“I’ve never heard of a cherry bourbon pie before,” he said. “The tag here says this is the best cherry bourbon pie in all of Arkansas, is that true?”
“Yes sir,” I pulled out the pie and placed it on the counter. “This is the best—”
“No it’s not,” Lola snatched the pie from me and placed it back behind the glass. “I don’t want to lie to you sir. The best cherry bourbon pie is two miles down at a bakery called Sweet Seasons. It’s absolutely phenomenal! One slice will change your life!”
WHAT THE HELL IS SHE DOING?
“It’s that good?” he looked like he didn’t believe her.
“Trust me! If this is your first time in Arkansas, and you want the best pie our state has to offer, go there right away.”
“Well, thank you for your honesty,” he smiled and walked out.
“We just lost more money,” I tried to remain calm.
“I know.”
“The purpose of a business is to make money, not lose money. And I’m pretty sure—actually I’m one hundred percent sure, that the company handbook doesn’t say anything about hand delivering your customers to a competitor!”
“I’m sorry,” she folded her arms. “Are you the manager?”
Don’t blow your cover…
“No. No, I am not the manager.”
“Really? Well, are you the head baker?”
“No. I’m not.”
“That’s right,” she nodded her head. “You are a coffee barista and a green apron barista at that! You haven’t even earned the black expertise apron! You—”
“You know what? I’m sorry. I was clearly out of line and—”
“You do not want to get on my spicy side, Ethan Reynolds! I can turn into a pretty heated pumpkin spice latte!”
What! Is she on DRUGS?
She continued. “I don’t care how many times you’ve read that company handbook! If a customer comes in and ever asks for an honest opinion about sour cream apple pie, mile high chocolate pie, or cherry bourbon pie, I’m going to tell them the truth. And the truth is, Sweet Seasons’ pies are a whole lot better!”
“May I ask why that’s the case?”
“No! You can go over there and sort out the coffee beans for the mid-day rush!” she stormed off.
“Don’t worry man,” the head baker patted my shoulder and laughed. “She’s like that with everyone, it’s not just you.”
“Right…Well, can you tell me why our cherry bourbon pie isn’t as good as—”
“Sweet Seasons?” he smiled. “I love that place! I take my lunch breaks over there, but don’t tell Lola...Anyway, what do you think are the two key ingredients in a cherry bourbon pie?”
“Cherries and bourbon?”
“Exactly. That’s why,” he picked up a tray and I followed him into the kitchen. “In our pies, we use canned cherries and bourbon syrup. Sweet Seasons picks their cherries from the farmer’s market, and they use real bourbon.”
“Ethan! Why aren’t the coffee beans being sorted?” Lola screamed.
When it was time for my lunch break, I drove over to Sweet Seasons. I needed to know what all the rage was about.
Chapter 9
Selena
Sweet Seasons still smelled like freshly baked bread and lightly buttered waffles.
The polished pine floors still creaked in certain spots—their “authenticity factor”—and my dad’s old handcrafted furniture looked as if he’d made it yesterday.
My mom had added additional space to the dining area, making the room accessible for at least one hundred seated customers. She’d bought a more modern glass case to display her pies, and added fresh greenery to the outdoor patio.
Despite her updates, the bakery’s business was a lot slower than I remembered. There was the early morning rush and the lunch rush, but there were few customers in between. The ones that did come in sporadically simply wanted their items “to go.” They didn’t want to sit down and chat like they used to—not that too many people spoke to me anyway.
Outside of a “Hey, it’s been a long time!” “Good to see you again!” and a “Welcome back to the real America!”—no one paid me much mind. They weren’t the slightest bit fazed by my celebrity status. They acted like I was any other town person, failing to feed my need for attention.
Even my family—with the exception of my mother, treated me as if I was just like them. They hardly ever asked me questions about the celebrity life. They were more concerned with filling me in on the mundane things I’d missed over the past four years: Quilting competitions, state fair baking contests, small town weddings, and of course, the latest BBQ fest on the Mississippi River.
“Selena,” my mother handed me a notepad. “My afternoon waitress called in sick again. Go take care of that guy by the window. He already has a menu, just take down what he wants.”
Before I could protest, she slipped into the kitchen.
I had no desire to do any waitress work. I just wanted to sit in the kitchen and bake in oblivion every day: The less people who saw me in a tacky Sweet Seasons uniform, the better.
I took my time walking over to the guy who was dressed in an oversized black polo shirt, light khaki pants, and a brown trucker hat that covered half his face.
I waited for him to notice me and cleared my throat. “Welcome to Sweet Seasons. What do you want?”