Page 12 of Something About September

“Don’t let him get to you,” he said softly.

“Consider me gotten to. It’s my fault. I left everything for too long, procrastinated myself into this corner.” She turned to him and found that despite how frustrated she was about Crispin, seeing Cort’s concerned expression, the care in his eyes, caused a lightness in her chest, like it was filled with champagne bubbles. She shook her head to try to get the feeling to disperse. She had actual problems here—ultimately, he was one of them. “And I’m going to get myself out of it,” she said firmly.

“I could help you, Becca.”

Becca. Her gaze strayed to that corner booth, where he had sat across from her, a paperback copy of Wuthering Heights in his hands.

You look like her, Becca, he had said to her once, referring to the rendering of Catherine on the cover of the edition they had both been given by the school. It’s your hair, but also…the way you look sometimes. Like you’re somewhere else, and I want to go there.

“No one calls me Becca anymore,” she said quickly, clearing away the image. “Not now.”

“Rebecca,” he amended. “Can we try to start over? I’m sorry about—”

But she cut him off. She couldn’t talk about what had happened between them, listen to him apologize, have to look into his eyes while he explained to her exactly why he had turned her down. “No,” she said. “Let’s just move on. Please. And I think you’d better go.”

Her chest thrummed and her cheeks blazed. Becca. In truth, she wanted him to call her that, wanted to feel that way again—like she was a version of herself she recognized. Like she was the person he had always seen. Meanwhile, Cort just stood there, saying nothing, so silent and stoic she wondered if he had even heard her tell him to go.

“Let me fix the lock for you, and then I’ll leave.”

Rebecca shrugged as if she didn’t care, but there was a rawness in his voice that caused a twinge, made her want to reach out and touch him instead of pushing him away. Except, who was he to be hurt? She said, “That’s fine,” and turned away. She heard him pick up his toolbox, listened to his footfalls as he walked to the back door. The whirr of his drill soon buzzed through the stillness. She found she couldn’t keep her gaze away. She had to turn back in his direction and then found that all she could do was stand there and watch him work, his strong jaw set, his expression intense, his biceps and forearms as taut as the ropes in the tractor pull at the Autumn Festival.

When he finished with the lock, he dropped the spare keys on the counter.

“See you around, Rebecca,” he said.

The door closed behind him, and he was gone. She walked to the door and watched him get in his truck, half hoped he would look up, half prayed he wouldn’t. In the end, she turned away before he could do either.

Chapter 9

By the time Rebecca reached the edge of Calloway’s Orchard in the late afternoon, plum hues had taken over the sky and the air was growing chilly—and all she could think about was the hurt in Cort’s eyes, hurt that she had caused. She hadn’t been fair to him, she knew it, and she was ashamed. This was not at all how her grandmother had raised her, and it was not what she wanted from herself. Cort had been nothing but helpful. She was making the hurt she felt over his rejection of her somehow his fault—and it wasn’t. She was the one who had come on to him. And she knew she had to find a way to somehow make this right.

She was glad for the walk in the fresh air to help clear her head somewhat. All day, after Cort had left the diner, Rebecca had felt like she was walking around in a fog. Every task she attempted, from going through papers to cleaning out closets, had resulted in her just staring into space, reliving moments she wished she could forget about forever and knew she had to deal with. Finally, she had put a bottle of apple wine in a canvas bag and texted Sabrina that she was coming over.

She walked along rows of apple trees, which ran in clean, shadowy lines through the fields. The scent of the ripe fruit thickened as she followed the gravel path toward the rambling Calloway farmhouse and the converted red barn beyond, where Sabrina lived. Crickets sang among the trees, united in what sounded like indignation against the early chill. She was relieved to have left the diner behind for now, with its piles of plaster dust, Crispin’s invoice sitting on the counter, the new lock installed by Cort a reminder of how poorly she had treated him after he had been so kind.

Lights glowed warm in the barn’s wide windows, and the barn-board door swung open almost before she could knock. “You’re here! Just in time. I baked apple cinnamon buns and I need a taste tester.”

Rebecca followed her best friend up the stairs and into the farmhouse-style kitchen, with its wide-planked, honey-colored wooden floors; apple-red Viking range; and double wall oven. The spicy-sweet scent of apples, cinnamon, and yeasty buns filled the air. Sabrina already had one on a plate, and she set Rebecca up at the harvest table, with its red-and-white-checked buffalo plaid runner and the wooden bowl in its center, constantly filled with fresh apples in varying shades. “Now, I need you to pretend you’re a food critic,” Sabrina said to Rebecca, handing her a fork and an oversized red-and-white-checked napkin.

Rebecca took a bite of the still-warm and gooey cinnamon bun. “First impressions are…perfection,” she said, mouth still full, meaning every word.

“Yes, but is this the one?”

“Are you planning to propose? I can’t say I’d stand in your way.”

Sabrina laughed. “No, this is for the frozen apple cinnamon bun contract.” When Rebecca looked blank, she added, “For the big box store.”

“Oh, right.” She felt a flash of guilt at being so clearly behind on what was going on in her best friend’s world, because she had been so distracted by the urgency of her return to a place she had been trying to avoid. “I didn’t realize you had reached the product development stage. Tell me everything.” Sabrina was in the process of bringing some of the food sold in the Calloway’s Orchard farm market to the masses. The year before, it had been their apple butter, which could now be found in most grocery stores. A frozen version of their famous apple cinnamon buns was next.

“The plan we landed on is to sell the buns frozen, not fresh,” Sabrina explained. “Which means we can stick close to the original recipe and don’t have to add ingredients to make them shelf-stable. But now I need to know how you feel about the result. This batter was baked, flash frozen, and now I’ve rebaked it. Can you tell? If you can tell, does it matter?” She frowned. “Shoot, maybe I should have made this a blind taste test.”

“I would never have known this was previously frozen,” Rebecca insisted, taking another bite just to be sure. She nodded. “I swear. It’s delicious. Just as delicious as the ones that haven’t been frozen. This one might actually be better.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not! I love it.”

“I believe you, then. And thank you. I’ve reached the point where if I eat another apple cinnamon bun, I just don’t know what will become of me. Which is sad, because I used to love them so much. Cost of doing business, I guess.” Sabrina ran the orchard as her day job, alongside her parents, and was busy turning it into a mini empire—but Rebecca knew cooking and baking were her friend’s true passions, and always had been. When they were kids, Sabrina used to enthusiastically help Lenore develop her seasonal menus. The muffuletta sandwich had been her idea and had ended up a town favorite. Lenore had always said that while she was a good cook, Sabrina was a true chef, an artist.