booth on the Fourth of July, waiting to enter the annual contest—even if she was having second thoughts about it this year.
“Well, hello, Carly.”
She looked up to see Mary Reinholdt, who ran the contest, ready to take her entry, as she placed the pies on the booth’s plywood counter, painted red.
“Your signature chocolate cream, I see,” the older lady said with a smile as she assigned the pies a number, which she taped onto the tin plates. “Given the heat, we’ll get these in the fridge until judging and auction time, of course. Good luck!”
In accordance with a Turnbridge tradition that went back at least seventy-five years, the second pie would be auctioned off after the contest, the baker sharing the first two slices with the person who bought it. Once upon a time, it had been a romantic frivolity—and it was well known in the community that Carly’s parents had first dated after her father bought one of her mother’s chocolate pies. Now, however, the tradition felt pretty obsolete—last year Carly had ended up sharing her pie with Tiffany Cleary, who’d made a point of outbidding everyone because her dad loved chocolate pie. In other years, Carly had eaten pie with Frank Schubert and also one of her mother’s bridge partners. Some men made a point of buying the pie baked by their wife or girlfriend, but the romance of the tradition was mostly a thing of the past and the “sharing” part seemed silly to Carly at this point.
And the sharing part was also what had almost made her not enter this year—just in case the new town cop decided to show up and bid. Since he’d seemed so intent on talking to her ever since they’d met—the second time.
But while eating lunch one day outside the deli with Dana and Beth Anne, Carly had mentioned that she might not enter and her friends had nearly gone crazy.
“You have to enter!” Beth Anne insisted. “Everybody loves your pie, and besides, if you don’t, that harpy Julie Marie Steinberg might win, and I’d hate that.” Julie Marie Steinberg’s apple pie had, in fact, won the year before Carly’s pie had begun taking the top honor, and the woman—a fairly recent transplant to Turnbridge—was always insinuating that her baked goods were better than what she bought at Beth Anne’s. “And if my peach pie were to do well, too, we might shut her out of first and second place altogether this year.”
“And besides, why wouldn’t you enter?” Dana asked.
Carly had hesitated, the faint taste of bile rising to her throat.
“Well?” Dana persisted.
At which point Carly had sighed, felt stuck, and given an honest answer. “Okay, maybe this is stupid, but I guess I’m afraid that new cop will buy my pie.”
Dana just blinked her disbelief. “Yes, that is stupid.”
“Wait, what did I miss?” Beth Anne asked, looking back and forth between them.
After which Carly had been forced to tell the same fib to Beth Anne that she’d told Dana a few days earlier. And then they’d both lectured her on being a stick in the mud, and Dana had said, “How could you not want to go out with him?” and “You are baking pies this year, if I have to stand over you with one of your scary woodworking tools to make it happen. And I hope he does bid for your pie so you’re forced to spend a little time with the guy and give him a chance.”
Then, of course, Beth Anne had had to chime in with, “Really, Carly, don’t take this the wrong way, but we worry about you.” Never dating, she meant. They’d had this conversation before.
Finally, she’d just agreed to enter the stupid contest to shut them up and end the discussion.
And actually, she hadn’t seen Jake since that night she’d nearly run right into him on the street. God, the way he’d been standing there staring up at her window . . . Something about it had nearly made her heart stop when she’d come upon him like that in the dark. And when he’d turned to her that very moment, his eyes
“Well, hello, Carly.”
She looked up to see Mary Reinholdt, who ran the contest, ready to take her entry, as she placed the pies on the booth’s plywood counter, painted red.
“Your signature chocolate cream, I see,” the older lady said with a smile as she assigned the pies a number, which she taped onto the tin plates. “Given the heat, we’ll get these in the fridge until judging and auction time, of course. Good luck!”
In accordance with a Turnbridge tradition that went back at least seventy-five years, the second pie would be auctioned off after the contest, the baker sharing the first two slices with the person who bought it. Once upon a time, it had been a romantic frivolity—and it was well known in the community that Carly’s parents had first dated after her father bought one of her mother’s chocolate pies. Now, however, the tradition felt pretty obsolete—last year Carly had ended up sharing her pie with Tiffany Cleary, who’d made a point of outbidding everyone because her dad loved chocolate pie. In other years, Carly had eaten pie with Frank Schubert and also one of her mother’s bridge partners. Some men made a point of buying the pie baked by their wife or girlfriend, but the romance of the tradition was mostly a thing of the past and the “sharing” part seemed silly to Carly at this point.
And the sharing part was also what had almost made her not enter this year—just in case the new town cop decided to show up and bid. Since he’d seemed so intent on talking to her ever since they’d met—the second time.
But while eating lunch one day outside the deli with Dana and Beth Anne, Carly had mentioned that she might not enter and her friends had nearly gone crazy.
“You have to enter!” Beth Anne insisted. “Everybody loves your pie, and besides, if you don’t, that harpy Julie Marie Steinberg might win, and I’d hate that.” Julie Marie Steinberg’s apple pie had, in fact, won the year before Carly’s pie had begun taking the top honor, and the woman—a fairly recent transplant to Turnbridge—was always insinuating that her baked goods were better than what she bought at Beth Anne’s. “And if my peach pie were to do well, too, we might shut her out of first and second place altogether this year.”
“And besides, why wouldn’t you enter?” Dana asked.
Carly had hesitated, the faint taste of bile rising to her throat.
“Well?” Dana persisted.
At which point Carly had sighed, felt stuck, and given an honest answer. “Okay, maybe this is stupid, but I guess I’m afraid that new cop will buy my pie.”
Dana just blinked her disbelief. “Yes, that is stupid.”
“Wait, what did I miss?” Beth Anne asked, looking back and forth between them.
After which Carly had been forced to tell the same fib to Beth Anne that she’d told Dana a few days earlier. And then they’d both lectured her on being a stick in the mud, and Dana had said, “How could you not want to go out with him?” and “You are baking pies this year, if I have to stand over you with one of your scary woodworking tools to make it happen. And I hope he does bid for your pie so you’re forced to spend a little time with the guy and give him a chance.”
Then, of course, Beth Anne had had to chime in with, “Really, Carly, don’t take this the wrong way, but we worry about you.” Never dating, she meant. They’d had this conversation before.
Finally, she’d just agreed to enter the stupid contest to shut them up and end the discussion.
And actually, she hadn’t seen Jake since that night she’d nearly run right into him on the street. God, the way he’d been standing there staring up at her window . . . Something about it had nearly made her heart stop when she’d come upon him like that in the dark. And when he’d turned to her that very moment, his eyes
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