Maybe when he left Fieldstone to travel, his goal would be to create friendships wherever he went.
He liked the idea. “Travels with Bailey—The People We Met Along the Way.”
Cal waved to Bryony before he left, but she was busy talking to another customer. He knew the perfect student for BeanHereNow, and this place would be great for that student, too.
PIECE OF PIE
In mid-afternoon, when she learned Cal would return at closing time to talk about the high school work study program, Bryony said she needed to leave early.
“You can’t leave,” Lillian said. “I need you here to clean up while I talk to your Mister Forster.”
She winked when she said his name, and Bryony wanted to protest, but her thoughts and feelings were too jumbled to form a cohesive argument. So, she said the only thing she knew would make Lillian stand down.
“I need to go home and make a pie.”
“It’s about time!” Lillian said. “Bumbleberry?” Had her attention been directed at Bryony, Lillian would have seen the pained expression on her oldest friend’s face. But her eyes were on the cash drawer, and so the confusion, the distress incited by Cal’s attention, remained hidden. “Bring a piece for me tomorrow,” Lillian said before retreating to her office.
Bryony busied herself with extra cleaning tasks and made it through the late afternoon rush with only slight trepidation that Cal would show up early. She left well before closing time, creating an assured clear distance between Cal’s expected arrival and her departure.
Steering her car three blocks east, she pulled into the parking lot of Fred’s, the sole independent grocery in town. Before the big box stores moved in, Fred’s had serviced most of the town. Bryony remembered walking the aisles as a child, holding her mother’s hand. Now, though without a hand to guide her, her feet still knew where to go. The smoldering wreckage of her confidence followed.
Why did Cal Forster’s attention intimidate her so thoroughly?
Into the blue plastic basket on her arm she placed one pound of unsalted butter and one pound of flour. Fresh ingredients were vital. In the produce section she selected a dozen Jonathan apples and one lemon and headed for the spice aisle. Her cinnamon hadn’t been replaced in years. When she had everything she needed to restore balance to her life, she headed for the checkout lane.
Regarding Cal, she was sure she was making something out of nothing. He’d run into her by happenstance that day he was walking his dog, not by design.
And what appeared to be interest in her was merely a reflection of how he treated everybody. He was just one of those people who appeared to like everybody, like that man on the beach in Florida. He never met a stranger. Her mother would have said Cal had the “gift of gab,” something that did not come naturally to Bryony, and something she did not aspire to. She was happy to be learning how to enjoy her time behind the service counter, how to relax as she interacted with lines of customers and maintain a low-key, pleasant approach to meeting their needs. She had no illusion that someday she would be the life of the party.
At home, she unloaded the groceries from her canvas bag, washed her hands, collected the needed bowls, utensils, and measuring cups, and set to work. Cutting the flour and salt with butter and water, she mixed them until she could shape the dough and place it in the refrigerator to chill.
Chuck Henderson’s sub began to fade into the background.
Thirty minutes later, comfy in worn jeans and a faded green T-shirt, Bryony sat at the table and began to peel apples. Some bakers recommend using a vegetable peeler, but Bryony enjoyed the challenge of inserting a razor-sharp paring knife just under the skin. Thin ribbons, red and smooth on one side, pale yellow and juicy on the other, curled around her wrist, leaving the apples naked, vulnerable, innocent.
She peeled them all, knowing all would not fit in the crust, but anticipating small, fresh, unbaked nibbles for the next few days, a tart wake-up in the morning, a sweet finish to a protein-laden lunch.
After filling a bowl with cored and quartered slices, she mixed in lemon juice and flour and set the bowl aside. Next, she cut butter into flour mixed with sugar and cinnamon. Dutch apple pie with a crunchy covering of sugary spiciness reigned supreme as the bridge between emotional discomfort and satisfaction with the day at hand, between hopelessness and knowing she could make good things happen in the world.
Bryony stepped to the refrigerator, pulled out the chilled dough, placed it on her lightly floured giant wooden cutting board, and rolled it with clean, deft strokes. Next, she folded the dough into quarters, picked it up like a newborn infant, placed it in the pie pan, and unfolded it to shape, prick, and flute until the dough rose to an even crest around the rim,
After pre-baking the crust, Bryony stood back to take a breath. This moment was her favorite, when the fruit, or minced meat, or custard filling, stood ready to meet the embrace of that which would hold it together for its short, thrilling life. The crust appeared to be perfect, the fruit healthy and firm, the topping a dull version of what it would become, a crispy sweet crunch crowning a baked wonder.
The moment passed. Bryony poured, topped, and popped the pie into the oven.
She was in the middle of mopping the table with a damp rag when her cell phone rang. She picked it up with her cleanest fingertips, noted the unfamiliar number, and answered the call with an inquiring, “Hello?”
“Hello, Bryony? This is Cal.”
Bryony dropped the dough-splattered rag and watched it hit the toe of her shoe. “How did you get my number?”
“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting. Lillian gave your number to me and suggested I call. She’s willing to think about having one of my students work in the coffee shop, but she wanted me to run the particulars by you, tonight if possible”—he took an audible breath—“because she said you would be the main trainer and supervisor. I thought she should talk to you first, but she insisted I call, said something about having to host a birthday party for her grandson tonight and wanting to move forward with my student as rapidly as possible. Am I calling at a bad time?”
He was a runaway train, but somehow Bryony kept up, excited and not scared, which terrified her. “Well, it’s not a great time. I’m baking a pie, but—”
“Pie?” he interrupted. “Oh, I love pie. I hope it’s apple because I’ll eat any kind of pie, but apple is my favorite. You are going to offer me a piece? I can drop by any time, or we could meet somewhere. On second thought, if I’m being too forward, you don’t have to give me any pie, especially if you’ve made it for someone else, but I’m trying to be polite here because I could really use a slice of homemade pie tonight.”
She tried, but Bryony found herself unable to refuse. She found Cal attractive, charming, and a tad pathetic, which only made him more interesting, even if he did wholly intimidate her. “I suppose we could meet tonight—”
“How about now?” he interrupted again. “I’ll bring over dinner, and we can have pie for dessert, if you’re willing to share. Or you’re welcome to come to my house. Or we could go neutral, meet at the library, a restaurant, a bar, but only a nice bar where you’d take a family because I’m not a fan of being in the vicinity of inebriated people who might pick a fight and force you to defend my honor.”
Bryony laughed in spite of herself. “Give me an hour. The library sounds fine.”
Sixty minutes later, Bryony entered the library and spotted Cal waiting in a corner in one of two low, cushioned chairs. He smiled and waved, his faded jeans and blue tucked-in T-shirt revealing a fit, toned physique. She didn’t like how her own body responded to the sight of him sitting there, his expression welcoming her.
“I think this area is designed for children,” she said when she was within whispering distance.
“I’m a kid at heart,” Cal said, beaming up at her.
She sank into the seat beside him, her knees peaking parallel to her naval. “Really glad I wore jeans.”
“This okay with you?” Cal sat lower than her, his knees up to the bottom of his rib cage.
“Is it for you?” she asked.
