How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (11 page)

“Can you please pass the brown sugar?” I eye his bowl, he is working much faster than me.

Jack lifts the bag and hands it to me. His fingers reach past the bag and he grazes over my knuckles and then down to my fingertips. My heart skips a beat as I make eye contact with him. He releases my hand and picks up the bottle of vanilla.

Oh sweet vanilla,
this man is setting my body ablaze. I cannot get sidetracked. I can’t make any mistakes in the numbers of cups I’m dumping into this batter. And six I count as the last of the brown sugar makes touchdown in my bowl, on to my next ingredient. At this pace I won’t be done until after midnight. I grab the flour and lift the shiny metal lid and scoop out six servings of the white powder and pour into my bowl. I eye Jack’s bowl, it’s fluffy, creamy, caramel tastiness. I want to stick my finger in it and sample his mix.

My own bowl pales in comparison to his. It’s like which bowl is made by a professional and which one is made by a child, not even an amateur. Even my area is a mess compared to Jack’s not a spot of flour around the outside of his bowl.
Take it easy, Lauren, it doesn’t matter if he finishes before you.
It only matters to get this recipe done correctly,
exact servings.
I pour the vanilla into the glass cup and drop the dark liquid into the creamy batter. If I were alone in this kitchen I would have already tasted the batter. I lick my lips instead.

“Here comes the milk man, making a delivery.” Jack bumps me with his elbow. I’m still mixing my batter. He pours the white liquid into my bowl.

“Moove it mister, this is my bowl.” I nudge him back. I might be slow, but I do want to make my own batch of pie, the point of the recipe was that I did it, not some pro-chef. If I was going to have someone else bake our pie I could have just bought one at the store and avoided all of this.

“Lauren, I’m trying to help you moooove it, but you’re moving as slow as molasses.” He places the cup of measured bark-colored liquid next to my bowl.

I grab the glass handle of the measuring cup. I’ll be the one dumping the molasses no matter how long it takes. I drizzle the dark syrup into my bowl. “This might come as a surprise to you, but this is my first pie-baking experience, so I’m working with a learning curve, okay?” I slant my eyes in his direction.

“Lauren, all of your curves are great, but it’s getting late. We still have to get these pies in the oven.” He runs his fingers through his blond hair.

“For being so salty, I wouldn’t think you would forget to add it to the ingredients.” I hold up the recipe card and show him the amount of salt we need.

Jack eyes the card. “You’re a good catch, Lauren.” He strides to the pantry in the back of the kitchen and returns with canister of salt.

I am a good catch. I finally caught something in the recipe before screwing it up. I don’t even want to know what would have happened if we had made the pies without the salt. If my home economics teacher were here she would be ready to roll out a big sermon about missing ingredients and how important it is to read each item carefully and measure out the exact amount, not a particle of salt over the listed amount.
“It matters, it always matters.”

I take the precision part seriously and toss the exact amount of salt into each of our bowls. They are similar now. Other than the mess on the outside of our bowls, I don’t think there is much of a difference other than mine has one extra pie. A pie I will be taking home to my family.

Jack opens up one of the refrigerators. Inside is what you would expect to see at a bakery. Rows and rows of piecrusts. I count them as he removes them from their metal shelves and places them on the white counter. Eleven, which is one more than he actually needed. I guess that falls under his good planning skills of having an extra piecrust just in case. Jack steals a glance in my direction as he places the last pan onto the counter.

He picks up his bowl and evenly pours the mixture into his five pie pans already filled with crusts. Precise would be a good word to describe the way Jack works. Science and math were probably easy subjects for him in school.

I lift my own bowl and fill the pies in front of me. A bit of batter covers up some of the crust, I try to clean the crusts as much as possible with a paper towel from the counter. They are not as perfect as Jack’s but for my first pie-baking experience I think they are something to be proud of.

“I think it’s time for the
pièce de résistance
.” There’s a playful glimmer in his eyes.

What is he thinking? Is he scheming about how he’ll reciprocate the flour that I painted on his face? Or is this another innuendo at my expense?

The bag of pecans is still in my purse. I toss it with Jack’s pile.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Jack hands me a mallet of some sort.

I imagine Thor handing over Mjölnir. In a way, Jack does have some resemblance to Thor.
Hmm
…dark armor instead of that buttoned-up collar shirt. Then again, just popping the buttons open, one by one… What lies underneath all that starch? Underneath all that business, what kind of man is Jack covering up?

“It’d be my pleasure.” I take the silver hammer, ready to do some damage to the pecans.

I peek over my shoulder, like a golfer about to tee off. Jack’s watching me—with what? Is that anticipation? The mallet comes down hard, crushing the pecans beneath my wrath. I smash and smash until they are tiny bits of their former selves. Little pecan particles lie inside the bags.

Jack takes the hammer from me. His eyes flicker and he nods in appreciation, as if I achieved the ultimate level of smashing status on a game. Jack offers me a pair of black handled scissors. “Shall we?”

I accept the scissors. “We shall.” And as if a race gun has been fired we speedily snip through each of the bags racing to see who can cut the most bags.

“Finished.” I slam down the last bag and let out a deep breath.

“It wasn’t a race, Lauren.” Jack raises an eyebrow at me.

“Wasn’t a race? Then why were you cutting them bags so quickly?” I crinkle my eyebrows.

“I’m just a fast guy.” He lifts my chin up and our eyes meet. I break our stares.

“It’s rather hot in here, did you already pre-heat the oven?” I stride over to check on the ovens.

“I did. Pre-heating is essential in all things.” He dumps some of the pecans on the pies. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

I bite my tongue. I need to refrain from responding, this kitchen is too hot for my liking. I won’t deny the attraction but I have to be real with myself. Jack lives here and I do not.

“Yes, Jack, pre-heating is part of the directions.” I measure out my own pecans and sift them onto the pies. I wish the battery on my phone wasn’t dead, I would take a pic.

“Not bad for a first time pie baker.” Jack pats my back.

“Yours aren’t too shabby either.” I laugh and follow him and his pies to the ovens. The kitchen has enough ovens pre-heated and ready to bake our eleven pies.

He closes the final white oven door and turns towards me. “Can I offer you that drink now?”

“Here?” I point my finger down, inquiring if he means in the kitchen.

“The pies take a little under an hour to bake, and I happen to have wine glasses here in the kitchen.” He gestures for me to take in our surroundings.

I purse my lips to the side and nod. Jack grins back at me and strides over to the cupboard near the refrigerators. He selects two wine glasses from a cabinet and the higher-shelf Malbec from the grocery bag. Jack tugs on the drawer under the counter and grabs a corkscrew. The bottle opens with ease. He sets the corkscrew on the counter and wiggles his eyebrows at me.

I laugh and shake my head. Yes, being flirty is definitely on his mind.

He pours a healthy amount into each goblet, and then offers me one. “Happy Thanksgiving Eve.”

We clink our glasses. I feel a bit of an electric shock from the goblet.
That’s not scientifically possible
.

“Happy Thanksgiving Eve, Jack Walker.” I take a taste of the wine. It’s spicy and robust. The aroma lingers in the air. I swallow a bigger sip and savor the complexity of it. Definitely a nice finish.

I gaze up at Jack. He’s watching me.

“I really like the flavors of the wine.” I tip my glass to him.

“Do you feel them dancing along your tongue?”

His eyes make my heart flutter. Music begins to strum on my inner chords but it’s not the bumblebee, it’s more like sun lightening up the daytime. His gaze is strong—stronger than the sip of Malbec. Or it could be the wine is full-bodied, with its high tannins, and
my
stomach is empty
. Although the wine isn’t the only full-bodied adventure in this room.

“Yes. Almost like a tango, gliding across my taste buds.” I take another sip. The spicy liquid slides down my throat.

Jack double-steps toward me. In one swift movement he has his arm wrapped around my back, holding me close. I place my wine on the counter and grab onto his arms to steady myself. I hope I don’t fall.

His biceps are hard beneath the starched shirt. I rub my fingers over them. Jack smiles at me. His neck is close. The scent of freshly chopped wood and mint drift around, tempting me to lean in. It’s as though a trail of seduction has left a path and is asking me to take a walk in the forest on a crisp autumn day. And I want to explore further and see what I can discover.

Jack’s stare is like sitting by a fire, toasting inside and out. “Would you like to go sit down in the lounge?”

“That’s probably a good idea. I didn’t bring my dancing shoes,” I say as he brings my body back to a standing position.
Wow, I need to catch my breath.

“Special attire isn’t necessary to tango. Just a good partner.” Jack grabs the bottle of wine and his glass. He takes my hand with the other.

I follow behind him, admiring his broad shoulders. Has he ever been a rancher? No, he has more of the architect type of style. He is so formal in appearance. But with those dance moves…that opens up an entirely different category for my imagination.

Wine wanderings of the mind, I need to circle on back. The lounge is a small room with a few tan leather couches and a sandstone fireplace. Seeing a fireplace in Central Texas is always funny to me. I guess on a night like tonight it isn’t so bad. But in general, how many opportunities do you really have to light a fire?

Jack motions for me to sit on one of the couches. I slide onto the leather loveseat. He swipes a match across the brick and tosses it inside. A flame flashes up, flaring white before settling on a golden hue. That was quick. It must be gas. He turns off the overhead light and the room is dark other than the flickering from the fire. The absence of the incandescent glare is soothing.

My hair is wiry and still a bit damp. I’m sure it emulates a disaster. I flush, embarrassed by how I must appear to him. I pat my hair, wishing I had a swat team makeover crew on call ready to execute a quick fix to this wreck.

“Your hair doesn’t look that bad,” Jack says, almost as though he’s reading my thoughts.

“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment, though most gals might prefer something a bit more.”

“Well, it looks better than it did when you drove into the pecan farm parking lot,” he says, nudging my knee, “blaring, what was that?”

I blush…
Aurora,
and Brian for that matter. How is it that both of my siblings ended up with such ducks? One of my father’s terms. I guess it sounds better than whack jobs or loony-bin clientele.

Jack’s hand is resting on my leg. It feels heavy. Not in a bad way—rather, I picture it moving to other areas of my body.

My chest rises and falls. “The sounds weren’t mine, and…the blaring…that wasn’t by choice. My sister’s husband, Brian, recently installed a new disc changer for my mom, and the music…well, I’m assuming that was from my brother’s wife.” His eyes are squinted as I speak. “And…well, let’s just say he isn’t exactly the best electrician, or plumber for that matter.” I toss my hair back, or rather
try
to toss my frizz nest back.

Jack smiles. He massages my knee and runs his finger over my scrapes. He puts his wine down and kneels to inspect my wounds. “Did you fall today?” He gazes up into my eyes with deep concern.

I’m embarrassed. I purse my lips and speculate about how to respond. “Yes. I had a little Bambi moment when I was walking in the ice storm.”

“A Bambi moment?” He laughs. “I wish I’d been there.”

My mouth drops open at his admission, and I shove him backward. He loses his balance and falls onto the tile floor. I expect he’ll immediately get up, but he doesn’t.

“Jack?” I take a deep breath. “Jack, seriously. Are you pretending?”

He’s like a cadaver on an exam table, completely lifeless.

I get down on my knees and peer in close to his face. “Jack?”

He still doesn’t respond. Has he been knocked unconscious? Is that even possible?

I investigate his neck, checking for a pulse, assuming it’s there. Arms wrap around my shoulders and tug me down until I’m inches from Jack’s smirking face.

I bite my lip. “Not funny.”

“Lauren, I warned you when you had your flour-drawing moment.” He traces his index finger across each of my cheeks, reenacting what I’d done earlier.

Now I want to bite that finger. My shoulders and eyebrows rise up in unison.

Jack pulls me to my feet. “Seriously, though. I’m sure your Bambi moment was a sight to see. But what I was trying to say is that I wish I’d gotten to you before you fell.”

“I see.” I nod and look for my wine. I’m parched. Being with Jack on the floor, wrapped in his arms with the flames flickering in the background…I’m on fire. I need a distraction, something to focus on. In Jack’s arms I’m falling. Going down a path I’m not sure if I’m willing to take.

Jack sits back down and takes a sip of his wine. He runs his massive hand through his hair. Something I’m unable to do with mine. My frizz nest brushes up against the back of the couch. It sounds like some sort of animal scratching at the back door. It’s crinkly. Unlike Jack’s, which is undeniably soft and clean. I’m having hair envy.