No, it had been quite some time since I had a person ask me something—innocuous or otherwise—about myself.
Briefly, I considered telling her about the pie shop in a strip mall over in Miller Creek, about fifteen minutes away. Pied Piper’s was a family-owned place, and they made really good pie. I usually picked one up for holidays to bring to the Judds’. Amy always invited me for Easter and Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I never wanted to show up empty-handed, no matter how many times she told me to just bring myself.
I could just let Candace know about Pied Piper’s. She was back in town. The place had only been open for a couple of years. It was unlikely that Candace knew about it. But some part of me—maybe the part that had her warm leg against mine and her lavender scent in my lungs—wanted to invite her to go...with me.
I knew Candace wasn’t here to stay. And I knew we didn’t know each other very well—we never had—but we were learning. We worked together. We had the orchard and this town in common. I probably (definitely) had a crush lingering somewhere in the background, but I could recognize that this new feeling was different. I hadn’t known her back in high school, not really. I’d only been attracted to the idea of her—friendly, kind, popular, beautiful.
Now, she was real. And she was still all of those things, but she was also more. I knew that she was a hard worker, not a complainer, and laughed surprisingly loud. She was affectionate and casual about it. She loved her family and was a genuinely good person, every bit the daughter the Judds had bragged about over the years. She didn’t take herself too seriously, and she had a surprisingly mischievous streak. She was upbeat and playful. Hell, she’d named the mounted fish in her office Lance Bass.
And I knew that her favorite pie was Oreo mousse.
I was a little surprised that a pie shop was what she missed most about the city. Not work or friends or her apartment. No mention of a significant other either.
Before I could mull that over or come to a decision about inviting her out for pie, someone approached our table.
Candace’s knee returned to her side of the booth as she straightened to greet them. “Hello, Mr. Ammons. How are you?”
Nelson Ammons was our former biology teacher from Kirby Falls High School and a frequent farmers’ market visitor. “Hello, Miss Judd. Welcome home.” And then with a nod in my direction, he said, “Mr. Mercer.”
“Good morning, Mr. Ammons,” I replied easily. He was always polite but not much of a talker.
Our first customer of the day went about selecting a half bushel of our Gala apples from those arranged on the table.
Surreptitiously, I glanced at Candace. I recalled the way she’d stiffened up a few weeks ago, in that very same seat, after encounters with well-meaning locals—the ones who remembered her as Candy Judd, valedictorian and most likely to succeed.
She was watching Mr. Ammons cautiously, like he might bite. But after a moment, he simply pulled out his leather wallet and passed over exact change for his apples before nodding politely in our direction and then moseying off.
Candace stared after him, her lips parted and an expression caught somewhere between confusion and relief. Mr. Ammons hadn’t brought up her accomplishments or her performance in his class. He hadn’t even called her Candy.
“I always liked biology,” she murmured softly.
“Me too,” I said.
Still staring off in our former teacher’s general direction, Candace mused, “Lo used to complain that he was so monotone that she couldn’t stay awake. But I liked how calm and collected he seemed to be. I had an easier time understanding when someone spoke gently.”
Lo was undoubtedly Lauren Walker. Well, Lauren McClain now. She and Candace used to be inseparable. They were as different as night and day, but they’d been close growing up. I wondered if they were back in touch since Candace was home.
“He was a good teacher,” I agreed.
I’d been in that class with both Candace and Lauren freshman year, but I didn’t expect her to remember that.
Candace bit her lip and surprised the hell out of me by asking, “What are the odds you had Mr. Ammons’s class with me?”
“Pretty good,” I admitted, but I softened the truth with a smile.
She covered her face with both hands, and I laughed.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled loudly behind her fingers.
Amusement lingered but I made sure my tone and my touch were soft and reassuring as I gently pried her hands from her cheeks. “It’s okay.”
Candace grasped my hands in hers, and I fought a jolt of awareness. She was an affectionate person, effusive and open with others. It didn’t really mean anything that she was holding me tight and keeping me close. She couldn’t know how rare this was for me. How good it felt to have her hands on me, even with the awkwardness of teenage memories hovering between us.
Candace’s grip was firm and purposeful now. Her gaze met mine unflinchingly. I could see the bravery in it—the intention behind it too.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you right off,” she apologized earnestly.
Apparently, we were doing this. I hadn’t planned to ever bring up how she’d awkwardly reintroduced herself to me weeks ago in her parents’ front yard. I thought it would be easier for both of us to ignore it.
