How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (9 page)

I’m a little confused. This is the most he has said the entire trip. I’m not sure what to say or how to feel. I go with less is more.

“I see,” is the most I can muster. My arms are wrapped around my body. I rub my elbows. They’re cold but smooth. At least they aren’t like my knees.

The car is coming to an intersection, and Jack has slowed down from twenty to less than five miles an hour. There’s a grocery store/mega-mart across the wet street. Jack raises his eyebrows at me, and drives the car into the parking lot. There are only four other cars in the space, which probably belong to the store employees. Or maybe a bad planner has had to rush to the store at the last minute for a missing ingredient.
Ha!
Judging from the appearance of the mega-mart, I know there are many miles to go before reaching my parents’ home. Confounded, I stare at him, waiting for him to respond.

“If we drive any farther, I’m not sure if we’ll make it to another store before it closes.” He releases his grip from the steering wheel and opens up his palms. I focus on the spaces in between his fingers. “After you get what you need, I’ll take you to your parents’ house so they don’t have to drive on the ice.”

The clock on the dashboard agrees with him and though I don’t want to spend any more time in Jack’s presence, I also wouldn’t want my parents driving out on the ice, either. The fumes are still smoking because he called me a poor planner.

“Okay.”

We get out of the car and briskly walk to the door. I’m shivering when we get inside. Why are grocery stores always so cold?

I let go of my elbows long enough to grab a basket before linking my arms together again. Jack strides over to me with a cart. This is awkward.

“Lead the way.” He motions for me to guide us through the store.

I rummage through my purse pushing aside everything that is not the list, my wallet, powder, lip gloss, keys, dead cell phone, and finally find the small piece of paper. It’s a bit crumpled up. I smooth it out and grasp it tightly. I march toward the baking aisle. The flour is easy to spot. I grab a bag and toss in a pound of sugar as well. The basket is already feeling too heavy to carry. Next on my list is vanilla. I place a bottle into my bundle.

Jack hasn’t put anything in his cart. He merely follows beside me. We stride down the next aisle. I find the molasses. The weight of my basket is causing me to lean to the left and then to the right as I switch the bundle from arm to arm. Like a true champion I manage to carry the items while walking in my heels.

What am I a champion of? An overloaded basket while walking in heels or am I champion of pride goeth before a fall? I don’t care. It’s simply too heavy. I don’t want to carry it anymore. Jack’s cart is still empty. I eyeball it, and then cast a stare in his direction. Jack smiles at me. The kind of grin that suggests he knows what I want.

I take a deep breath. Yes, I have cart envy. I will not ask to use his. My arm hurts. I shift the basket to my other arm and gawk at Aurora’s list. She wants a gallon of white vinegar, the decaffeinated loose oolong tea, natural honey, organic turbine sugar, some weird conditioner, and coconut oil.

I turn around and go back to the sugar aisle. Where is the organic turbine sugar? Scanning the rows, I can’t find it. Everything is a blur. Jack is watching me with what appears to be a hidden smile, and behind his smile is an empty cart.

I hesitate for a moment longer and then ask, “Do you see any organic turbine sugar?” I don’t want to delay our time further and two sets of eyes are better than one.

Grabbing the bag right in front of me, he places it in my basket.

Embarrassed, I flush. I’m looking like a fool in front of him. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Can I help you with any other items?” Jack’s smile is so warm and inviting, how can I resist? I let go of my pride and hand the list to him.

Jack’s eyebrows raise as he gives it a once over. I shift the basket from one arm to the other. Both are now sore from the weight of its contents.

“Follow me,” he says, taking the basket from my arm. He places it in his cart—the cart that was empty until then.

He strolls through the store as if he had stocked the shelves himself. Doing my best to keep up, I follow behind him. The clickety-clack on the tile floor from my heels is the loudest sound in the store other than the dreadful elevator music trickling through the overhead speakers.

Jack grabs a bottle of coconut oil from the metal shelf. “That’s everything on the list. Do you need anything else?”

He stares at me. My insides are melting, which is the diversion that keeps me from biting my tongue. I speak without hesitation. “A drink.”

Jack nods and pushes the cart to the wine aisle, stopping in front of the eight rows of green and black glass bottles. The artistic labels tempt me to grab one of each. I judge wine and books by their labels. Jack cocks his head to the right. His eyes meet mine and he selects a Malbec from the top shelf. Jack holds it in the crook of his left arm as his fingers trail over the labels of wine. He steals a glance in my direction. He’s like a sommelier trying to determine what type of drink I would enjoy. Jack nods his head and chooses a Merlot from the shelf beneath it.

With the two bottles in the cart, he caresses my arm. “Let’s check out.”

The heat from his touch has evaporated any noxious fumes that were holdovers from his poor planning comment. Jack has already released my arm, and he’s walking toward the checkout. I shake my head and chase after him.

The pitter-patter of my shoes is a loud reminder to slow down. I do not want to experience another Bambi moment in the store. I stop half-running and ease my stride to my most graceful walk. One foot in front of the other I do my best to catch up with him at a moderate pace.

The front of the store is twenty feet away. Twenty feet and two expensive bottles of wine stand between me and an uncomfortable situation. I pause for a second, debating internally how I should handle this situation. Fear of embarrassment tells me to suck it up and be prepared to pay for the drinks. Two bottles of wine are certainly less than a cab.

The sound of ka-ching interrupts my nonsensical monologue in my mind.
Huh?
Jack is signing the sales receipt for the groceries that are already bagged at the end of the register.

I take a deep breath. “What are you doing?”

Jack hands the cashier the signed slip. “Checking out. The store is closing.”

The clerk seems tired and ready to go home. I don’t want to cause a scene. I can use the spare emergency check I keep tucked inside my wallet for situations like this. Well, I’d never have thought I’d experience a day like today. Nonetheless, writing him a check in the car can solve this dilemma. Maybe he wants me to pay him for gas, too. Or what if he is expecting something else? My chest tightens.

“Lauren, are you okay?” Jack sets his palm on my back. For some reason I want to put my head on his shoulder and smell his cologne again. He wears the kind of cologne you smell at a department store, and in one whiff, you remember the moment when you sniffed it for the first time.

“Yes.” I follow him to the store’s exit.

The cold air on my face brings me back to the present. Jack dashes ahead of me and opens my car door. Once my feet are tucked in, he shuts out the cold. After securing the groceries in the back seat, he slides into the seat next to me. The car’s heat is blasting but I’m still shivering.

The warmer weather outfit I selected this morning isn’t exactly protecting me from the elements. Which has nothing to do with poor planning. I
did
check the weather forecast.

“Would you like my coat?” Jack asks.

Shaking must be a turnoff for him. The cozy, woolen jacket he’s wearing is very appealing. How does he have a warm coat when it’s supposed to be seventy plus degrees today? Planning must be a strong suit for him.

“I’m good, thanks.” I pull out my emergency check and unfold it. In my best handwriting I inscribe two hundred dollars on the line. That ought to cover the groceries and some of the gas. Maybe even two ounces of pecans. I’m not giving up on getting those before we part ways.

“Jack, what’s your last name?” I ask as I endorse my own name on the line.

“Walker.”

“Jack Walker!” I say, unable to hold back my giggle.

“Does my name amuse you, Lauren?”

“No.” I scribble Walker next to Jack on the payee spot.

I slide the check in the console. I’m not even going to mention it. This will avoid any confrontation. I don’t want to experience another pecan store scenario. Besides, the only showdowns I enjoy are when I can hide behind my computer screen and go into battle with a customer. That I can handle.

“What is that?” Jack asks, eyeing the check.

“Payment for the groceries.” I nod. My shoulders rock back and forth.

“Oh.”

He shakes his jaw, and his eyes bulge a bit. Surely he doesn’t think I’d let a stranger pay for my groceries, including those two expensive bottles of wine?

Our car inches onto the access road. We’re avoiding the highways. The engine and the crunching of the tires against the asphalt are the only sounds. We’re avoiding all overpasses that most likely have spots of black ice. The dashboard clock shows it’s now 6:19 p.m. My parents are probably worried.

“Could I try using your phone again?”

“Of course.” Jack digs back into his pants pocket for his phone. He offers it to me.

There’s still no signal. I put the phone in the console. Hopefully, my parents aren’t freaking out.

“Do you have any kids?” I ask.

“Kids? Why do you ask?”

I frown. Answering a question with a question is one of my biggest pet peeves. “I was just thinking about my parents. So is that a yes?”

“No, it’s not a yes.” Jack’s eyes are on me. “Do you have any kids?”

“Why so curious?” My lips curl up to the right almost like the Joker.

“So single and no children then?”

“I don’t have any children, but what makes you think I’m single?” I ask, perplexed by his insinuation.

“You haven’t mentioned anyone other than your parents and you’ve been flirty with me.” He shrugs his shoulder.

I take a deep breath. “Flirty? I think you might need to get your flirt-o-meter adjusted. I was only interested in your pecans.” I flutter my eyelashes in exasperation.

“Well, you aren’t going to get your hands on my pecans,” he says with his head cocked to the right as he stares at me.

I bite my lip. “You’ve made that perfectly clear, Jack Walker.” I slowly let out a sigh, I don’t want him to know that I’m bothered.

But I do want his pecans. I can’t believe how recalcitrant he is being. Surely he doesn’t need them all. Maybe he will spare two ounces. His demeanor has definitely changed and he is being flirty, whether he wants to vocally admit it or not.

“How many pies are you planning on making for Thanksgiving?”

“Ten pecan pies, five pumpkin pies, and two apple pies.” Jack gazes up to the car roof as if the numbers are written on the ceiling.

“Do you have a bakery?” There’s no way he will be able to make that many pies in time for tomorrow with a standard-size kitchen.

“No, but I have a commercial kitchen with several ovens.”

“Are you baking all the pies yourself?” I throw my head back.

“Well, the pumpkin and apple pies are done. My job is to make the pecan pies.”

“You’re going to bake ten pecan pies all by yourself tonight?” My eyes almost hurt from bulging. Surely, someone is going to help him, otherwise it would take forever.

“Yes. Although, my plans included my getting to the kitchen a lot earlier.” He caresses the back of his neck.

I want to rub his neck, too. “Can I help you make the pies? It’s the least I can do.” I’m kind of surprised as the words come out of my mouth. But if I help with his pies, I bet there will be an extra two ounces to spare. My pecan pie depends on it.

“Lauren, is this an actual offer of assistance or are you trying to pilfer my pecans?”

I ogle at him with mock horror and place my hand over my heart. “Jack Walker, I am only offering my assistance in baking pies, nothing more, nothing less.” I flick the air.

Jack studies the clock on the dashboard. He’s most likely contemplating how long it would take for a one-man pie show to power through the making and baking of ten pies.

“You can call your parents to assure them of your safety from my landline in the kitchen.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Lauren, I’ll accept your offer of assistance. However, I’ll be watching you…so no pecan pilfering.”

I stick my tongue out at him.

“Yes, definitely single,” he says.

Chapter Four

My knees are knocking next to each other and my teeth are chattering as I wait for Jack to get us into his rental business property. He swipes a key fob over a black square attached to the glass door. The door has one of those steel metal bars over the midway point.
Interesting security measure. What type of place is this?
I follow behind him through a small entryway and then we take a right. The hallway is barely lit by the red glowing exit sign above the door. He pushes some code into a keypad outside another dark door. The box beeps and we walk into a dark room
. Lights would be nice
. Almost as if on cue, the room becomes illuminated and I’m no longer imagining my demise.

We’re in a large kitchen. The countertops are white Formica and the cupboards are honey-colored oak. There is a row of six white ovens and two refrigerators that match. The kitchen is somewhat dated but it’s clean—not a spot to be found or crumb in any crevice. It’s sterile. If Jack hadn’t mentioned that the place was some sort of apartment community, I would have assumed we were in a hospital kitchen.

Jack is standing near a phone that’s connected to the wall. It’s one of those multiline telephones. It’s white. The walls are white. Other than the cabinets it’s almost like being in a snowstorm. Not just because of the whiteout, but the room is cold, except for the grin on Jack’s face.

“Did you want to call your parents?” He’s holding the receiver of the phone.