Emmett paced the post office corridor, hat in hand, waiting for Jimmy’s reply. He’d met Jimmy Clarke in Chicago five years earlier. The two had become long-distance friends. Now he hoped that friendship would come in handy for Jimmy, and for Miss Lorelei Boyd, who had haunted Emmett’s dreams the night before.
“Telegram for Mr. Emmett Dewey.” The postmaster’s voice echoed through the empty halls. Emmett shook his head. The man was less than ten feet away, and Emmett was the only other person in the building. As he took the telegram, he thanked the elderly gentleman. He moved to the front window to read Jimmy’s reply:
SOUNDS LIKE A WINNER Stop GLAD YOU REMEMBERED I WAS LOOKING FOR NEW RECIPES Stop MEET YOU THERE NEXT WEEK Stop JIMMY Stop
Emmett grinned. Now he had to convince Lorelei Boyd to sell her prized apple pie recipe to the largest lunch-counter chain in America. But he would wait until after the contest.
Lorelei stirred crispy bits of crumbled bacon into fresh steamed green beans.
“Trying to impress the young man?” Momma asked from her seat at the kitchen table, which was already set for lunch. “You know your father and I are content with salt and a dab of butter.”
Lorelei made a face. “We had some bacon left over from breakfast, that’s all.” Was she trying to impress him? Maybe she was because she needed those apples, but she thought her mother suspected she had different motives. She wiped her hands on her apron. Maybe she should change into a dress.
Da boomed into the kitchen.
“Look who’s here already!”
Lorelei’s head turned toward her father and their visitor.
Mr. Dewey tapped his hat against his thigh and smiled. Oh, those dimples. Lorelei blinked and looked away. She blanched cold then flushed hot. Tiny beads of sweat peppered her forehead. She swiped at them with the back of her hand, appalled that she would react so strongly to Emmett Dewey’s presence.
“Welcome, Mr. Dewey. It’s good to see you again,” Momma said, rising. “Can I get you something to drink?” In her gracious way, she didn’t mention his early arrival.
“No thank you, ma’am. Mr. Boyd has offered to give me a local tour before lunch.” His voice was deep and smooth like the sweetest custard, with its slow Southern drawl.
“I suppose you’re taking your car, Mr. Dewey?” she asked.
“Why, yes,” Mr. Dewey replied, brows drawing together in confusion.
Lorelei stared at her father. Da’s chin dropped to his chest. He turned a dark red—she knew from whom she’d inherited her tendency to blush. Lorelei smothered a grin. Da loved all things mechanical. She wasn’t surprised he’d finagled a ride in Emmett Dewey’s fancy automobile.
“Why don’t you come along?” Mr. Dewey asked. “If it’s all right with your father, of course.”
Startled, Lorelei caught Emmett’s bold, blue gaze. A shiver rippled down her spine.
“Me? No, I can’t.” She searched her mind for a reason to refuse while her heart clamored for another ride in that beautiful car. “I have a pie to bake.”
He took a step forward. “We can wait.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Da said. “Come along, Mr. Dewey, I’ll show you everything there is to know about sugar beets. By the time we’re done, Lorelei will have that pie in the oven.” Da patted his daughter’s arm, kissed Momma’s cheek, and herded Mr. Dewey out the front door before Lorelei could ask what he’d decided about Otto’s apples.
With surgical precision, Lorelei made three identical slits in the top crust before sliding the pie into the oven and latching the door. This particular recipe, number twenty-four, might be the winning combination. She’d blended her grandmother’s no-fail, award-winning crust with a filling compiled from Otto’s suggestions, her mother’s recipes, and a hundred-year-old cookbook she’d unearthed in an abandoned barn.
Lorelei pulled her journal from a shelf, opened it to the next blank page, and scribbled the unique combination of ingredients she’d used under a heading of “Twenty-Four.” When she was done, she flipped back through the pages, scanning what she’d written.
She’d rated every version with stars from one to five, along with detailed notes about taste and texture. Thus far, none of her efforts had earned five stars, despite her parents’ ebullient praise of every pie she produced. She turned to the beginning of the book and reread the words she’d scribbled on the flyleaf.
Nothing is impossible with God.
Winning the Apple Pie Days contest and having an award-winning recipe to sell was the only way Lorelei could see to save her family.
Footsteps interrupted her thoughts.
Lorelei looked up. Mr. Dewey stood in the kitchen doorway. Her pulse quickened.
“Your father wanted to know how long until you were ready to leave.”
Lorelei slapped the journal shut with a snap. “I’m ready. I’ll ask my mother to take the pie out when it’s done.”
He smiled. “We’ll be out front.”
She tucked the journal into its place on the shelf.
“Momma?” she called.
“Yes?” Momma replied from one of the back rooms.
“Will you take the pie out for me? I’ll set the timer. I’m going with Da and Mr. Dewey.”
“Of course, dear.”
Lorelei set the dial on the wall-mounted timer, tossed her apron over the peg behind the kitchen door, and hurried outside. She squeezed into the middle of the roadster’s front seat between her father and Mr. Dewey, who offered them goggles. Da refused, saying he liked the wind in his face. Lorelei put them on. She chuckled at her bug-eyed reflection in the tiny rearview mirror, causing Mr. Dewey to smile and her to flush with pleasure.
Emmett’s hands trembled when he wrapped them around the steering wheel. Lorelei Boyd’s effect on him hadn’t diminished overnight. If anything, he was now painfully aware of her, pressed against his right side from shoulder to hip in the front seat of the roadster.
As they drove, following Mr. Boyd’s erratic directions, Miss Boyd talked about the local residents. Opal Roberts’s baby was due any day. The Raley family was having a barn raising the following weekend. Ancient Mr. Green was moving in with his son and daughter-in-law. Emmett envied her connection to her neighbors, to community.
When they braked outside the Boyds’ home after their tour, the acrid odor of scorched apple pie tainted the air. Lorelei flung herself out of the car with a shriek and raced into the house.
“That doesn’t bode well for lunch,” murmured Mr. Boyd.
“As long as lunch involves more than pie, we should be all right.” Emmett opened his door and stepped out of the car.
“You don’t understand,” Mr. Boyd explained as they fell into step. “Winning the pie contest has become everything to her. You’d think her life depended on it.”
Inside they found Miss Boyd and her mother on opposite sides of the table, a blackened apple pie between them like a coffin awaiting its pallbearers.
“It’s my fault,” Mrs. Boyd said to her husband. “She asked me to take it out of the oven. I didn’t hear the timer.”
“It’s all right, Momma. I’ll make another.”
“You’re out of apples.”
Miss Boyd groaned.
“Perhaps Mr. Dewey could run you down to his new orchard and collect some more?” Mrs. Boyd suggested.
Three pairs of eyes focused on Emmett. “I’d be happy to do that, if it would help you out.”
Miss Boyd shot him a wary glance. “Momma, could you mix up another crust?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Boyd dusted her hands on her apron. “Mr. Dewey, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay for supper.”
Miss Boyd’s gaze snapped to her mother then back to Emmett, who blinked and swallowed. Miss Boyd did not look like she welcomed the invitation.
“I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself, ma’am.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Boyd waved a dismissive hand. “We’re glad for the company.”
“I’ll need to get those apples started soon if we’re to have pie in time for supper.” Miss Boyd gave him a wide berth on her way out of the kitchen.
“I made up some sandwiches for you to take along.” Mrs. Boyd reached for a small basket on the table and passed it to Emmett.
“Thank you very much, ma’am.” Emmett hurried after Miss Boyd.