Two

It was dark by the time I fought the traffic back to my small Northside apartment. Giff had called to apologize for his stunningly bad lapse in judgment. His apology was sincere enough, but I took offense when he started wheezing with laughter after regaling me with an uncensored version of Mr. Black’s tirade after my brazen ambush.

“Whit, darling,” Giff said, “look on the bright side. With the exception of one lowly little cherry square, you sold out today. Bloom ’n’ Cherries! was a hit, and that ad helped. You may never produce another television ad again—and really, who needs the headache and all the sleepless nights—but I’ll tell you something. You’re a cherry visionary. Nobody can work magic on those pesky little stone fruits like you can. Also, and never forget this, angel, but you look absolutely fabulous selling cherries.” The conversation degraded from there, and the call ended shortly thereafter when Giff reminded me of the one thing I didn’t wish to be reminded of—the real reason I’d left Cherry Cove in the first place.

Men! They always knew how to push your buttons.

Once home in my over-priced shoebox apartment I flipped on the lights, kicked off my shoes, and crossed to the fridge. There I selected a fine two-dollar Chablis from my collection of budget wines and poured out a glass. While indulging in the feel of that first cathartic sip, I cast a predatory eye over the lone cherry square. Dinner, I thought, feeling my stomach rumble on cue. But dinner was just going to have to wait. I was angry, depressed, and feeling rejected, and the only cure for that was baking. Besides, I had an order to fill.

I pulled the remainder of my cherry stock from the cupboard and got to work on the pie dough first, sipping wine as I measured out the ingredients for five flaky crusts. I sifted the flour, cut in the chilled butter and Crisco with gusto (imagining it was Mr. Black’s head), and, like a mad scientist, threw in the right amounts of sugar and salt. Next came the ice water, meticulously measured and blended last into the coarse mixture. I needed five pies, and I was doing my best to make every one of them invoke tears of pure epicurean joy at first bite.

After giving it a quick chill in the refrigerator, I attacked the dough, rolling out five large round disks. These I fitted into the awaiting pie tins with care, creating the first and most important layer of crust. Next I set to work on the piquant cherry pie filling.

Into my largest sauce pan went the sugar, corn starch, and cherry juice. Once the filling had thickened, I added the tart Montmorency cherries from our orchard and stirred in the fresh lemon juice and butter. This was then poured into the crusts, filling each tin equally. The last step was a woven checkered top crust with a dusting of sugar. After I’d placed a little foil around the edges to prevent the crusts from burning, it was time to send them into the oven.

The baking was going to take some time, and since I was still feeling glum I added more wine to my glass for good measure and seized the last cherry square. I took both over to the couch, where I plopped down like an overworked waitress at the end of a double shift. I was still feeling depressed. I wanted to drown my sorrows in cheap wine and gooey cherry pastry and wallow in the bittersweet glow of a good chick flick. Instead I made myself be a responsible adult, opening my laptop and checking my website to see if I had any new orders. I didn’t. But what I did have was another message from my mysterious online friend, C-Bomb.

The sight of the absurd online name made me smile. C-Bomb had first contacted me through my website, stating his name was short for “cherry bomb” and that he was a self-proclaimed cherry connoisseur. Since having sworn off all heterosexual flesh-and-blood men some time ago, I felt there was little harm in instant messaging with a man I would never meet—one who had a way with words, seemed sophisticated, and had a real sense of humor about cherries. In short, C-Bomb was a charming enigma, one who entertained me with idle banter, subtle sexual innuendoes, and his thoughts on the red tart cherry. He knew a good deal about me, which came off at times as a little creepy, but in reality it wasn’t hard to do given my website for Bloom ’n’ Cherries!, my short but memorable career in advertising, and all the social media I engaged in. At times, it appeared my entire life was on display. His was not, and I found that totally sexy. He wouldn’t even tell me his real name, or his age, or send me a picture. And googling the name C-Bomb elicited nothing but pages and pages of garbage. Strangely, I found that I liked that. Whoever he was, C-Bomb was mysterious. It gave my active imagination more fodder for fantasy, and with a name like C-Bomb the sky was the limit.

Hi, I typed.

So, how did it go? Did Mr. Black give you your old job back? he replied.

Unfortunately, no. They’ve not only kicked me to the curb, but changed the locks as well, or so I’m told. I hit enter and took another gulp of wine.

I detect a hint of despair. Perhaps you’re forgetting the family business? Or the fact you have a passion for cherries? Did I ever mention that I’ve stayed at the Cherry Orchard Inn?

I sat up and stared at the screen. The Cherry Orchard Inn! It was the most charming, iconic inn located in Cherry Cove, and I should know. My parents owned that inn! It was the first time he’d mentioned it. I took another sip of wine and typed, No. I had no idea. When was this?

Tsk tsk. I’m not going to tell you when, nor will I tell you the name of the room. I will tell you that the view was spectacular and the food sublime, although I’m sure you’re well aware of both. Oh, and did I mention that I met your parents, Jani and Baxter? Such nice people. So generous! And don’t get them started talking about you, their charming daughter, unless you’ve got an hour to spare. Fortunately, I did, and I was all ears, especially when I learned about the man your mother thinks you should marry. Does the name Tatum Vander Hagen ring any bells? I was sorry to hear about him. However, the fact that you’re not in Cherry Cove anymore does give a man hope. Am I wrong to hope?

I frowned at the screen. I’m a little disturbed that you talked with my folks. And I’m not saying a thing about Tate unless you give me the date of your visit and the name of the room you stayed in.

So you can look me up in the books and find my real name? Never!

How else am I to know who you really are?

Well that’s the game, isn’t it? I’m your enigma. Someday, Ms. Bloom, I shall sweep you off your feet and kiss you, and all will be revealed.

What? When? Where? You don’t even know me … do you? I found it utterly mysterious, erotic, and, if I was being totally honest, a little unsettling as well. The guy could be in his fifties, married with kids … then again, he could be totally ripped, wealthy, single, romantic, and a wild beast in the sack. Swingin’ dingles! It was thoughts like these that kept me typing with this stranger.

You know I can’t answer any of those questions, he replied. Let’s just leave it up to Fate, that and the fact that there are no coincidences in life. By the way, thank you for sharing your deconstructed cherry pie recipe. It looks complicated. Maybe someday you’ll make it for me.

In order to do that I need to know who you are—unless you order it from the website. But I warn you, from this day forth I shall conduct a thorough background search on all who order that pie!

No. I mean in person. As I’ve told you, someday you will know who I am, but not today.

Oh, for cripes sake! Just tell me! I scream-typed, my mind swirling with all the possibilities. Frankly, none of them looked too good. Just then my phone began to ring. I glanced at the screen.

Mom.

Fudgesicles! I’d been meaning to call her all day.

It was late May and tourist season was just around the corner. This was the weekend our inn hosted its annual Cherry Blossom Festival, a fun-filled two days designed to showcase the orchard in all its full-blooming glory (nothing awakens the senses to the beauties of springtime like a stroll through a blossoming cherry orchard). It was a weekend filled with gentle pursuits. Along with the usual activities our inn boasted, there was croquet on the lawn, tennis for those who were so inclined, and unrestricted strolling through the blossoming orchard followed by a visit to the cherry-blossom scented hot tubs. On Saturday at mid-morning there was a hayride through the orchard with a tour of the processing sheds, followed by lunch under a tent erected on the lawn. At mid-afternoon, this same tent hosted a wine and cheese tasting, showcasing cherry wines from around the country and the best local cheeses. Other cherry products were on display and sampled under the tent as well, every one of them sold at the inn gift shop. And it was under this same tent where the signature event of the weekend took place: the cherry pie bake-off. Anyone could enter, although it was usually the locals who competed. Competition could get pretty steep since the prize was a one-hundred-dollar gift card, bragging rights, and the honor of keeping the “Gilded Cherry” trophy for a whole year.

Mom had been excited about this year’s festival and strongly suggested I come up for the weekend. I knew every room was booked and that they could use my help. But I also knew that if I showed up, Mom would insist I enter my deconstructed pie in the contest, and I just wasn’t feeling it. Not this year. She’d called four times in the past two days, and somehow I’d forgotten to call her back.

I had ignored her calls.

I was a terrible daughter.

“Mom!” I said, answering the phone. “I was just thinking about you. I’m so glad you called.”

If my voice was infused with enthusiasm, hers was anything but. “Whitney,” she whimpered into the phone. “I’m so scared. I’m so scared.”

At the tone of her voice the hair at the back of my neck stood on end and my insides turned to water. Mom was perpetually cheerful. She was never anything less than perky over the phone. “Dang it, Mom! Where are you? What’s going on?”

“I’m at the inn,” she whispered ominously, causing my entire body to prickle with foreboding. “Something terrible has happened. Oh, just terrible!”

“What? Mom, please, calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

“It was all going so well … so well until they found him.”

My hands were shaking. “Who? Mom, who did they find?”

“Jeb,” she whispered over the phone. “Jeb Carlson, and he’s very, very dead.”

“Are you kidding me?” I cried. “Jeb?” Jeb Carlson, an older gentleman who’d lived in Cherry Cove nearly his whole life, managed our orchard. He was a sweet old guy, cheerful, friendly, and utterly indispensable to our family. He knew everything there was to know about cherries, and was also the head judge of the cherry pie bake-off. It was really too much to think about. “Oh my God! How did he die? Did he have a heart attack or something?”

“Murdered,” she uttered into the phone.

My heart stopped for a beat or two at the impossibility of the word. It was unbelievable. Unfathomable. Nothing bad like that ever happened in the sleepy town of Cherry Cove. “Are you telling me that Jeb’s been murdered? During the Cherry Blossom Festival weekend? Is this your idea of a joke, Mom? Because if it is, it’s a pretty sick one.”

“No,” she said, and began crying. “No joke. I wish it was. And the worst part … the worst part is … ”

Really, how could it be any worse?

“And the worst part is, it appears your dad is the murderer.”

THUD! It was either my heart engaging or the other shoe dropping—either way, I felt shaken to the core. She was right. It was worse. Far worse.

Forgetting everything but the fact that I needed to get to Cherry Cove fast, I shut my laptop and began packing.