But this would have to be their last date.
She was not enamored with the prospect of spending her days answering his questions.Would you like to open the door or should I, Penelope? Is it okay if I go to work now? May I lock the car? Can I get myself a drink?
Cameron didn’t have a Montana heritage or quick comebacks. He didn’t know that she liked fried chicken and he didn’t babysit his friend’s newborn baby and he didn’t make her laugh.
His name was not Eli.
Chapter Six
Penelope was spending the Fourth of July inside the 1955 Jewel camper trailer that she’d gutted and converted into a mobile pie shop. From her position at the window where customers placed orders, she had a view of the town’s central park. The old brick buildings framing the park contained a cute mix of shops, government offices, restaurants, and corporate spaces.
Every time the stress of the busy day had begun to fray her nerves, she’d lifted her gaze to the ancient, calming mountains in the distance.
Geologists speculated that the Blue Ridge Mountains had once resembled their young cousin, the Rocky Mountains—all jagged and high and self-important with youth. But the centuries had worn the range down in the same way that time wears down and matures all things. Because of that, the slopes, hollows, and aged forests of the Blue Ridge whispered to Penelope of their stalwart ability to endure and endure andendure.
Misty River had been founded in 1823. Like a child hesitant to stray too far from its mother, the town’s earliest buildings clung close to the river. Misty River’s hills wore forests that turned brilliant with color every autumn. Waterfalls carved pools into the earth. Mist often hovered low here. And clouds often hovered high.
Through the decades, the residents of this town had stitched a tapestry marked with shades of honor as well as shame.
When gold had been found in these mountains in 1829, European and American settlers flocked to the area and, in doing so, trespassed on the ancestral land of the Cherokee. The Cherokee fought for their rights in court. The government bowed to pressure from miners and corporations, eventually forcing the migration of the Native Americans via the Trail of Tears.
Later, when America hovered on the brink of Civil War, Rabun County voted not to secede from the union. They were overruled by urban centers. Georgia, and with it Misty River, had gone to war for the Confederacy and thus for the continuance of the abomination of slavery.
During World War I, a hero from Misty River gave his life to protect his fellow soldiers at the Battle of Cantigny and was honored with the Distinguished Service Cross.
In World War II, a nurse from Misty River had valiantly treated soldiers in Normandy after D-Day.
Penelope’s town had emerged from its pock-marked past humbled, wiser, and with a patriotic heart. It was famous for its beauty, its orchards, its vineyards, and a group of kids (now adults) known as the Miracle Five.
Ever since today’s Fourth of July parade and the ceremony honoring servicemen and women had concluded, throngs of people had been drifting to the classic car show nearby, the carnival rides at First Baptist Church, and Polka-Dot Apron Pies.
It was three thirty in the afternoon now and the onslaught had finally calmed. Blowing a tendril of hair out of her eye, Penelope smiled at the next customer in line, a cute little grandmother.
“Two slices of apple pie à la mode,” the older woman said.
“You bet. Anything to drink?”
“Just water, please.”
“Certainly.” Penelope passed the order along to her sole employee, Kevin.
Turquoise paint coated the outside of her trailer. Pink-and-white-striped wallpaper brightened the inside. Two windows crowned with awnings—one for ordering, one for pie pick-up—marked the exterior.
Penelope handed the grandmother her change.
Whenever she and Kevin worked the camper at the same time, like today, she ran the register and he plated. She had an easier rapport with customers and Kevin was fastidious at plating.
She passed over the two slices of pie, crowned with scoops of photo-worthy vanilla ice cream softening in cinnamony rivulets down the pie’s sides thanks to the day’s eighty-seven-degree temperature.
She glanced across at Kevin. “How’s our inventory?” It would be a travesty to run out of apple pie on America’s birthday.
“Running lowest on apple, but we’ll have more than enough to make it to the end of the day. Good planning, boss.”
“Thanks.”
A recent college graduate, Kevin was pale, slight, and already prematurely balding.
“Really good planning, boss.” Kevin nodded at her, retaining hopeful eye contact.
