“I’ll make sure Alec gets the pies.” Sabrina gestured to the boxes on the bar.
Charlie had no idea who Alec was, but she thanked Sabrina anyway and pushed her way out of the restaurant, which had somehow started to feel like it was closing in on her, making her feel like she needed to escape. Her heart pounded like that of a claustrophobe in an elevator, and once outside in the fresh air, she took in a huge lungful. She felt so many things in that moment: empathy, regret, wishfulness, shame, sadness. They all came and sat on her and she swore she could feel her feet sink into the ground under their weight. A ball of emotion settled itself in her throat.
She just wanted to go home.
* * *
What was the Universe trying to do to her?
“Goddamn it,” Emma muttered, shaking her head in frustration over what had just happened, as she gathered ingredients for the garlic herb butter that would be served with the filet mignon tonight. Why did Charlie have to be here? Again?
It was Emma’s life, taking care of her mother, and it always had been. It just…was. Didn’t faze her anymore. Well. That wasn’t entirely true. There was always an element of shame, of embarrassment, when she had to call Tom the Uber to take her drunk mother home so she didn’t disrupt business. But the truth was, she would rather have her mom nearby where she could keep an eye on her than at some other bar, drinking and getting hit on by strange men. And today was an exception. She didn’t always get that drunk. Please. When you’d been drinking steadily for more than fifteen years, you built up a pretty high tolerance. It took a lot of alcohol for Celia Grier to actually appear drunk. A lot.
Charlie had wanted to help.
There had been a split second where, in Emma’s mind, they were sixteen again, Charlie was staying overnight because Emma didn’t want to leave her mom alone, and Charlie helped get Celia to bed. She’d done it every time, stepped in to help, and never complained. Never mocked. Never balked. It was part of Emma’s life back then, and Charlie never questioned it.
Today, when Charlie’d taken a step toward her, it was like no time at all had passed.
That pissed her off.
Because she’d spent a boatload of time moving past Charlie Stetko. Pushing her out of her mind and out of her heart and what did she do? Showed back up and took all that time and all that work and crumpled it into a ball, tossed it in the trash.
“Goddamn it.” She blew out one more frustrated breath and gave her head a literal shake, hoping to reboot her brain and focus on tonight’s dinner.
“Mm. Taste this.” Sabrina was suddenly next to her, holding out a fork with a bite of what looked to be lemon meringue pie. Charlie’s lemon meringue pie.
Emma knew better than to hesitate and closed her lips over the fork. The flavors exploded in her mouth. The smooth lightness of the meringue. The tart sweetness of the lemon. The delicate yet firm crust. “Good Lord, she can make a pie.”
“And I was civilized and cut a small slice, rather than plunge a fork into the middle like some people we know.” Sabrina arched an eyebrow and looked pointedly at Emma. She didn’t know the history Emma had with Charlie—she hadn’t told her—so the cherry pie incident had seemed strange to Sabrina, but Emma had offered no explanation other than she’d been in a bad mood. Any other details would have meant letting Sabrina further in and she didn’t want to do that.
With a nod, she directed Sabrina to take the pies to Alec, so he knew to add them to the dessert menu for the evening, and she returned her focus to her work.
The kitchen relaxed her. It always had. Everything else faded away when she was busy chopping or mixing or sautéing. It really came as no surprise to anybody when she’d chosen to go to culinary school. She’d been cooking for herself since she was a kid, and somehow, coming up with a meal made her feel like an artist. Creative. Original. No different than a painter or a sculptor. She hadn’t had the easiest of childhoods or the easiest of lives so far, but she’d found her passion early on, and she knew most people couldn’t say that. Gratitude filled her heart almost every day.
Her cell vibrated in her back pocket as she gently stirred the Alfredo sauce for tonight’s fettuccini special. She glanced at the screen, then answered.
“Hey, Mom. Make it home okay?” The number of times she’d asked that exact question had to be in the thousands by now. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands, maybe.
“Yeah. I’m so sorry, honey…” Her mother’s voice cracked, and she started to cry.
Emma breathed in deeply as she held the phone away from her ear and let her mother sob out her apology. Another thing she’d heard a thousand times. “It’s okay. But I really need you to try and pay attention to how much you have. You know?”
“I’m such an embarrassment. All I do is embarrass you…”
Emma kept stirring so the sauce wouldn’t burn and closed her eyes. “Mom…” But there was no interrupting when Celia Grier got on a streak of self-pity. She just had to wait her out.
Her mother was a functioning alcoholic. Had been ever since Emma was old enough to know what that was. There had been endless arguments over the years about getting help, but finally—finally—Emma understood that her mother would get help when she was ready to and not one second before. No matter how much Emma begged, pleaded, threatened. Her threats were empty anyway, and they both knew it. Her mother was all the family Emma had, and she wasn’t going to leave her to fend for herself. Ever. No matter what.
Even if it kills me. Or her. Which it might.
The sobs had devolved into wet sniffles, and Emma knew the sound well: recovery from her emotional outburst.
“It’s all okay, Mom. I promise.”
They hung up, Emma feeling the same way she always did after similar conversations with her mom: wrung out, empathetic, grateful. And this time, more than a little annoyed. Her mother had obviously been more intoxicated than usual. She needed to have a talk with Sabrina about that.
A glance at her watch told her it was after four. The early birds would start showing up, so she returned her focus to her job.
“How’re we doing, Alec?” she called out as she headed to the enormous refrigerator. Inside were the two lemon meringue pies, looking as perfect as if they were props for a photo shoot of food porn. And just like that, her mind went wandering right back in the direction of Charlie Stetko once again.
“Goddamn it.”
Chapter Nine
“Do you have the cookbook Grandma gave you?” Charlie asked her mother as the family sat down to dinner. “I want to look through it and check online for some different pies.” It was a little weird, she thought, her dawning realization—or recollection, rather—that she really, really enjoyed baking. No mixers had been touched when she’d lived in New York. Darcy never understood making something from scratch when you could just pay somebody to bring it to you. Charlie had focused on business. On advertising. On image and status and fashion, and baking had gradually faded into a distant memory.
“You’re liking it there, huh?” Her mother set a big bowl of salad on the table and took her seat. It was the four of them for dinner, everyone except Shane, including Sherry, who was home earlier than usual.
“Yeah, it’s good for now.”
Sherry’s snort was quiet, and Charlie didn’t think their parents heard it. The look she shot Sherry was ignored, and she seemed to concentrate intently on her dinner.
“I get the impression Sandy’s trying to add an arm to the business by selling pie to restaurants. She’s had me take some over to EG’s more than once.”
“Emma’s place?” Sherry stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth and turned to Charlie.
Charlie nodded, chewed her broiled haddock slowly.
“I bet that was fun for her.” The eye roll and condescending expression that followed pissed Charlie right off.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Too much venom in her tone, but she didn’t care.
“What do you think it m
eans?” Sherry snapped back.
“What is your problem?” Sick and tired of the cold shoulder and brush-offs she’d gotten from her sister since the minute she’d come home, Charlie’s blood had started to boil. Enough. Enough already.
“Girls. Stop it. Can we just enjoy dinner, please?” Her dad was always the peacekeeper, but that didn’t mean his booming voice wasn’t startling. He used it to his advantage at work to direct his guys and at home to get the attention of his distracted kids. It was only the softness of his eyes that made Charlie back off, but it was far from over. She understood that Sherry had been upset with her for breaking up with Emma—she’d liked her a lot and, Charlie now suspected, still did—but more than four years had gone by and it seemed a little silly that she’d still be hanging on to that. I’m your sister, for God’s sake.
“Oh, that restaurant is beautiful,” their mother chimed in. “Your father and I eat there a lot.”
Terrific. While I was away, the entirety of my family has become BFFs with my ex. “A little heads-up would’ve been nice. I had no idea she owned it until I walked in.”
A couple nods. A hum of sympathy. That’s about all she got.
All right. Fine. Whatever. “Anyway, I’d like to come up with some creative pies. Play around a little bit. Sandy seems like she’d be okay with that sort of thing.”
“What do you think of the place?” her dad asked, finishing off his brussels sprouts, the only food on the table Charlie completely ignored. If she wanted to eat balls of leaves, she would just go gnaw on the front lawn.
The question was her dad’s way of asking her to put her business and marketing degree to work, and she knew it. “I think it’s a great little place with tons of potential. I’ve sort of touched on a couple of things, but I don’t want to walk in and start telling Sandy what to do, you know?” It was true. In her head, she could see so much that could be done with The Muffin Top. Shaker Falls was a small town, but it was surrounded by other small towns. And those other small towns were full of people who were willing to drive a little ways to get something they felt was worth the trip. At the same time, Charlie didn’t want to be that millennial who came in and started telling somebody from the next generation up all the things they were doing wrong with their business.
“Like that punk I hired that one time?” A grunt from her dad.
“Exactly like that,” Charlie said with a small laugh. He’d hired a young guy many summers ago, and all he did was spend his days telling her father all the ways he should be doing things differently. Drove him nuts. Charlie was all for using what she’d learned to help better a business, but she was not a know-it-all, nor did she want to come across as one.
“Baby steps,” her father said, and he was exactly right.
* * *
Because it was a Saturday and Charlie was only working a few hours, Sandy told her she didn’t have to show up at half-past pitch-black. So she slept in until six and was walking in the back door of The Muffin Top by seven.
She was reasonably sure she’d never get used to how wonderful it was to walk into the bakery in the morning and be enveloped by the most comforting scents in life: sugar, butter, cinnamon, apples. Charlie had realized a couple days earlier that the first thing she did when entering The Muffin Top was stop in her tracks and inhale deeply. There was nothing like it.
Sandy was out front, waiting on a handful of customers. Charlie called out a good morning, donned an apron, and checked the list on the whiteboard of things that needed to be done. Then she got to work.
“How do you feel about making some turnovers?” Sandy asked a few minutes later, after she’d taken care of the line. “Just cherry and only one batch.” She reached for a little box with recipe cards in it, sifted through, and pulled one out. As she handed it over, she glanced down, slightly sheepish. “One of these days, I’m going to get all my recipes onto a computer or something. Live in the twenty-first century.” The bell over the door tinkled, and she went to handle the customers.
Charlie scanned the recipe card, but her head had already veered off toward the idea of creating a recipe database for The Muffin Top. Notes. Her thumbs flew as she jotted a reminder to do some research. Then it was turnover time.
Fewer overall customers, but larger orders. That seemed to be Saturdays. People came in to pick up boxes of cookies, cupcakes, and various baked goods they’d preordered for events. So wrapped up in baking her pies during the week, she apparently hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the orders Bethany had been taking at the same time.
Turnovers cooled, Charlie carried a tray out to the front to put in the display case. Pride swelled because damn if they didn’t look gorgeous, all golden brown with white drizzled icing and hints of cherry peeking out the corners.
“Charlie! Hi.”
Over the top of the tray, Charlie saw the smiling face of Amber McCann, her joy contagious, as usual, and she couldn’t help but smile back. “Hey there. How are you?”
“I’m great. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day.” If Amber held out her arms and began to spin while she sang a lively tune, it would’ve been perfect. She looked fresh and summery in a green and white sundress, a lightweight white cardigan over it. “I didn’t know you were working here.”
“For a couple weeks now.” Charlie glanced at Sandy, gave her a smile. “What brings you in?”
“Oh, I have an order to pick up. We’re having the first barbecue of the season at our place tomorrow, so I ordered an assortment of cookies.”
“Yeah? Who’s we?” Charlie asked, curious. She realized that, aside from Amber’s job as a successful real estate agent, she knew very little about her life.
“Me and Levi. My boyfriend.”
There was a boyfriend? Charlie searched her brain for any mention of a boyfriend when she and Amber had met at Chug, but nothing came up. She found Amber’s order and rang her up. “Well, you’re going to get some nice weather, from what I’ve heard.”
“You should come.” Wide-eyed and suddenly excited, a grin blossomed slowly on Amber’s face as if she’d just come up with a fabulous idea.
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh my God, yes! Come over. It’ll be great. It’s very casual and relaxed. Not huge. Levi cooks a mean burger, and he’d love to meet you, since I’ve been talking about you so much lately.”
“Me?” Charlie wasn’t sure why that would be.
“Yes, you,” Amber clarified. “It’s not every day my high school bestie returns home from the big, bad city.” Amber’s face grew serious, though still remained friendly and open. “I haven’t seen you in years, Charlie, and I’d like you to meet the man I love.”
Warmth radiated from the inside out at Amber’s words. A combination of guilt and happiness flooded Charlie. She’d been mentally weighing the pros and cons. Something to get her out of the house, hanging with people besides her mother. Not knowing anybody there and standing in a corner alone. But after Amber’s comment, there was nothing to do but nod and say truthfully, “I’d love to meet him, too. Tell me when and where.”
* * *
Good numbers, folks sitting at the bar until last call. It had been a decent Saturday night. Emma was satisfied with the sales. Stretched out on the couch with her laptop, a glass within reach of a new Meritage that Dani, her wine rep and good friend, had suggested, she went over it all. The specials had been a hit, as had Charlie’s lemon meringue pie, both selling out before eight. She had mixed emotions about that, but overall, her restaurant was doing pretty well. It wasn’t gangbusters, but in a town as small as Shaker Falls, it was going to take some time for word to reach other nearby towns, and she had a food blogger with a huge following coming in next week, so a good review might draw an uptick in customers. Emma needed to decide what to cook for him.
Flipping through meal ideas in her head was interrupted by the ringing of her FaceTime app, and she hit the answer button without hesitation. The screen filled with the
smiling face of Gabriel Battaglia—typically disheveled salt-and-pepper hair, eyes that held the bright sharpness of somebody who’d been a night owl for most of his life, a face with that slightly craggy, weathered look of a man who either spent too much time in the sun or too many years in an overly fast-paced job. For Gabe, it was a little of both. He’d spent nearly thirty years in the restaurant business before retiring to teach the culinary arts—and learn to play golf.
“Well, hello there, young man,” Emma said with a smile as his face came into focus on her screen.
“Ah, bless you, my child, for calling me young. Something I haven’t been in a very long time.” He seemed to study her through the screen for a moment before saying, “I figured you’d be up.”
“Life of a chef, right?” Emma said with a big smile. Talking to Gabe always gave her a boost, lifted her, shifted her attitude. “What’s new with you? How’d the semester go?”
“It went well. A couple of very promising chefs in the midst of a mostly average class.” Gabe’s voice was deep, gravelly. “Tell me, how is EG’s doing? What were tonight’s specials? Were they a hit?”
These were the conversations Emma loved. That she lived for. Talking to somebody who completely got it was like breathing better oxygen. Oh, she had friends she could chat with. Her mom sometimes. But nobody really understood the restaurant business unless they’d been a part of the restaurant business, and Gabe was the best.
They spent the next half hour talking various dishes, specifically the Gruyère mac and cheese Emma had been tweaking for weeks now. Gabe had discovered a new brand of spices that he was crazy about and promised to send Emma some samples.
“And how are things on the home front?” Gabe’s voice softened, took on a fatherly tone, which Emma didn’t mind at all. When you were the closest thing to a father figure somebody ever had, it was totally allowed. “Your mom okay?”
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