Page 7 of Finding Home

Susan moved to the center of the workspace, gathering everyone’s attention. “Today we’re baking fruit tarts. Rustic galettes are a delicious dessert that forgives imperfections and celebrates seasonal ingredients. Julie and I have already made some dough for the bases. We’ll leave that to rest while we prepare the filling.”

Julie relaxed into the rhythm of the class. She peeled apples, sliced them thinly, and then tossed them with the sugar and spices to release a gorgeous fragrance into the air. Her hands remembered what to do from afternoons spent in her grandma’s kitchen, although she hadn’t done much baking since then.

“My daughter’s getting married next spring,” Beth announced, stirring lemon juice into her apple mixture. “She wants me to make the wedding cake. I told her I’ll think about it, but I’m worried. What if it’s a flop?”

“You’re an amazing baker,” Maria assured her. “She trusts you to create something that’s gorgeous.”

“Or she doesn’t want to pay a professional,” Beth laughed. “Either way, I’m terrified.”

The conversation flowed around Julie as they worked. Beth talked about her daughter’s wedding, Maria told everyone about her husband’s new job, and Rachel was excited about an upcoming vacation. Without realizing it, their lives were intertwined through shared experiences and being there for each other’s joys and struggles.

When the chilled dough was ready, everyone rolled out their portions, following Susan’s instructions to leave the edges rough and uneven.

The dough in Julie’s pan wobbled around the edge, looking unfinished and deliberately imperfect.

Julie had to stop herself from smoothing out the crust. In her career, precision was everything. Every fact had to be triple-checked, every source verified, and every angle examined until nothing remained hidden. But here, in this kitchen full of women sharing their lives over apple slices and pie crust, perfection wasn’t the point. The messy edges were supposed to stay messy. The wobbles were part of the charm.

“What about you, Julie?” Rachel asked as she arranged the apple slices on the top of her pastry. “Is your family planning to visit now that you’re settled here?”

The question hung in the air, innocent and inevitable. Julie continued working, her hands arranging fruit with deliberate care. “I don’t think they’ll come here for a while. My son is in Boston with his wife and their daughter. My daughter lives in Portland, working for a tech startup.” She folded the pastry edges over the apples, creating pleats that Susan had called ‘rustic charm.’ “We text each other and have the occasional video call, but they have busy lives.”

Julie shouldn’t be sad about the lack of contact with her children, but she missed them more than ever.

“And their father?” Susan asked gently.

Julie brushed egg wash over her galette’s crust, watching the raw dough gleam under the liquid coating. “We divorced ten years ago. He remarried a few years later. He’s happy, so I guess that’s the important thing.”

“That must have been hard,” Susan said gently.

“Not as hard as you might imagine,” Julie said with a frown. “By the end, we were strangers sharing an address. I worked away from home so much that we didn’t spend a lot of time together.”

Susan didn’t ask any more questions, and for that Julie was profoundly grateful. Her divorce had made her realize just how isolated she’d become from the people around her, especially her children. But any regret had been buried under the next story waiting to be written, the next injustice waiting to be uncovered.

She slid her galette onto the baking sheet Susan had prepared, then started a second, her movements growing more confident. Around her, the other women offered their own stories about divorces and deaths, children who’d moved away, and parents who’d passed.

“My grandma taught me how to make an apple pie,” Julie said as she opened the oven door for Beth. “I haven’t made one since she died.”

“How did it feel to make the galette?” Beth asked.

“Wonderful,” Julie told her. “Although what we made today is a little fancier than what Grandma used to make.”

The timer on an oven buzzed. They gathered around as Susan removed the galette she’d made earlier. Its crust was golden and glistening, and the filling bubbled beneath the crimped edges. The scent was everything about fall that Julie loved—apples, cinnamon, butter, and warmth.

“It looks delicious,” Maria said.

Julie agreed. The pie was imperfect, rustic, and honest, and a little like her own creation.

As they waited for each of the galette’s to bake, they placed all the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and wiped the counters.

As Julie listened to the easy banter of the women around her, she wondered if this was enough. She’d spent most of her life creating bylines and bringing breaking stories to the newspapers she worked for.

Working to tight timelines had given her life purpose and a clear sense of direction. In its own way, being part of Sapphire Bay was giving her a different kind of purpose.

All she needed to do was stay here for long enough to enjoy it.

Chapter 5

Cole stood outside the local bookstore, admiring the display of Montana fiction and local history. Inside the building, shelves stretched toward high ceilings, their orderly rows promising the kind of quiet refuge he didn’t often enjoy.