I shook my head. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve never made a pie in my life.”
“I feel a baking lesson coming on,” Norah said, sipping her tea with a smirk.
Something fluttered in my chest. Excitement. Hope.
I turned to Lindy. “Would you?” I asked before I could talk myself out of it. “Show me how?”
Lindy raised a brow, clearly enjoying herself. “You wantmeto help the competition?”
I shrugged. “If it helps, I’d probably ruin it before it even hits the oven.”
She tilted her head, pretending to think it over. “Well…I suppose, as long as you promise not to flirt with the judges or sneak off behind the quilts with one of them.”
Norah groaned. “Mom…”
“I’m just saying,” Lindy went on, totally unfazed. “I’ve been burned before, and I won’t lose another blue ribbon to a bad pie and young knees.”
I laughed out loud, nearly choking on air.
“I’m only teasing, hon,” Lindy added with a wink, her voice softening as she tossed me a dish towel. “You’re welcome in my kitchen anytime.” She pointed to a door across the room. “Wash your hands and grab an apron. Once you slip that on you can help me peel and slice these peaches.”
Nodding, I moved toward the door but hesitated when I reached it, my hand brushing the fabric of the apron as I pulled it out. It was worn soft from use, the neck loop faded from the wash. Something about that small detail snagged on me.
My mom used to wear aprons like this. Not often like Lindy did, but when she did, it meant she was trying—trying to be domestic, to hold it together, and to keep things feeling normal without my dad around. After he died, she went inward in this way that made me feel like I was watching someone perform a version of themselves. Like she was pretending to be okay for as long as she could stand it. Baking wasn’t something she did often, but when she did, it wasn’t for joy. It was like it was for survival—a way to prove to herself that she was still capable of life’s simple joys. I could count on one hand the number of times she let me help her in the kitchen after he died, and most of those ended in tension and takeout. I hated how the bad memories surfaced more than the good, because she wasn’t a bad mom. She was just…lost.
The knot that quickly formed in my throat surprised me, but I cleared it away as I slipped the apron over my head and tied it clumsily behind my back.
“Everything okay?” Lindy asked.
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just...I don’t know. This feels weird, that’s all.”
Lindy nodded, like some motherly instinct had her understanding what I hadn’t said out loud. “Don’t overthink it. First rule of pie-making,” she held up her index finger, “don’t be afraid to make a mess. That’s how the good stuff happens.”
She then handed me a paring knife and nudged a bowl of peaches toward me. “Start slicing. We’ll ease you in.”
I picked up a peach and did my best to mimic her technique. I wasn’t as elegant as she looked doing it, but Lindy didn’t comment. She just kept working beside me, humming under her breath and tossing the slices into a mixing bowl. It wasn’t long before the counter was dusted in flour, and the beginnings of a laugh rose in my chest—loosening something inside me.
Maybe it was the smell, or the way Lindy looked so at home in her kitchen. Or maybe it was the fact that no one expected anything from me except that I try.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed this kind of warmth. Not the baking, but the being invited in. The casual welcome. The way they just made room.
A thump at the screen door pulled my attention. Zane stepped inside, brushing his hand through his hair, his T-shirt damp from sweat and his expression unreadable.
He looked at me, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward just slightly.
I quickly turned back to the cutting board, pretending not to notice the way my heart picked up pace. There’d be time to unpackthatlater.
Lindy gestured at the growing mess I’d made. “Not bad for a first timer. We’ll make a Texan out of you yet.”
“I wouldn’t gothatfar,” I muttered.
But I smiled as I said it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Andi
The barn light was on.
