“He needed it.” Cheyenne laughed. “All that adrenaline was too much for one small town when he was young. But it’s amazing to me the way you understand him, Blair. It’s so obvious how good you are together.”

I shrugged helplessly. “Not much I can do if he doesn’t feel the way I feel.”

“But he does.” Cheyenne banged her palm on the marble. “That’s what kills me—he does. I can see it. My mother sees it. The whole town sees it!”

“You know, if it makes you feel any better, Blair, Mack gave me a really hard time too,” offered Frannie.

“Really?” It shocked me, because he was so crazy in love with her now.

“Oh, God yes. You can ask his girls sometime. He was awful. He ended things because he was convinced that he would never get married again or have more children, and he knew I wanted those things. He looked at it like he was doing me a favor—breaking it off quickly so that I’d move on and find the right person for me.”

“That’s what Griffin said too! That he was doing me a favor.” I shook my head as my eyes filled. “But it’s not true.”

“Of course it’s not,” Frannie said, taking my hand. “What he’s doing is what Mack did—retreating so he doesn’t have to deal with his baggage. Face his fears.”

“Exactly,” Cheyenne said.

“And the worst thing is, there’s nothing you can do about it.” Frannie squeezed my hand. “He just has to be miserable enough without you to come to the conclusion that what you have is worth the risk.”

“I don’t think that’s ever going to happen,” I said sadly. “And the sooner I face reality, the better.”

“Listen, my bullheaded brother isn’t really why I came to see you. I have something for you.” Cheyenne pulled a large yellow envelope from her bag and slid it across the counter toward me.

“What is it?” I picked up the envelope and looked at it. On the outside, my name was written in wiggly black ink.

“It’s from Charlie Frankel,” she said with a giggle. “Maybe it’s a love letter.”

“Who’s Charlie Frankel?” asked Frannie.

“He’s a cute old widowed man in our town with a gigantic crush on Blair,” said Cheyenne. “He was devastated when she left Bellamy Creek.”

“He liked my baking,” I explained, sliding my finger along the envelope’s seal.

Cheyenne laughed. “I’m pretty sure he liked the entire package. He’s rich too, you know. Maybe he can be your sugar daddy.”

I rolled my eyes. “No, no. He’s more like the grandpa I never had.”

“Anyway, he went over to the garage and gave this to my mother—she’s back behind the desk now—and Mom asked me if I could get it to you. I was going to mail it, but I decided to come for a visit instead.”

“She called me yesterday to tell me she was driving up,” explained Frannie with a guilty smile, “but I wasn’t allowed to say anything.”

“It’s a great surprise,” I said, smiling as I pulled two pieces of paper from the envelope. “Thank you.”

“So what is it?” Frannie asked curiously.

The top page was a handwritten note from Mr. Frankel on plain white paper. “Looks like a letter and . . .” I looked at the 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.”