laughter. Yeah, Emma’s chicken potpie was that good. Charlie was unsurprised that it was delicious but was very pleasantly surprised by the sophistication of the dish. When they were young, Emma had made standard chicken potpie. Chicken, potatoes, carrots. This potpie, however, was not only a step above, it was several flights above. Chicken, potatoes, carrots, yes. But corn and peas and a blend of savory spices that lifted it up from simple comfort food to something more…elegant. Mature.
Color her impressed.
About an hour later, the entire bakery smelled like cherry pie, warm and sweet and inviting. Charlie took them out of the oven, and after they’d cooled a bit, Sandy cut into one, dished herself a small slice, and tasted. Strangely, she was almost as nervous over that moment as she’d been the first time she’d pitched a marketing idea to Darcy, an uncomfortable desire for approval hanging over her like a gray cloud. She watched as Sandy chewed slowly, savored, tilted her head to the side as if thinking. Then she took a second bite and her gaze met Charlie’s.
“Your crust is outstanding,” she said, and relief washed through Charlie, almost making her knees buckle. “Light. Flaky. Delicious, but not so strong it overwhelms the
pie. The filling might be a tad sweet, but that could just be me.” Bethany came back from the display area and Sandy held out a forkful of pie. “Taste this.”
Bethany did as ordered, and her eyes closed as she moaned. “Oh my God, that’s good.”
“Right?” They stood looking at each other, chewing. Amusing. Charlie smiled as she watched. With a nod, Sandy told her to box up the second pie and take it over to EG’s. “After that, you’re free to go.” Her face grew serious. “You worked hard today, and I appreciate that. I think this is going to work out really well.”
Lots of mixed emotions happened right then for Charlie. Happiness, pride, relief over getting the stamp of approval from Sandy, a little guilt that she didn’t intend to stay. Added to that, worry and nervousness over what she had to do next.
So much for never stepping foot in EG’s again.
Chapter Seven
It was getting close to push time.
That’s what Emma called that time about an hour before dinner customers started to appear. There were already folks at the bar for happy hour. She liked that people were starting to pop in after work for a drink. It had been slow getting started, but it seemed like word of mouth had gone around town, and each day, the crowd stayed steady or increased. The profit margin on alcohol was pretty good, so she’d take it. Soon, her early bird customers would start to trickle in for dinner.
The chicken potpie was ready to go. The standard meals were ready to go. The steaks and the chicken dishes and the seafood. Alec had prepped everything that needed prepping, and Jules had the salad area all stocked. They were ready.
“Hey, Emma?” It was Sabrina, looking sharp in her uniform, which Emma tried to ignore. Black pants, a white oxford, a black tie. She’d complained about the tie more than once, said it got in her way when she was making drinks, and Emma could admit that it was a valid objection. But damn if it didn’t look good. Also, she probably shouldn’t have slept with Sabrina. Boss and subordinate, and all that. But one look at her and that flew out the window. Sabrina was hot. “There’s a woman here from Sandy’s place with pie?”
“Oh, right.” Emma hoped this was the beginning of something beneficial for both her and Sandy. EG’s had a nearly nonexistent dessert menu, and she hoped to remedy that before the end of the summer, but she hadn’t had the time to sit down and figure out exactly what she wanted to do. Sandy’s cookies were wonderful, especially the shortbreads—buttery and delicious—and EG’s served them with every order of after-dinner coffee. But she really needed to offer some actual dessert. Mousse. Cheesecake. Pie. She wiped her hands on a towel, draped it over her shoulder, and pushed through the double doors of the kitchen out into the restaurant.
And stopped.
But only for a split second because she did not want Charlie Stetko to know how affected she was by her presence. She had to steel herself. Put on her armor persona, as her mother called it when Emma had to be firm with somebody. Square her shoulders. Puff up her chest. Hold her head high.
Charlie was nervous. The darting eyes, the shifting from one foot to the other, the twisting of the ring on her finger all made it obvious. Emma took a bit of satisfaction in it. No, she wasn’t proud of that, but so what? Despite the quirks, though, Charlie looked… Emma sighed internally. Damn it. She looked good. A little too skinny, but still so pretty. Her dark blond hair was a little shorter than Emma remembered, and her ponytail couldn’t hide the gentle wave of it. Those soft hazel eyes had always been home for Emma, and it was hard to believe they could still spark that feeling in her, but that’s exactly what they did. Goddamn it.
“You’re Sandy’s new employee, huh?” She purposely forced herself to sound disinterested. Bored, even. Should she yawn? “Jules said there was a new baker. Who’d have thought it would turn out to be you?”
“It’s me.” There was false cheer injected into Charlie’s tone. Emma could tell. And it surprised her that she still knew her that well. Yeah, she was nervous and uncertain, and again, Emma could admit to taking a tiny bit of pleasure in knowing that.
“She’s got you making pie.” It was an unnecessary statement, but Emma was having trouble finding words. At all. Steel, she reminded herself. Steel. Armor. Be firm. She opened the box. Nestled inside was an almost picture-perfect cherry pie, complete with the crisscrossed latticework on top. It smelled delicious and was still slightly warm; Emma could feel it through the box. She salivated.
“It’s the first one I’ve made in a while, so they’ll only get prettier.” Charlie’s smile faltered. Oh yeah, she was definitely nervous. Emma could see her throat move when she swallowed.
She reached below the bar and into the utensil holder for a fork. Which—she didn’t let herself stop and reconsider—she stabbed right into the very center of the pie. Charlie’s eyes went wide, then a cloud passed over them, and she poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue. To her credit, she said nothing, just watched as Emma put the forkful of pie into her mouth.
Jesus Christ, that’s delicious. It was the first thought that came to mind, but Emma didn’t let the words escape. Instead, she kept her lips closed and chewed, making a show of being thoughtful about the taste. “It’s not bad,” she finally said, feigning reluctance. “The crust is a little soggy on the bottom and the cherries are a little bit too sweet. And your latticework needs…work. But you know that already.” Little circles of pink blossomed on Charlie’s cheeks, and Emma instantly felt guilty, but not enough to stop. “Have you heard of Mama Jo’s? It’s at the other end of town, near Clifton. Her pies are great. You should check them out.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” No inflection. No tone. It was pretty obvious Charlie wanted to flee, and she did exactly that, turning on her heel and shoving her way out the door, leaving Emma standing there with the ruined pie.
“Wow, that was harsh.” Sabrina’s voice came from behind Emma, who’d forgotten she was there. “Even for you.”
Yeah, okay. It was kind of harsh, though, in her defense, Sabrina didn’t know who Charlie actually was. But Emma wasn’t about to let it sit on her, to wallow in feeling guilty for being harsh. Charlie had been more than harsh years ago when she’d left Emma in her dust to go build a shiny new life in the big city. That had gone exactly as Emma had predicted. Charlie had gone to work for Darcy Whatsherface and, a few months later, moved in with her. Apparently, it had been super easy for her to forget about any history she’d had with Emma. She’d heeded the siren’s call of the Big Apple and the successful older woman without so much as a backward glance. At least, that’s what it had felt like to Emma. Now? She only had one question.
What the hell was Charlie doing back in Shaker Falls making pie?
* * *
Charlie’s college roommate, Lily Bricker, was about the only person she knew in her age group that would rather talk on the phone than text. Charlie never understood why—just got to a point where she realized it was simply Lily’s thing, and if Charlie ever wanted to catch up with her, she was going to have to have an actual conversation. On the phone.
Charlie was not a huge fan of live conversation, but for Lily, she always made an exception. Almost always, anyway. Because there were times, she had to be honest, that she’d see Lily’s name pop up on her screen, and she just wasn’t up for setting aside an hour of her day or evening to talk. She could do other things while having a text conversation. Because God forbid her multitasking self didn’t get fourteen things done at once.
That night, though, she was flopped on her bed, her stomach full of her mother’s meatloaf, and seriously considering going to sleep before nine. A horrifying possibility, she could admit, but Lily saved her.
“Hey, bitch, what’s up?” Standard greeting in Lily’s world. She only called you a bitch if she loved you. “You hanging in there in Small Town Land?”
“I miss the city. Not gonna lie.”
“I bet.” Lily worked at a large, prestigious advertising firm in Boston. “I’ve got some feele
rs out with people I know to see who might be looking to hire. Your résumé up to date?” Typical Lily, getting the business-y work stuff out of the way first. As soon as Darcy had dumped Charlie, Lily had offered to help her find another job. Or a job, as Charlie had stopped working more than a few hours a week for Darcy’s firm, in favor of volunteer work and things the wives and girlfriends of successful people did instead of going to an actual job forty hours a week. It was why she had little money when things ended. She wasn’t making much. When Lily had offered, Charlie was still reeling over what had happened, the change in her situation, the need to go into hiding and lick her wounds, so she’d kind of just smiled and nodded and let Lily do her thing. Apparently, Lily had.
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