Quint felt like he’d driven down a familiar street right into the Twilight Zone. Rod Serling was probably talking into a television camera somewhere announcing, “This was a day like any other day, or so Quint McCoy thought as he drove to his office. But it will be like no day he’s ever known. The first day of the rest of his life. His nightmare life.”
He stepped out of his SUV. Checked the road sign. Center Street. Yep, right street. He gazed across the road at the Kalispell Center Mall with the Red Lion Hotel on one end. Yep, right location. He turned back to the spot where one perfectly located realty office should be and again encountered the impossible. McCoy Realty was gone. How could that be? Hadn’t he just seen the proof of its existence five minutes earlier on a gigantic billboard?
He had. Quint lifted his Stetson and raked fingers through his hair. Then why the hell was his mama’s pie shop—which was to have taken up only three-quarters of this building—now occupying the whole damned place? Who had managed this transformation in one month’s time? Who had had the nerve to desecrate his office? Mama?
He didn’t want to believe it, but who else could have done it? Someone had some serious explaining to do, and Andrea was still not answering her phone. Movement in the window caught his eye. Someone was inside. He rapped on the door. “Mama? Are you in there?”
He heard footsteps. Voices. But no one answered. He rapped harder. Identified himself. And finally the door cracked open. He resisted the urge to shove the door inward and knock whoever stood on the other side to the floor. Good thing. Since it turned out to be his mother. “Son, I…”
For the first time in his life, hearing her voice didn’t warm his heart or ease his soul. He scowled. “What did you do?”
He saw movement from the corner of his eye and glanced up. A blonde was sitting in a booth where his conference room should be. “Andrea?”
“Quint,” she mumbled, avoiding eye contact and stuffing pie into her mouth. Guilt in every bite.
“You’re in on this, too?” Of course she was. Andrea would have to be. A flash of red near the window pulled his gaze in that direction. His eyes took in red boots, long, lean legs in curve-hugging denim, sleek waist, full, ripe breasts, and, finally, eyes so green a man would drown in their depths. Callee.
A jolt went through him, not unlike the one he’d felt the first moment his gaze connected with hers. He’d been a goner then. As hooked as a bull trout in a grizzly claw. He pulled himself back to the present. Why was she here? “I thought you were in Seattle.”
“I was.”
“Did you come back to see me brought to my knees?”
A frown pulled her brows together. “What?”
“Quint, stop that right now.” Molly stepped between them. “Callee had no hand in this.”
As the words sank in, he knew them to be true. His temper flared too easily these days, before he could rein it in or think through what he was saying. Damn it. That was how he’d driven Callee away in the first place. “I’m sor—”
“You really don’t know me at all, do you?” Callee cut him off, color like red cherries seeping into her cheeks. The urge to open his arms and embrace her swept over him unexpectedly, but she came at him like a hungry wildcat with its canines bared. Quint stood his ground. He would welcome her fury, the feel of her fists pounding the shit out of him. He deserved anything she wanted to unleash.
As she closed the gap, he noticed a smear of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. He stifled the urge to taste it. And then he caught a whiff of something sharper. Rum? It was only ten a.m. “Have you been drinking?”
Callee froze.
“Enough,” his mama said, her face as burgundy as her hair. “We were getting close to launching the pie shop when I realized I needed more space. A café area. It isn’t good enough to only sell take-out pies. If I want to build a strong business, I need to serve dessert here.”
Her reasoning was sound. Solid. It was her acquisition he couldn’t fathom. “So you took my office space?”
“It was the only space available.”
“It wasn’t available. It was my office.” His voice rose with every word, his anger bouncing off the newly painted walls. The floor seemed to shift beneath his boots. Rod Serling was playing his eerie theme music and telling the television audience, “Quint McCoy never saw it coming. Betrayal by a pastry chef who looks and sounds like his own mother, but can’t really be his mother. Or can she?”
“You closed the office and left town. It was just sitting here.”
“But it’s my building.”
“Actually, it’s not, son. It’s mine.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s just a technicality. It was sitting empty before I turned it into something.”
“And when you left it sitting empty, I turned it into something else.”
He sank into a chair, realizing as he did that it wasn’t his chair. His gaze fell to the floor. To the gleaming hardwood. He frowned. “Hey, where’s my carpet?”
“Well, dear, when we took it out, we found this wonderful old oak planking—”
“But my desk? My trophy trout?” He glanced around the café, not seeing the beauty, but lost in the realization of all that was no longer here. A fear took hold of him…that he would never recover, never again find his emotional footing without something familiar to grasp onto. “Where are my files?”
“Safely stored in my garage, dear.”
“In your garage?” Her unheated garage? Did she expect him to run a real estate office in an unheated garage? At his mother’s house? The idea was so absurd that it sobered him. Who was he kidding? He didn’t have any business. He hadn’t had any for a month before he left for Alaska. So where did he get off waltzing in here this morning and expecting to resurrect that dead body? Maybe he never could. Maybe he needed to lay it to rest permanently. Move on. Find a different career. Somehow that didn’t seem right. He plowed his hand through his hair. Was it too late for McCoy Realty? He didn’t know, but Andrea might. He shifted toward her. “How damaged is the business? Our reputation?”
She shrugged. “You pissed off a lot of people.”
He nodded. Yeah, that seemed to be the one talent he excelled at these days.
“I—I thought you might want this.” Andrea scooted out of the booth and crossed to the cash register, a little unsteady on her feet. She dug behind the counter and produced an old-fashioned Rolodex. Although Quint backed up contacts electronically these days, this had belonged to his father, and it had sat on his desk from the day he’d opened the office.
She set it on the table beside him. Quint smelled rum again. What the hell? Had Andrea been drinking, too? Had the whole world gone crazy while he was in Alaska? Grateful for something familiar in this storm of confusion, he caught hold of the Rolodex like a father finding a child who’d been ripped from his arms during a tornado. Or in this case, a son finding a piece of his father.
“Son, after you left, Andrea and I had a long chat. I needed the space, and it seemed to me that it would be best for you to restart your realty business at a new location. A fresh start, so to speak.” She sat on the chair next to him, laid her hand on his thigh, and spoke in a loving voice. “That’s what I’m trying to do. Jimmy would want me to. He would also want you to.”
“Did you even think to talk it over with me before you tore my office apart”—he struggled to keep his temper under control—“before you stored it in your garage?”
He looked at Andrea again. “Why didn’t you let me know this was happening?”
She gave him an exasperated look. “I tried. For a week. Every call went straight to voice mail. I left you messages and texts. You didn’t respond.”
His mother said, “No one could reach you, dear.”
Guilt spiraled through Quint. He’d tossed his phone away shortly after he arrived at Ketchikan International. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He’d bought a new phone at the airport in Seattle yesterday. Once he’d activated it and saw the gazillion messages, he’d deleted them without reading texts or listening to voice mails. New phone, new start. He couldn’t do anything about stuff that had occurred while he wasn’t here. Which pretty much included this. But how did he reel in the anger and upset running through him?
His mother squeezed his knee. “Now that you’re back, you can decide which of my other buildings suits you best and open your new realty office there.”
“But this is the best location in Kalispell.”
“Exactly. And for a pie shop, location is everything.”
Location, location, location. Quint winced. Kicked to the curb by his own words. Hell. Damn. Shit. Fuck. Humiliation spread through him like a virus. His joints ached, his muscles cramped, his stomach felt queasy. His mother had always been in his corner. Always. But where had he been when she dealt with the loss of his dad? Off feeling sorry for himself. His dad would be not only be ashamed of him, he’d be disappointed.
That realization hurt almost as much as losing Jimmy.
A buzzer sounded from somewhere inside the pie shop.
“Oh, dear, my cobblers!” Molly jumped up and dashed toward the kitchen.
Quint lurched to his feet, too.
Andrea stopped him. “Let her be, Quint. Talk to her later. When you’ve calmed down. She’s always supported you. It’s time you returned the favor.”
She didn’t give him a chance to say he’d just come to that realization as she hurried after Molly into the kitchen. He stood there like a man lost on a frozen tundra, squinting into a white expanse of nothingness, no idea which way led to safety. All directions seemed nothing more than bleak wasteland.
The sound of a throat being cleared reminded him he was not alone. Callee. Shit. He closed his eyes and groaned silently. Once again he’d been a complete dickhead to her. He swallowed what remained of his shredded ego and faced her. The look of commiseration and pity on her beautiful face stole his breath. He didn’t deserve it. He would rather she took a hammer to his shins than be kind to him.
“I’m on my way to back to Seattle. I only stopped by here to leave this with your mother.” She was holding her coin purse, her brows knitting. “But since you’re here…and she’s busy, well…”
Callee walked to him, handing him a business card and the ring he’d given her the day they wed. The ring seemed to sear his palm.
“I can’t keep it. It was your grandmother’s.” Her gaze was strong, but the slight quaver in her voice belied her poise. “You should have it…to give…to your…next…someone else, one day.”
His tongue seemed to swell and swallow his voice. He still wore his ring. A plain gold band with the date of their wedding and Love, Callee engraved on the inside. Did she want it back? Could he take it off? Even if it meant letting her go forever? He had to do the honorable thing. She deserved it after what he’d put her through. A chunk of his soul broke off as he said, “Do you want my ring back?”
“God, no.” She shook her head hard. “Keep it. It’s not a family heirloom. It has no sentimental value to me.”
Ouch! He hadn’t imagined words could slice through his heart with such force. The pain elicited an actual groan. “I know it’s too late to go back, or even make up for all the things I said and did, but I am sorry, Callee. Truly sorry.” Sorrier than he could ever say. “I hope one day you’ll believe that and forgive me, and that, that maybe we might be frien—”
“Friends?” She cut him off, red flaring in her cheeks, her hands flying up like a shield to ward off an incoming missile. “I…I…no. No.”
Hell, what did he expect her to say? Dumb shit. Get your head out of your ass. She wants nothing to do with you. He stared at the business card. “What’s this for?”
She sighed, looked away, then back at him. “It’s my attorney. Your attorney can contact him.”
Quint frowned. His attorney and her attorney had already exchanged numbers and dealt with the dissolution of their marriage. Hadn’t they? His attorney’s calls were among those he hadn’t taken after leaving for Alaska.
“I had my lawyer file for the divorce decree this morning.”
A gasp sounded in the doorway behind them. Quint spun around to see his mother standing there. She clutched her chest and then dropped to the floor in a heap.
“Mama!” He ran to her. “Oh my God! Someone call 911! Mama!”
* * *
Callee stood outside of the Kalispell Regional Medical Center’s emergency room, cell phone to ear, speaking to Roxanne Nash. “Roxy.”
“Hey, best friend, are you finally on your way back here?” A sizzle and clang came through the line and brought an image of Roxy standing over a hot stove in the kitchen of the bistro, white chef coat smudged with a rainbow hue of sauces, a chef cap holding rein on her wild, red mane. Roxy said, “I hope so because I’ve pulled a major coup. Booked a huge, secret event that I can’t tell anyone about. Well, not on the phone anyway.”
Callee bit back tears, wishing with all her heart that Roxy was standing before her so she could throw herself into her friend’s arms and weep. When Roxy had talked her into going to cooking school in Seattle a few years ago, it was with the end-goal of opening their own catering shop in Kalispell. Neither could have predicted the detours their lives would quickly take. Roxy soon met and married a rookie Seahawk and went on to get her chef degree. Callee had quit cooking school on the first day, returned to Kalispell, and met and fallen in love with a Realtor. And now when she needed her best friend, they were miles apart.
But maybe in-person comfort would be too much too handle, considering she couldn’t seem to hang onto her composure long enough to state her reason for calling. The words kept choking her. “Uh, th-that’s w-why I’m calling.”
“Oh, good. You filed. I’ll have the wine ready when you arrive, and we can toast our mutual divorces.” Roxy said something to someone in the restaurant kitchen and immediately started in again before Callee could form the words she sought. “Mine is a horror movie. Ty’s attorneys are playing hardball, as though he didn’t cheat on me in every city the Seahawks played. They’re just mad we didn’t do a prenup. If his attorneys think Ty and his new fiancée are walking away with the lion’s share of our joint estate, they better think again. Washington is a community property state. Fifty/fifty. Half of what we own is mine. I’m not taking anything less.”
“Roxy, please.”
The stress in Callee’s voice must finally have registered because Roxy went silent, then said, “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
This time Roxy didn’t jump to conclusions, but waited until Callee found her voice and the words to explain Molly’s collapse at the pie shop. She ran through what she knew, which was mostly speculation. “The EMTs said heart attack, probably a blood clot. They’ve given her blood thinners and a clot buster and are trying to stabilize her so they can run tests to determine exactly what is going on and what can be done. If anything.”
“Oh, hell, no.” Roxy sounded as stunned as Callee felt. “Quint’s dad died of a heart attack.”
“Exactly.” A widow maker. And now his widow might also be gone from the same cause. The tears Callee had been fighting slipped down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and remembered Molly lying on the kitchen floor. Unresponsive. Her skin gray, her lips blue. Awful thoughts crashed like bumper cars through her mind, filling her with guilt and fear. “She overheard me tell Quint I’d filed the divorce papers this morning. She grabbed her chest and collapsed. If she dies, it’s my fault.”
“I’ll catch the first plane out.”
Yes! “No. No. You can’t. You have that special event.”
“My staff can handle that.”
That was a lie. Roxy was too anal to trust the handling of a huge event to anyone else. That she even suggested her staff could handle the big event was a testament to their friendship. Callee loved her for the offer. “Thank you. But for now, sit tight, okay? Just talking to you has already pulled me back from the ledge.” She could lie, too, for a good cause. “I’ll call you later when I have more information.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me there now?”
“Yes.” No. She closed her eyes against the sacrifice and hung up before the truth came tumbling out. A squeal of tires brought her head up. An ambulance pulled in, lights flashing, everyone moving at a manic pace. She stood riveted, watching as a patient was wheeled into the emergency entrance. A woman about to give birth. Her husband trailed by, helpless in the wake of the professionals. He glanced at Callee and said, “It’s our first.”
The random encounter shook her, bringing home all the lost possibilities. She prayed Molly would not be lost as well. Callee walked away from the emergency room entrance, a deep sadness settling over her. If she and Quint were in a better place, a good place, they could lean on each other, but he’d rejected her comfort when his father died, and she couldn’t, wouldn’t risk that rejection and hurt again.
She dialed the pie shop. Andrea was still there, dealing with an appliance delivery that was days late. “Oh, God, Callee, I’m afraid to ask. How is Molly?”
“She’s still alive,” Callee said, fighting back more tears.
Andrea inhaled sharply, then said in a shaky voice, “W-what’s the diagnosis?”
“Don’t know yet. They’re doing an angiogram right now.” Callee’s voice was none too steady. “You know, where they run dye through your veins to see if there are blockages? If they find any narrowed veins, they’ll insert stents right away. If it’s more serious—” She broke off and swallowed hard. There were so many ways it could be more serious. “One option is bypass surgery.”
“That’s good, right?” Andrea sounded like someone grasping at straws, seeking hope in an otherwise hopeless situation. “Stents or bypass surgery. That means she has options.”
“Yes.” Maybe. Callee didn’t tell her there might be nothing they could do if the damage to Molly’s heart was too massive. Why worry Andrea further without knowing for certain what they were dealing with?
“Okay. The delivery guy is supposed to be on his way, or I’d be there with you guys.”
“I know.” She asked Andrea to make a couple of phone calls and to lock up when she left, but to leave a key for Quint somewhere.
“I’ll stick the key in the decorative mailbox out front,” Andrea said.
Callee made a mental note to tell Quint. “I have to go. Quint may have heard something by now.”
“Poor Quint. He’s had a pretty tough morning.”
That might get tougher, Callee thought, guilt heavy on her heart. Fresh tears burned her eyes and thickened her throat. “I’ll call you as soon as I have an update.”
“Okay. Oh, tell Quint that Dave Vernon called. I guess they had a meeting or something. Anyway, I told him what was going on and that Quint would reschedule when he could.” Her voice sounded full of tears. “He understands and sends prayers for Molly.”
“I’ll tell him.” Callee doubted that scheduled meetings had even crossed Quint’s mind after he’d shown up at the pie shop. Still, she understood Andrea’s need to be useful in a situation where they’d all been rendered helpless. If not blameless. She tucked her phone into her pocket and strode to the waiting area.
The expectant father was at the registration counter looking in need of support from a friend or family member. She could use some of that herself, but she had no one to offer it, certainly not Quint.
She figured she’d find him pacing like a caged animal. Instead, he sat on a sofa in a corner, shoulders slumped, gaze on the floor, exactly as she’d left him. His Stetson was abandoned on a nearby coffee table, his hair mussed, but it was his expression that broke her heart. And threatened her resolve. He wore the mask of a lost man; it had been a day of losses for him, and she prayed losing his mother wouldn’t be the topper.
God, don’t let me have killed Molly.
Was he thinking of the night his father died? Trying to console his mother, who had collapsed against him, while he barely managed to stay on his feet? If his mother died, he’d be all alone. No more family. She was used to not having family to fall back on. No one to be there offering her support or to cheer on her triumphs. But Quint was not. She swiped away fresh tears. He wouldn’t want her pity, but she had never felt more like taking him into her arms and holding him close until the fear eased from his soul, from his eyes.
She slipped onto the sofa beside him. Despite herself, she was unable to keep from touching his arm, the tiniest offer of commiseration, as she asked in a low voice, “Anyone tell you anything yet?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “The longer the angiogram takes, the better the news will be. If this can be fixed with a stent.”
The pain in his voice so matched what she was feeling, she ached. She had no comforting words, no hackneyed platitudes, no cheery encouragement. Only a belly full of fear. Death had visited her too often. She moved her hand to his, and he grasped hold like a man clutching a raft in high waves, an anchor in a scary sea of uncertainty.
Every minute seemed to pass like an hour, but when Callee looked up to see a nurse coming toward them, she realized too little time had passed for Molly’s heart issue to be resolved with a stent. Although she tried to brace for whatever bad news the doctor would deliver, she was unsteady on her feet. Quint continued to hang onto her hand as they were led into a small private office with chairs, a desk, and a large laptop to meet with the cardiologist.
Dr. Kyle Flynn was around fifty, trim and fit, with steel-gray hair. He greeted them with a nod of the head, but addressed them formally as Mr. and Ms. McCoy.
Quint released Callee’s hand and swept his hair back, then wiped his palms on his jeans and reached to shake Dr. Flynn’s hand.
Callee sank onto one of the chairs, feeling sick. She admired Quint’s effort to put on a brave face, knowing inside he was also terrified of whatever this compact man in green surgical scrubs would say. The doctor’s serious expression did nothing to ease her worry.
Quint blurted, “How’s my mother?”
“We’ve stabilized her.” Dr. Flynn motioned Quint to the seat beside Callee. The tense set of Quint’s shoulders seemed to loosen, and he fumbled for the chair, sitting hard, as though the news that his mother was still alive had zapped whatever inner strength had kept him going until now.
His mother was alive.
Callee still held her breath. She knew stabilized meant Molly wasn’t okay, just okay for now. And there had been no stent, or he would have said. She tried not to let her imagination run wild with awful scenarios as she concentrated on what the doctor was showing them on the laptop screen.
Dr. Flynn explained that the set of six videos were images of Molly’s heart. He clicked on one, and it filled the monitor. The veins showed white against the dark walls of the heart, pulsating on the screen. The doctor pointed out a narrowed section in an otherwise normal vein. “This is one of the problem areas. Due to a blood clot, she suffered a cardio infarction.”
“Layman terms, Doc, please,” Quint said, his voice ragged and deep.
Dr. Flynn explained that Molly had had a serious, nearly fatal heart attack. Bottom line: she needed a triple bypass, but was too weak at the moment. The surgery had to be held off until she was strong enough to withstand the procedure. That could be as little as a couple of days or even a week or two.
Quint went as white as the veins on the monitor. “Has she done much damage to her heart?”
“Actually, not as much as I originally feared. If she tolerates the surgery and recovers as expected, the damaged areas of her heart will likely regenerate with time.”
“What if she has another attack before the procedure?” Callee asked, afraid she already knew the answer.
“We’ll do everything within our power to prevent that, Ms. McCoy,” Dr. Flynn assured her. “She will have to stay here, in ICU, until I feel she’s ready for surgery.”
Callee released a tightly held breath and felt the tension in her muscles begin to ease. Molly wasn’t out of the woods, but she was in the best possible hands, and she had a chance. She could beat this and come out of it strong and well. Callee grasped onto that hope, small as it was. Happy tears blurred her vision of the doctor, but she could see that his expression was still extremely serious.
“Can we see her now?” Quint asked.
“First, I need to warn you that she is very fragile,” Dr. Flynn said. “I am limiting visitors and visiting times. She must have no tension or anxiety. I cannot stress that strongly enough.”
Quint nodded, guilt written in the worry lines around his mouth and eyes. “I promise you, I won’t cause her an ounce of worry, but she might need to hear that from me.”
“I won’t either, Doctor,” Callee said. Poor Molly. She had to have been worried sick about her son returning to Kalispell to discover she’d confiscated his office, scared that by doing so she might push him farther over the edge. Then, I showed up and made matters worse, losing my temper and going after Quint, the final straw that caused her collapse.
When Quint walked out on Callee, his mother had tried to convince her that Quint didn’t really want a divorce; that it was grief talking. But eventually, surely, Molly had to have realized and accepted the inevitable—especially when Callee moved to Seattle. Hadn’t she?
Callee chewed a fingernail, thinking back on Molly’s reaction to finding her in the pie shop. Excited. Hopeful. She shook her head as she started to realize what must have gone through Molly’s mind. Quint’s mother believed in fairy tales, believed that Callee and Quint would have the same long, happy relationship she and Jimmy had shared. Apparently, she’d mistaken Callee’s sudden appearance in Kalispell as a homecoming, instead of a last good-bye.
“Tell her anything that keeps her calm,” the doctor reiterated as he stood. He snapped his fingers as though just remembering something important. “Oh, by the way, she keeps insisting on speaking to someone named Kallie. Right away. If you could arrange for that person to come to the hospital as soon as possible, it would be a help.”
“That’s me.” Callee rose unsteadily.
“I didn’t realize. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard your given name, Ms. McCoy, but that expedites matters for sure.” The doctor smiled. “You may both follow me. Please, keep your stay brief, one person at a time, and remember, her situation is extremely precarious. Anything you can do to ease her mind will help her toward recovery.”
Callee trailed beside Quint, wondering why Molly was anxious to see her. Did she think she could talk Callee out of getting the divorce? If she tried, then what would Callee say?
Tell her anything that keeps her calm.
Quint went in to see and speak with Molly first. Callee paced the hall, waiting her turn, playing scenarios through her mind, working out responses to possible questions or pleas that her mother-in-law might make. But no amount of mind-play prepared her for Molly’s request.
As Callee entered the ICU cubicle, she was immediately wrapped in a perfume of medicinal smells and assaulted by the beeps and buzzes of monitoring machines. Her gaze bounced off the equipment and centered on Molly, so small and pale against the hospital sheets, plugs and wires poking from her. It was as though her internal dimmer switch had been activated.
Callee approached the bed on wobbly feet, afraid any movement might sever the thin thread connecting her mother-in-law to life. She loved this woman so much. She forced a smile and tentatively touched Molly’s hand. “You gave us quite a scare, Mama, but the doctor says you’re going to be just fine—as long as you do what you’re told and rest.”
“Callee, I can’t stay here. That daft doctor won’t listen to me. Neither will Quint. But I have to get back to the pie shop. Ads go out tomorrow announcing the grand opening next week. The shop must open as advertised.”
Callee glanced toward the windows that looked into the ICU corridor. Quint stood there, peering in, his expression anxious, as though she wouldn’t remember to reassure his mother no matter what. Callee returned her gaze to Molly. “Don’t worry about the grand opening. Between Andrea, Rafe, and Quint, the shop will open as scheduled.”
Redness seeped into Molly’s face, and the steady beep-beep of the machine increased, alarming Callee. Molly said, “You don’t understand. None of you. Andrea has no experience running a pie shop. Neither does my son. And Rafe? He’s just an assistant. I’m not sure if he can bake anything but meat pies. That won’t do.”
The machines beeped a little louder, a little faster. Callee strove to calm her mother-in-law. “Molly, please, don’t fret. Quint won’t let you down.”
But would he? Was that what worried Molly? If so, how was Callee supposed to ease her mind?
Molly snatched Callee’s wrist, her grasp like a too-tight bracelet. “Don’t go.”
“But the doctor said I can only stay for a—”
“Don’t go to Seattle,” Molly interrupted. “I need you to stay and take my place at the shop until I’m back on my feet.”
“Take your place?” Callee gaped. The request was insane on so many levels—including Molly being laid up for weeks after surgery. Maybe months. But mostly it was insane because she hadn’t even gone to cooking school yet, and Molly knew she couldn’t bake a pie to save her soul. “I can’t bake pies.”
“You’re the only one with restaurant experience.”
“As a hostess, not as a pastry chef.” After Quint and she married, Callee had worked at Twangy’s Bar and Grill as a hostess and was doing the same at Roxy’s seaside bistro in Seattle. She hadn’t ever worked in the kitchen of either restaurant, although Roxy had been encouraging her to give it a try. Molly’s request roused her grandmother’s criticizing words, stirring Callee’s old fears and self-doubts. Maybe she should reconsider and give up the idea of becoming a chef. “Molly, I’m sorry, but—”
Molly cut her off. “Please, Callee, I need you to do this.”
No. This was ludicrous. She couldn’t stay in Kalispell or fill in for Molly. She couldn’t quit culinary college either. The tuition was non-refundable; classes started next week. Somehow though, all that she managed to blurt out was, “B-but I can’t make pies.”
“I don’t believe that.” The beep-beep started escalating with every word.
“But—” Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. Oh, God. Guilt and fear crashed in on Callee. Molly meant to win this crazy, unreasonable argument even if it killed her. Dr. Flynn’s words rang loud inside her head: Another attack could be fatal. Her own promise to do whatever it took to ease Molly’s mind followed suit. Promise her anything. Promise it now.
Before Callee could consider the repercussions, she said, “Okay. I’ll do it, but you have to promise to stop fretting.”
The beeps began to slow. Beep…beep…beep.
“I promise,” Molly said. With that, she sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes, a smile wavering on her pale lips. The beeps began to level off.
She watched Molly’s face relax. A moment later, the monitor attached to her heart settled into a steady rhythm—while Callee’s heart began to beat off the charts. What the hell did I just promise?