Drive Me Wild - Melanie Harlow Page 0,90

second page, which was considerably older than the first. It was lined paper that might have been white once upon a time, but was yellowed now, its texture as soft as cotton, its corners frayed. I gasped. “It’s a recipe!”

The handwriting was faded, but I could make it out. Betty’s Apple Pie, it said at the top.

I scanned the list of ingredients and the instructions as a lump formed in my throat. I could see how over time, she’d adjusted things, changed her mind about certain amounts or techniques or spices. “Lard in the crust, doesn’t surprise me. But cardamom does!” I exclaimed in surprise. “She used cardamom in her filling!”

“Is that . . .” Cheyenne’s tone was reverent, her eyes wide. “Is that Betty Frankel’s apple pie recipe?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Oh, my God! It exists!” Cheyenne squealed. “All these years there were people who claimed to have seen it, but no one was ever able to find it. It was like the Loch Ness Monster of Bellamy Creek!”

“Who’s Betty Frankel?” asked Frannie.

While Cheyenne explained the story, I turned to Mr. Frankel’s letter and read it with tears in my eyes.

Dear Blair,

I hope this letter finds you well. Since you left Bellamy Creek, I have been doing a lot of thinking about different things you said. I want to thank you again for visiting me and listening to me ramble on about the past. It meant so much to me.

But I have been thinking about the future too, and I have realized that you were right about life’s journey being full of twists and turns. Some of the most joyful things in my life were the most unexpected, born of following my heart. I hope you continue to follow yours.

You mentioned ending up in Bellamy Creek because of Betty’s apple pie. Although that pie hasn’t existed here in several years, I am sending you this recipe in the hope that it may again someday. (And then, you see, that little twist will become a loop . . . and perhaps a knot will be tied.)

Or perhaps I am just a silly old man with romantic notions. I will leave that to you.

Anyway, I kept the recipe to myself in the years since I lost Betty for several reasons—denial that she was never coming back, a selfish desire to keep something of her to myself, fear that if someone else were to bake her pie the magic surrounding her memory would vanish. But I know better now. And I trust you with her legacy.

She would have loved your generous spirit . . . even if she might have been a little envious at how much I enjoy your baking!

Sincerely yours,

Charlie Frankel

P.S. I have taken your advice and contacted Doris Applebee about the idea of a historic walking tour. We are meeting Friday afternoon for tea to discuss it. I suppose I am still a work in progress at age eighty-eight!

“What did he say?” asked Cheyenne.

“He said he kept the recipe to himself for personal reasons, but now wants me to have it because he trusts me with her legacy,” I said, wiping away tears.

“Oh, that’s so sweet.” Frannie put a hand over her heart.

“It really is,” Cheyenne added, her eyes shining. “Are you going to bake it?”

“I want to. But it doesn’t feel right to just bake it and sell it here, you know?”

“Hmm.” Cheyenne thought for a moment. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why not bake some for the cakewalk my mom organized for the anniversary event at the garage this weekend?”

“She organized a cakewalk for the event?”

“Yes, and ticket sales will benefit the animal shelter.”

I smiled. “That’s a great idea.”

“So you’ll do it? I think there would be a lot of excitement once word got around that Betty’s apple pies are up for grabs!”

I nodded. “Definitely. What are you serving in the lobby with coffee?”

Cheyenne looked guilty. “Store-bought cookies.”

“Good Lord. No.” I shook my head. “Let’s think—today is Thursday, the event is Saturday. I can make them tomorrow, along with a sheet cake for the lobby, and then drive them down in the morning.”

“That would be perfect,” Cheyenne gushed.

“I would be happy to help,” offered Frannie. “You can use the kitchen here, and we can even bring the girls in on it. You’ll have five sets of hands.”

“You’re the best, Frannie.” I smiled at her. “I’d love that.”

“So I’ll see you Saturday morning?” Cheyenne asked.

“Yes. But Cheyenne . . .” I stopped and took a breath. “I don’t want to