He nodded like he understood. “Some days are just like that. I’ll be right back.”

Two hours later, I was still sitting out on the porch with him, finishing a third glass of iced tea, laughing at his terrible old man jokes and listening with rapt attention to all his stories about growing up in Bellamy Creek. I especially loved hearing about how he’d fallen in love with brown-eyed Betty Brinkerhoff the day he first saw her in the second grade, but he hadn’t worked up the nerve to talk to her until high school.

“Her family owned the diner, and I’d go there every day after school for a chocolate soda just to see her behind the counter,” he reminisced. “I didn’t even like chocolate soda.”

I laughed. “True love.”

“I finally invited her to go to a movie with me, and her answer was, ‘Well, it’s about time, Charlie Frankel.’ I think I asked her to marry me on our first date,” he said, chuckling fondly. “And she said she would.”

“That’s sweet,” I said. “Sometimes you meet someone, and you just know.”

He nodded. “Exactly right. And if you know, what’s the use of wasting a whole lot of time hemming and hawing about it? Everyone said we were too young to get married—we were only eighteen—but I’m telling you, we just knew. And we had seventy years together. Isn’t that incredible?”

My throat tightened. “Yes. It is.”

He sighed. “I miss her every single day. But I feel lucky I had her as long as I did.”

“I’ve heard wonderful things about her baking,” I said. “That apple pie must have been something else.”

“It was. It was.”

“Do you know that’s what brought me to Bellamy Creek? I saw the sign on the highway advertising the best apple pie in the Midwest since 1957, so I got off the road and came looking for it.”

“Isn’t that something?” Mr. Frankel looked pleased.

“Of course, I was sad to learn the pie doesn’t exist anymore.”

He shook his head. “No one can replicate it, although plenty have tried. But Betty had a secret recipe she never shared with anyone. It won a national contest. That’s how she got such a big reputation.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

“I always told her she should open up her own bakery, but she never wanted to. She said she was content baking pies and things in small batches for the diner just like her mother had, and raising her family. She volunteered a lot too. She loved this town. And people loved her.”

“I can tell.”

“She was special,” he said, getting misty-eyed. “And I want people to remember her. If just anyone could bake that pie, they’d forget her.”

I reached out and put my hand on his arm. “I don’t think this town will forget her. I never even met her, but I can picture her behind the counter just like you described, with her big brown eyes and curly dark hair, wearing a white apron and waiting every day for you to come in for a chocolate soda you hated.”

The smile was back on his face. “She knew I hated it too. Later she confessed she and her sister Louise would laugh about how funny my face looked as I choked the last of it down.”

I laughed, patting his arm before rising to my feet. “Thank you for sharing your memories with me. I needed to smile today.”

“Anytime.” He stood too. “I’m sad you’re leaving, Blair. I’ve really enjoyed your company, and we’ve talked all about me the entire time.” He shook his head. “Betty would be in fits!”

“That’s all right. I don’t really have a story to tell yet anyway. I’m sort of . . . a thirty-year-old work in progress.” I smiled and felt my throat catch. “But I hope I find a happily ever after as wonderful as yours.”

He smiled. “You will.”

“You think so?”

“I know it. Now you might have to be a little patient,” he said as he walked me down the porch steps toward my car. “As my wife would attest if she could, sometimes it takes boys more time than it takes girls to work up the kind of courage you need for a love story. I mean, even two people who are meant to be together are going to have their trying times and misunderstandings. You’re going to say things and hear things that sting. But you don’t give up.”

I turned to face him. “I won’t.”

“Thank you for coming to see me today. I don’t get many visitors.”

Something occurred to me. “Mr. Frankel, do you know Doris Applebee?”

“Sure, I know Doris. She grew up over on Elizabeth Street. I knew her husband Roy too. He passed a few years back.”

“Well, Mrs. Applebee was in the garage the other day, and she happened to mention how much she loves chatting about local history. In fact, she mentioned some interest in putting together a walking tour of the historic district.”

“Did she? That’s a good idea.”

“I think so too, and with your knowledge of the homes on this street and your family’s heritage, I think you’d be a real asset to her. Maybe you could invite her for tea sometime.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mr. Frankel looked distressed. “People might talk.”

“So let them!”

“And she might not want a partner on the project.”

“Well, you can find out, can’t you?”

“And I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was trying to replace Betty.”

“I don’t think a single soul would imagine that.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll consider it.” Lost in thought a moment, he gathered himself and focused on me. “Now don’t be a stranger, okay? You come back and see me. Turn off the highway when you see the sign for the pie.”

Laughing, I rose up and kissed his cheek. “I will. But they should probably take that sign down, don’t you think?”

His cheeks turned red. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“That’s my sign. I keep it up because I want people to remember her,” he said sheepishly. “But I’m sorry that it led you off course.”

“You know what?” I smiled at him, even though my heart was heavy. “I think the best journeys have a lot of twists and turns, don’t you? They’re not just a straight line. And you have to be open to following your heart and seeing where the road takes you. My heart brought me here, and I’m not sorry.”

But as I drove out of town and got on the highway, I cried like a baby.

Twenty-One

Griffin

The night after Blair left, we lost our baseball game to the Mavericks.

It wasn’t the championship game or anything, but it was the final game of the regular season, and losing to them sucked.

The entire game was a shit show. Moretti reinjured his groin sliding into third, Cole threw more balls than strikes thanks to his sore shoulder, and I got into it with the first base ump after he made a bad call in the bottom of the ninth. The Mavs’ runner was clearly out—I know I was on the bag with the ball in my glove when he ran past me, but the call was “safe.”