How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (12 page)

“Do you have any crazy family stories or wild tales?” Maybe Jack’s great hair is like a softball thrown by Mother Nature to balance things out. But then if that were even possible, where are my softballs? So far today has been a bunch of strikes. Well, except for…
Jack
.

“Crazy family stories. Hmm. My Aunt Minnie has five cats. Does that count?”

“A herd of cats… No, that’s pretty average.”
And also boring
.

I’m more of a dog person. Cats have always scared me. They creep up on you and stare you down. But that’s beside the point, I actually don’t have any pets. Too much of a commitment. If I want a weekend getaway I can leave without making arrangements. And I do not take this for granted. Sure there have been plenty of times where I would have enjoyed a fluffy mate on the couch, but I haven’t been willing to give up my independence, yet. I never share this with possible love interests. The most responsibility I’m willing to take on with a living thing is a plant. And I have several, some that have been with me for years. Just give them the right amount of water and sun and all is good in a green world.

“Sorry. That’s all I’ve got,” he says with a shrug.

This is not the face of a dull man. The fire is reflecting from his eyes, only causing them to flicker even more. The light blue, pin-striped shirt he’s wearing is begging to be unbuttoned, maybe a few notches to start. Clearly, I need to keep talking. The roaming charges on my brain are going to a place of no return. Swerving back to my network of comfort, I decide chatting is the way to go. Talking I’m good at. It’s what I do for a living. People pay tons of money to hear me talk.
Ha!
This makes me sound like a phone sex operator, which I am not. I work at an investment firm.

I’m going to get under Jack’s skin. “Sometimes explanations of the ordinary are only attempts at a good cover-up. Maybe your buttoned-up, clean-cut look is your way of hiding something.”

“I’m not much of a hider. I think I’m more of a finder. Which worked out well for you today.” He brushes my cheek with his fingers. They move down to my jawline, as though he’s outlining my face. He reaches my chin and pulls it up.

“Yes, but I wasn’t really hiding.” I let my eyes meet his. They’re sending tugging sensations to my chest, causing me to breathe heavily. I break our tunnel vision and stare at my glass.

Jack knocks his knee against mine. “Lauren, is this your attempt at asking me to play hide-and-seek with you? ’Cause if so, I’ll oblige, but when I find you, then I choose the next game,” Jack says with an intense smile.

Apparently he didn’t get the memo about slow and steady wins the race. And he did mention in the kitchen about being a fast guy. Hmm…maybe he is looking for some sort of weekend hook-up. I’ve never been one for that scene.

He bumps our knees together. Electric currents flare up my thigh. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. My eyes are fixated on his but the invisible brigade over my shoulder forces me to look away. Taking an internal cold shower only helps me a little.

“We should probably check on the pies.” I’m not ready to play hide-and-seek with Jack,
yet.

He offers his hand, and I clasp it with my own. This small dose of chivalry is further indication of something more than pie baking and maybe he doesn’t have quickie intentions. But I don’t have long-distance expectations, either.

The smell of the toasty pecan pies invades my senses as we walk into the kitchen. The aroma is delicious. Is it possible to gain weight off of fumes? I hope not. I want to sit in a hot tub of these smells and soak them all in. Maybe, even add a little whipped cream on Ja—

The release of our latched fingers slaps me back to my actual location, which is the kitchen. I stand by the counter with my glass of wine and watch as Jack rhythmically takes the pans out of the oven. One by one and on the counter they go. He works quickly, as if he’s in a hurry to get to something else and not just trying to make sure the pies don’t burn.

The pies are impressive. Like, front-page worthy. These are the types of pies that people grab their cell phones and snap twenty or so photos of to upload to Instagram, #MMM #Pie #NomNomNom, making sure they use every possible background and lighting
. Oh yes, check out what I’m about to eat.
I bet there is even a pie selfie hashtag. Maybe it’s called a #pieshelfie.
Ha!

My smile can’t be any wider, not only from my own hilariousness but these pies are amazing. A sense of pride overcomes me. My grandmother will be proud. Even if she didn’t give me her prized recipe, I did make a beautiful pecan pie.
In fact, I made six pecan pies!
Each pie is placed on a separate cooling shelf that Jack arranged earlier. There is a round, black clock on the wall. It’s old school, like something out of the sixties. The hour hand is hovering over the ten while the minute hand is almost to the three spot.

“The directions indicate to let the pies cool before removing them from the rack,” Jack says as he places his recipe card on the counter. His gaze is burrowing into me.

It’s so intense that I have to look away. I pick up my glass and take a big gulp. The heat should be tempered on some other things as well. Starvation is crawling around inside my stomach. The smell from the pies is making me weak. Coupled with the wine, I feel a smidge dizzy. Jack must be hungry as well.
Someone please send me a rope, I’m going to fall off the cliff
.

“The pies smell sensational.” I nervously laugh at my own joke.

“It must be our special recipes.” Jack walks up behind me and kneads my shoulders.

Are pecan pies an aphrodisiac? I’ll need to check this out later.

“Very special.” I take a deep breath and turn around. He drops his hands to my waist.

“Would you like something to eat? We
are
back in the kitchen,” Jack says, motioning to the room.

“Are you a mind reader?”

“Maybe.” He grazes my chin with his knuckles, and then strides to one of the refrigerators.

Jack grabs several packages of cheese out of the fridge and a big, red heirloom tomato. His eyebrows raise as though he’s trying to prepare me mentally for what he is about to make. From the cupboard Jack takes out a different cutting board, and slices thick cheese squares and juicy tomato circles. At the stove he opens a drawer and takes out a large cast iron skillet. He flicks on the gas, heating up the pan.

Jack pulls a big loaf of bread from a white breadbox on the counter. He unravels the twisty tie with skill. I’m unraveling on my own accord as I view this live cooking show performance. With one swipe in the bag he has four pieces of bread. He places them on the cutting board. Jack layers the cheese and tomato into two large sandwiches.

The amount of butter Jack smears on each piece of bread would make Paula Deen and my mom nod with approval and any cardiologist shake their head in disappointment. Drizzling olive oil in the pan, he reminds me of an artist creating his own version of
Starry Night
. Okay, maybe not
Starry Night
. He’s probably more of a Pollack type of painter, but not as messy.

Jack slides the sandwiches off the spatula and into the hot pan. The oil sizzles. He feasts his eyes on me as if to imply the sandwich is only the beginning of the meal. His icy blues are dancing and his lips are curled. The butter melts on the outside of the sandwich and meets the oil in the pan.

I fan myself and back away, pretending I can’t take the heat from the stove. When really I can’t take much more of Jack’s hotness, he has moved into a completely different category than just piquing my interest. My imagination is throwing so many different scenes and versions of future situations that include Jack, my breathing is heavy. I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to take a slow deep breath, exhale and calm down. My wine glass is sitting all alone. I move in to rescue it from being a wallflower, and take a full-bodied sip.

Jack sears the bread. Brown rimmed squares with flecks of golden hues rest in the pan like a sunset in the fall. There’s not much room for error in achieving the ultimate level of crispiness in a grilled cheese sandwich. Obviously being a watchful chef, one with an intense stare, is a key factor to this formula. My mouth salivates in anticipation of that ki-
crunch
.

I grab onto the counter behind me to steady myself into reality. Jack strides towards me and comes in close to my face. I part my lips expecting he’s going to kiss me. Sandalwood and apples sift in through my nose, I close my eyes and inhale. The sound of a cupboard door opening causes me to open my own eyes. Jack’s eyes are not on me. He selects two plates from the cupboard next to me and marches back to the stove. I drop my mouth open and quickly close it. I don’t want him to think I was expecting a kiss.

Jack lifts each sandwich out of the pan and places them on the white ceramic plates.

"Do you want to eat here or we can go and sit down in the dining room?” Jack motions towards a set of double doors in the back of the kitchen.

I need to stand and stay mobile. If I sit down, I can only imagine what types of footsie games could occur at a table.

“Let’s stay in here.” I grab the bottle of wine and refill each glass. I probably should be drinking some water along with this. My head is fuzzy. Not about where I am but with who. Is Jack someone I should be expecting a kiss from? Or should I eat my sandwich and get home?

The sandwich on my plate is amazing. It has the perfect mixture of crispy tan with just a few specks of black. The cheeses are oozing out of the sides. I cannot wait any longer inspecting the gloriousness of it. I pick up the masterpiece and take a big bite. Delicious would only be the beginning of descriptions. It’s so creamy—like magic in my mouth. I savor each one of the flavors.

“What types of cheeses are in this?” I ask.

“Mozzarella and Fontina.” His eyes flicker as he takes a bite and nods at me.

I take another bite and nod back. In unison we silently devour our sandwiches. Despite my hunger, this has to be the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever had—and my mom makes a mean grilled cheese. Jack has got some serious cooking skills.
What other skills can he show me?

“You make a superb grilled cheese, Jack Walker.” I take another scrumptious bite.

“Lauren, this is only a morsel of what I’d like to prepare for you.” Jack takes a bite and chews with a hunger that suggests the sandwich isn’t fulfilling.

Where did this come from? I flitter my eyelashes and take a drink. Does Jack want to make me more food? As in, want to make something more of this moment than pecan pie? I was expecting a kiss by the cupboard but I was obviously wrong.

I take another bite and let the flavors mull around in my mouth.

“The pies are probably cooled by now,” I say.

“Definitely.” He pops the last of his sandwich in his mouth and stands up. He walks to the far end of the kitchen and opens the pantry door. I finish the last morsel of my sandwich. I really want to lick my fingers to enjoy any last remnants of the butter, but I’ll refrain. My grandmother is a real stickler for licking one’s fingers.
“Germs, Lauren, do you want to get sick?”
She always questions me.
No, Grandmother, I do not want to get sick.

Jack returns from the pantry with a pizza-sized box and places it on the counter next to the pies. He wraps one of the pies with foil that he’s taken out of a drawer. Jack securely places the pie inside.
Good planning skills
.

I need to turn down the heat of this room. Is there a vent or an air duct that can extract some of this sexual tension? Pies and wine, are they an aphrodisiac? And I thought it was chocolate and wine. Or maybe it’s chocolate and wine for when you’re alone? Another thing to research later. But who am I kidding, I’m not going to research that, the only thing I want to research is Jack. I lick my lips. Out of the corner of my eye, Jack is staring at me. I focus my attention on finding my purse and bite the inside of my cheek to refrain from saying or doing anything that I’m not ready for
yet
.

My purse is sitting on the counter like a rescue boat of distraction. I blow air through my lips to create a makeshift fan on my face. With my purse on my arm, I take our plates to the sink and run hot water on them. Steam rises in the air. Perspiration beads form at my hairline. I wipe them away.

I’m not ready to melt with Jack
yet
. I live in Maryland. He lives here. We should let this be simply pies. The level of attraction might not even be mutual. I might be overthinking the whole thing and Jack is just a nice guy who wanted to make pie with me. A nice guy who rescued me and came within inches of kissing me. I roll my lips together.

I turn off the hot water and head for the door. The brisk weather is going to be the only thing around here that can cool me down.

“Ready?” Jack asks me with the pie in his hand.

I’m not sure if I am ready to leave. This will be the last time I see him and for some reason this makes me sad.

I’m at a loss for words. I nod to answer his question. He opens the door to the kitchen and I follow behind him down the hallway and out of his rental property place of business. Business, this is all this was.
Business.
The business of baking a pecan pie. Jack is a business man and this is his focus. I have my own focus. I made the pecan pie for my family and now I get to experience the success of this with them.

The fresh air hits my face—a small remedy. I shudder, but take comfort that for once the chilly breeze is an ally as it tempers my blood. I’m still overheated from the kitchen even with all of my internal pep talks. The mind is a strong thing.

Jack opens the car door for me and waits while I get in. He places the pie in the back seat and closes my door. He runs around to the driver’s side of the car and slides into the seat. Immediately his presence warms me.

“If you take I35 south my parents live in a neighborhood off of 2243.” I peek in his direction.

“Gotcha.” Jack pulls out of the parking lot. The night is dark with only a sprinkle of light from the stars.