Page 13 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

It's making me insane.

Thursday morning he's not on the porch when I arrive. His truck is gone. A note on the door in handwriting so neat it looks printed:

Henderson job. Back by 3. Pie competition is at 5 if you're entering. You said you could bake.

I stare at the note. Read it twice. Press my thumb against the ink.

He remembered. Tuesday, over coffee, I told him about my grandmother's apple pie recipe. How she taught all three of us when we were kids, how Tony burns everything and Marco uses a store-bought crust, but my pie is the real deal. He didn't say much. He never says much.

But he remembered.

The general store has apples, flour, sugar, butter. Everything I need. Holly Pearce from the bakery is behind the counter when I come in with an armload of supplies, and she gives me a look over her glasses.

"Pie competition?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Honey, every woman who buys six pounds of Granny Smiths in October is either entering the competition or running from her problems."

"Can it be both?"

Holly laughs. She's warm and easy in that way small-town people have. "Use cold butter. And don't overwork the crust."

"My grandmother would haunt me if I overworked the crust."

Back at the cabin, I bake. It takes three hours because the oven runs hot on the left side and I have to rotate the pie twice. But when it comes out, the lattice is golden. The filling bubbles through the crust in thick amber rivulets. It smells incredible.

I text Tony a picture.

Me:

Nana's recipe. Entering the Harvest Festival pie competition

Tony:

Holy shit that looks amazing

You're gonna win

Me:

I'm gonna try

Tony:

Proud of you sis. For real.

Something warm blooms in my chest. Tony doesn't throw words like that around. He means it.

Tony:

Hey is Reid being cool? He's not being weird right?

Me:

He's being very Reid

Tony: