Delightful: Big Sky Pie #3 (16 page)

“Stop it. Please.” Ice stood and caught her this time. “Just hear me out, and then, if you want me to go, I will.”

“Start talking and make it quick. I need to get home to the boys.”

He nodded. “Just tell me first if you’ve found a stepdaddy candidate yet.”

She considered lying, but he’d see right through it. “Not yet.”

That brought on his damnable, irresistible smile. “When I left you that last night, I hadn’t thought I’d ever see you again. I couldn’t offer you what you wanted, and I hated myself for that. Once I was back in Malibu, I realized that I had changed. Only the change was paralyzing. I was more emotionally stymied than before I came here. I’d touched on the possibility of something wonderful, but I didn’t deserve it, and I couldn’t hold on to it. Or claim it then.”

“But now you can?” She clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.

“A lot of things have changed for me.”

“I know. Bobby says you’ve reconciled with your parents. That alone is huge—considering what they did to you.”

“It was. But I couldn’t move forward without forgiving them, and in the end, even that wasn’t enough. I had to forgive myself.”

“For what? You were a little boy…” Tears for what he’d been through sprang to her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She swiped at them as he explained that he’d discovered he’d always blamed himself, and until he let go of that, he couldn’t have a normal life.

She smiled at him through her tears, truly glad that he had found a way out of his personal darkness and into the light. “I’m glad for you, Ice. I really am. Bobby says you’re working with your dad now.”

“Well, sort of. I’m going to be doing something I discovered I’m pretty good at. Writing screenplays.”

“You’re giving up directing?”

“For the time being.”

“Won’t you miss that?”

“Not that much, I’m discovering. I guess it’s all part of the moving on into the next phase of my life.”

“Well, since you’ve been writing the scripts for the reality shows, I suppose, writing screenplays won’t be that far of a stretch for you.”

He nodded. “And it’s something I can do from anywhere. Even Kalispell. Actually, I’ve bought a place…in town.”

In town? She gaped at him. “In this town?”

“Yeah, it’s a huge, four-bedroom house with a great big backyard. Perfect for kids to run around, play football, race toy cars, have a dog.”

If he was trying to stomp her heart into tiny pieces, he was doing a good job of it. Her voice cracked. “I guess we’ll be seeing more of you then.”

“Yes. I’m having the house gutted and remodeled. I’ve hired Wade to do the work, and Callee is going to work on the interior design. I’m hoping you’ll help her with that.”

“Me? Why would I?”

“I figured you’d like some say in how your new kitchen is laid out, the new fireplace, the bathrooms.”

“My new kitchen?”

“I love you, Andrea. I want to marry you and be the father your sons need.”

Had she heard him right? “What about the brunette starlet you’ve been squiring around Hollywood?”

“Publicity. She’s my half sister on my mother’s side. She inherited our mother’s talent, but she wants to make it on her own merits, not by using the family name. Since I can relate to that sentiment, I have been giving her some pointers.”

“Your sister? But Bobby said—”

“I’m sorry about that. The tabloids printed that lie, and I knew if I told Bobby the truth that he’d tell BiBi, and then she’d probably tell her father. So I didn’t correct his misconception.”

“In other words you turned the tables on the paparazzi?”

“I did. But I didn’t mean for it to hurt you.”

Andrea’s heart was beating like a wild thing in her chest as she remembered the rest of what he’d said. He’d proposed. He had, hadn’t he? She needed to hear it again. Needed to know it wasn’t her imagination that he bought her a house and was moving to Kalispell. “Did you say you love me? You want to marry me?”

“My father once told me that life was like a pie, and I shouldn’t settle for a slice when I could have the whole thing. I didn’t understand what that meant until last week. I want the whole pie, Andrea. I want you, the boys, and any more that might come our way. But only if you feel the same about me.”

Oh God, he
had
proposed. Andrea couldn’t speak for fear that she was dreaming and she’d wake up if she said one word.

“You do love me, don’t you? I can’t stand it if I’m wrong about that.”

“Oh, Ice, I love you so much it’s killing me.”

She leaped into his arms, he spun her around, and her feet crashed into the table. They jumped apart just as the dessert plate holding the pie à la mode skittered to the edge, then catapulted upward. The plate gained height, then gravity snatched at it, and it collided with Ice’s pants before clattering to the floor.

He stood there with ice cream and pie dripping off the front of his jeans. He shook his head, laughing. “This is how we started.”

Andrea wasn’t letting anything come between them, not even Molly McCoy’s pie. “But it’s not how we’ll finish. Hey, wait a minute. Who exactly am I agreeing to marry? Ice Erikksen or Ian Whittendale?”

“Ian Erikksen. Ice is too cold of a name for the man I am now. And since Erikksen is my legal name, it’s less likely to require long explanations to the folks who already know me in my new hometown.”

  “Well, I love you no matter what your name is. But Lucas may still call you Ize.”

  Ian took her face in both his hands and peered at her with such love. “I hope, one day, he’ll call me dad.”

  Tears of joy spilled from Andrea’s eyes.

  “We better make this official,” Ian said, pulling something from his pocket, and as he went down on one knee, Molly’s words came rushing back to her.
A couple of bites of my caramel apple pie and a man will look puppy-eyed at you. A whole slice, and he’s liable to get down on one knee and offer a ring.

  Apparently it worked, even if the man didn’t actually eat the pie.

To make the crust: Combine the flour, salt, and sugar in a food processor. Pulse until mixed. Add the cubed butter. Pulse 6 or 8 times until the butter is pea-sized and the mixture looks like coarse meal. Next add the ice water 1 tablespoon at a time. Pulse until the mixture just begins to clump. If you pinch some of the crumbly dough and it holds together, it’s ready. If the dough doesn’t hold together, add a little more water and pulse again. Caution: Too much water will make the crust tough.

Place the dough in a mound on a clean surface. Shape the dough mixture into two disks, one for the bottom crust, one for the top. Work the dough gently to form the disks. Don’t overknead. You should be able to see flecks of butter in the dough. They will result in a flakier crust. Sprinkle a little flour around the disks. Wrap each disk in plastic wrap and refrigerate from 1 hour to 2 days.

Remove a crust disk from the refrigerator. Let it sit at room temperature for 5 to 10 minutes. This will soften it enough for easier rolling. On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to a 12-inch circle about 1/8-inch thick. If the dough begins to stick to the surface below, sprinkle some flour underneath. Carefully place the bottom crust into a 9-inch pie pan, pressing the dough gently into the bottom and sides of the pan. Trim the excess dough, leaving about 1/2 inch more than the edge of the pan.

To make the filling: Melt the caramels and water in a double boiler or metal bowl over simmering water; heat for 10 minutes or until the caramels are partially melted. Cover and set aside, keeping the caramels in the pan over the heated water.

Peel and core the apples, then slice thinly so that they will be soft when cooked. Combine the sugar, flour, spices, and salt. Mix with the apples. Add the melted caramels and stir to mix. Pour into the pie shell. Dot butter across the filling.

Remove the other crust disk from the refrigerator, let it sit at room temperature for 5 to 10 minutes, then roll it into a 12-inch circle about 1/8-inch thick. Add the top crust to the pie, then crimp and flute the edges. then crimp and flute the edges. Lightly brush the top crust with an egg wash made by whisking 1 large egg with 1 tablespoon of water, sprinkle sugar on top for sparkle, and then score the top crust with 4 slices.

Preheat the oven to 400°. Place the pie on the middle rack with a cookie sheet beneath to catch any filling that bubbles over. Bake for 50 minutes.

Let the pie cool before serving. Serve cold, or warm the pie and serve with ice cream.

Adrianne Lee lives with her husband of many, many years on the beautiful Olympic Peninsula in Washington State in a pole barn building her husband transformed into an upstairs apartment with a shop below for his hot rods. Adrianne creates her stories on her laptop, in her recliner with her adopted cat, Spooky, curled between her calves, snoozing. Over thirty years of summer vacationing in the Flat Head Lake area near Kalispell and Glacier Park has given her a love for all things Montana.

I
am one sorry son of a bitch,
Quint McCoy thought.
A complete total fuckup
. He didn’t have a clue how to rectify the wrong he’d done. It had taken thirty days fishing in the wilds of Alaska, starting in Ketchikan, then deeper inland to the Unuk River, to bring him to his senses. To make him realize he couldn’t run from the pain of losing his dad, or from the grief, or the guilt. He couldn’t shove it all away. Or cut it out. It would always be inside him, wherever he was—as much a part of him as his black hair and his blue eyes.

Now that he was back in Montana, in the empty house he’d shared with Callee for two short years, he faced another raw truth. He’d bulldozed his life. Leveled every good thing about it. Nothing left for him but to move on and recoup. Somehow.

He grazed the electric razor over the last of the month-old beard, leaving his preferred rough skiff of whiskers on his chin, and slapped on cologne. After four weeks in a small cabin with three other guys, he appreciated the scent of a civilized male. He took note of new lines carved at his mouth and the corners of his eyes, lines that bespoke his misery.
Losing your dad, and then your wife, will do that to you.

He wasn’t proud of the man in the mirror. He didn’t know if he ever would be again. He’d trashed his marriage to the only woman he’d ever loved, or probably ever would love. Treated her like the enemy. And worse. Her mother died when she was seven, leaving her to be raised by a taciturn grandmother. She’d grown up feeling unwanted and unloved. He’d made her feel that way all over again. He hated himself for that. If Callee never spoke to him again, he wouldn’t blame her.

But then, he wasn’t likely to have a chance to speak to her. She’d left his sorry ass, let their lawyers hash out the equitable property settlement, and moved to Seattle right after he told her to divorce him. It took twenty-one days for the paperwork to go through the legal system. By now, he was a free man. And he didn’t like it one damned bit.

Quint glanced at the mirror once more, expecting to see
Dumb Shit
stamped on his forehead, but only noticed that he needed a haircut. He pulled on dark wash jeans, a crisp blue dress shirt and tie, and his favorite Dan Post boots. His dirty clothes went into the duffle on the floor. A scan of the bathroom showed nothing was left behind. He swiped his towel over the sink and counter and stuffed it on top of his laundry, then a second quick perusal, and a nod of satisfaction. Nothing forgotten.

He plunked the tan Stetson onto his still-damp hair and grabbed the duffle. His boot heels thudded the hardwood floors, echoing through the empty split-level as he strode the hallway, and then down the stairs to the front door.

As he reached the door, his cell phone rang. He snapped it up and looked at the readout. A fellow real estate agent, Dave Vernon. “Hey, Dave.”

“Quint. Well, hang me for a hog. ’Bout time you answered your phone. You still in the land of igloos and Eskimos?”

“I wasn’t that far north, Dave. But, no, I’m in town.”

“Well, now that is good news. Glad to hear it. How was the fishing?”

“Okay.” If the trip had been about the fish, then the fishing was actually great, but it hadn’t been about salmon twice as long as his arm. It had been about his inability to deal with the loss of his dad. His inability to stop setting fire to every aspect of his life.

“You still want me to sell your house?”

“That I do.”

“Well, as you know, I had it sold…until you decided to skip town. The buyers got tired of waiting for you to return and bought something else.”

“I’m sorry, Dave.” Although Dave didn’t convey it, Quint imagined he was pissed. Quint had cost him a sale. He’d been as irresponsible as a drunken teenager—without the excuse of adolescence. “I’m leaving the house now.”

“All the furniture was moved out while you were gone.”

“Yeah, I found the note about the storage unit and the key on the kitchen counter.” He’d had to crash on the floor in his sleeping bag. “I just picked up the last of my personal items.”

“Well, okay, that’s good, actually.” Relief ran through Dave’s words. “I can put this back into the system immediately if you’ll swing by and renew the listing agreement.”

“Sure. I have to stop at the office first.” Quint stepped outside into the overcast day. The end of May gloom suited his mood. “Give me an hour or so, and I’ll head your way.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“See you around eleven.” Quint stuffed the duffle into the back of his Cadillac SUV and gave the house one last glance before climbing behind the wheel and backing out of the driveway. The development was small, full of similar homes stuffed between Siberian larch and Scotch pine, the kind of place where newlyweds started their futures.
Started their families.
Like he and Callee had hoped to do when they’d moved here.

A heaviness as dense as the cloud cover settled on his heart. He kept his eyes on the road ahead and didn’t look back. He didn’t need to see the regrets in his rearview mirror; they were etched in his brain. As he drove north toward town on I-93, the vista vast in all directions, he wondered how it could all look so familiar, so unchanged, when he felt so altered.

But something about the crisp Montana air and the wide open spaces gave him heart. In contrast, the wilds of Alaska—with giant trees pressing toward the river’s edge and just a patch of sky overhead—had made him look inward, at acceptance. Here, he could look outward, at possibilities.

Like what, if anything, he might do to salvage his business, McCoy Realty. He knew he’d be lucky if he ever got another listing in this town, but by God, he meant to try. It had taken him three years to build his reputation and clientele list into one of the best in Flathead County, and three months to destroy it. He’d gone from Realtor of the Year two years running to a pariah. The only reason the office was still open was because he owned the building.

And his office manager, Andrea Lovette, hadn’t given up on him. Although he’d given her enough reason. Was she at the office yet this morning? He dialed the number, but the female voice that came on the line was electronic.
“I’m sorry, the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

Huh? Had he misdialed? Or had the phones been disconnected? He sighed. One step at a time. Instead of hitting redial, he pulled to the side of the road beneath a billboard and punched in the office number again. Slower this time. The response was the same. He disconnected. One more grizzly to kill.

He tried Andrea’s cell phone. The call went straight to voice mail. As he waited to leave a message, his gaze roamed to the billboard. A gigantic image of his own face smiled down at him. An image taken a month before his dad died. Happy times, he’d thought then, not realizing he was already on the track to losing it all. Overworking, ignoring his wife, his mama. His dad. He shook his head. At least this was proof his business on Center Street still existed, sorry as it was. Right across from the Kalispell Center Mall.
Location, location, location
. If nothing else, he had
that
in spades. He supposed it was one positive to hang on to today.

He pulled back into traffic. He needed to confer with Andrea and figure out what steps to take to get the business back on its feet. Starting with getting the phone service reconnected. He called her cell phone again and left another message. Nothing would be easy. He didn’t deserve easy.

“Quint, my boy, there isn’t a problem so big a man can’t solve it with a piece of your mama’s sweet cherry pie in one hand and a fishing rod in the other.”

Fishing wouldn’t solve what ailed him, but a piece of his mama’s sweet cherry pie might take the edge off this morning. The thought made his mouth water, but pie for breakfast? Aw, hell, why not? His spirits could use a lift.

His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. Business as usual for a realtor. “Quint McCoy.”

“Quint,” his mother said, warming his heart and his mood. She’d had that effect on him for as far back as he could remember.

“Mama, I was just thinking about you.” He’d missed hearing her voice. “How’s my best girl? I’m hoping she’ll take pity on her poor, homeless son. Maybe do my laundry? I just left the house for the last time, and I’m feeling lower than a rattler’s belly. I have some business that can’t wait, but—”

“Uh, that’s why I’m calling.”

“How about I pick you up for lunch and you can tell me how the pie shop is coming?” She was remodeling the half of his building that he wasn’t using into a take-out pie shop. It was set to open later that month. The plans he’d seen before leaving for Alaska included a kitchen in back and a display case and counter in front. Small and compact—like his mama. He smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll see you around one, then after lunch, you can give me a tour of your little shop—”

Call waiting beeped. “Quint, will…please…I—”

He glanced at the phone’s screen. A client.
Thank God for small blessings
. “Mama, I have to run. Say, you haven’t seen Andrea, have you? She’s not answering her cell phone, and I’m hoping to get together with her today. See what we can do to salvage my realty business.”

“Well…as—” Call waiting beeped.

“Look, I gotta take this call, Mama.”

“Quint, about Andr—” Call waiting cut off his mother’s words again.

“See you at one,” he said, and switched to the incoming call, realizing as he did that some small part of him kept wishing every incoming call would be one from Callee.

Callee McCoy pulled the small U-haul truck into the parking spot at the Kalispell Center Mall, cut the engine, and listened to the motor tick-tick as it cooled. One more thing to do. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as though the vehicle careened downhill at uncontrollable speed and an ensuing crash could only be prevented if she hung on tight enough. But the crash had already occurred, rendering her marriage a pile of bent metal and smoking ash, rendering her shell-shocked at the velocity with which the devastation struck.

She felt as someone might who’d been hit by lightning twice—surprised, certain she was immune to any second such occurrence, given the first had been so devastating. Callee thought nothing could ever hurt as much as when her mother died. She’d been wrong. Losing Jimmy McCoy, the only real father she’d ever known, had knocked the pins out from under her again. This time, however, everything should have been different. After all, she had Quint.

A bitter laugh spilled from her, and she gave herself a mental shake. It was all water under the bridge. She was moving on, sadder, but wiser, the Kalispell to-do list almost complete. After landing at Glacier Park International yesterday and renting this U-haul truck, she’d visited the storage unit she’d leased before leaving for Seattle and retrieved the belongings she’d negotiated in the equitable settlement part of the divorce. This morning, she’d met with her attorney, finally given him the go-ahead to file for the final decree, and signed the required paperwork. One loose thread left to tie, and then she was out of here. Montana would be a distant memory that she could look back on whenever she felt maudlin or needed a reminder of how good her new life was.

Live and learn, her mother used to say. Of course, she always said this after bundling Callee out into the night to somewhere her latest disaster of a romance couldn’t find them. According to her grandmother, her mother was a tramp. She’d pounded this into Callee’s head from the day she came to live with her, hoping, Callee supposed, to make sure that Callee didn’t turn out the same. But the mother Callee remembered was a free spirit, always laughing and hugging and promising adventures.

When she was old enough to understand such things, she realized her mother had been acting out, rebelling against a too-strict upbringing by running wild, by living fast and hard as though she knew somehow it would all end too soon. Callee was the end product of both upbringings, as emotionally unequipped for a long-term relationship as a mother who had no idea who’d fathered Callee, and a bitter, taciturn grandmother. As proof, the first punch life threw landed squarely on Callee’s chin and knocked her clean out of the ring.

The Ring.
She glanced at the third finger of her left hand, at the diamond and emerald ring that had belonged to Quint’s grandmother. The family heirloom had a fragile, antique beauty, the platinum band filigreed. As much as she adored it, she couldn’t keep it. She tugged it off, surprised at the sudden sense of disconnection it brought—as though she’d pulled something of herself loose. Silly. She should have removed it the moment Quint walked out on her.

But she hadn’t had the courage to let him go then. Not then. Had she the courage now? Or was shaking Quint McCoy loose from her heart going to be as painful as shaking Montana from her red Dingo boots?

Callee tucked the ring into her coin purse next to a business card, trying to ignore the naked-finger sensation, but knowing it was responsible for her thoughts rolling back to the first time she met Quint. She was in Seattle, about to start cooking school, when she’d received a call that her grandmother had had a severe stroke. Callee flew back to Kalispell immediately, and it soon became apparent that she’d have to sell the house to cover the cost of a nursing home.

Quint represented the buyers. He’d come to present the offer, and one exchanged glance tilted Callee’s world. Some might call it love at first sight.

A dinner date led to a kiss; a kiss led to an endless night of lovemaking. She lost her head, her heart, and everything she’d ever meant to be in that conflagration of sensuality. They were like a Johnny Cash/June Carter song—hotter than a pepper sprout, hotter than the flame on Cherries Jubilee, the sizzle and burn an irresistible blue blaze.

Just the memory of those erotic months could melt steel, but then the fire of excitement and sexual discovery calmed to a slow burn. She still craved Quint physically, sexually, but he was so intent on building his real estate business that he no longer had time for her. Somehow, she never got around to telling him that the classes she was about to start just before they met were at a cooking school. Callee feared he might laugh, given she could do little more in a kitchen than boil water. She’d never worked up the nerve to share her secret desire to become a chef or the secret fear that she was incapable of learning to cook.