Delectable

Book 1: Big Sky Pie

by Adrianne Lee

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Montana real estate agent Quint McCoy will tell you that the most important thing is location, location, location. It's a lesson he learns all too well when he goes incommunicado for a four-week fishing trip to Alaska. While he's away, his mother Molly turns his office into the pie shop she has always dreamed of, Big Sky Pie. But that's not the only surprise in store for him. On her way out of town, Callee McCoy only wants to say a fond farewell to her beloved mother-in-law. But Molly soon persuades Callee to stay and lend a hand at the new shop, even if it means heating up the kitchen with her soon-to-be ex. As Callee and Quint rediscover their recipe for love, they realize that some couples are so sinfully good together that one delectable taste is never enough . . .

Release date: September 3, 2013

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 273

Sample

Prologue

Quint, my boy, there isn’t a problem so big that a man can’t solve it with a piece of your mama’s sweet cherry pie in one hand and a fishing rod in the other.” Quint McCoy heard his daddy’s mantra as loud and clear as if Jimmy McCoy stood beside him.


But Jimmy would never stand beside him again. And the echo in Quint’s ear was nothing more than a death knell damning him for not heeding this advice, for not freeing up one afternoon in the past year to spend fishing with his dad. Although his dad had kept asking.

A widow maker, the heart specialist called it. Fine one minute, gone the next.


The shock had hit like a lightning strike, knocking Quint to his knees, physically and emotionally. He’d held his weeping mother and his devastated wife, their tears wetting his shirtfront as he tried to console them, unable to console himself. No piece of pie would ease this loss.

More than half the population of Kalispell, Montana, had turned out for the memorial service. Jimmy McCoy was well-respected and deeply mourned. Not even that consoled his son. As he stood next to the casket, Quint felt guilt and grief seep into his spirit, into the soft tissues of his brain, his heart, his soul, and streak them all black. He stumbled through the funeral, through the celebration of life party after, and through the weeks that followed. He lost long stretches of time and couldn’t say where or how. He couldn’t concentrate on work and started avoiding the real estate office, failing to return important calls. At home, he operated on rote, barely speaking to or acknowledging his wife, Callee.

And then one day, anger overtook the numbing denial, grabbing hold of Quint like a tangle of barbed wire, mean and infectious. He lost all reason. Said hateful, hurtful things. Blamed the real estate business he’d struggled so hard to build. Blamed, also, his sense of obligation to Callee and their fledgling marriage for keeping him from fishing with his dad. He damned them both. Damned himself more.

Two of his friends intervened, talking him into an afternoon of fishing on the local Stillwater River. The moment his grip wrapped the fishing pole, Quint felt the restriction around his chest loosen. He could breathe without choking up or breaking down. From then on, he went fishing every time grief and guilt overwhelmed him—which was often and inopportune. Like on the night of his second wedding anniversary. He completely forgot the special occasion and the surprise Callee hinted at, and took off on a two-week fishing trip with his buddies. He sent her a text when he was on the road to Idaho.

But fishing wasn’t a cure-all. It couldn’t bring his father back, or permanently stave off his sorrow. Grief took an even tighter stranglehold. When he came home, Quint couldn’t handle Callee’s hurt and anger. Or their ensuing argument. At its apex, he shouted, “I can’t take this shit anymore!”

Tears streamed down her face. “This shit? You mean our marriage?”

The tightness in his chest returned, clamping like a vise. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He threw his hands up in frustration and rage. “I don’t know what I mean. Everything. All of it.”

“Quint, please, talk to me. Share your feelings with me. I loved your dad, too.” She sobbed, reaching for him. “We can work through this together. Please, let me help you.”

He recoiled from her touch, stepping beyond her reach. He didn’t deserve to be consoled. Or loved. “No, no. I can’t stay here. I’m leaving.”

“But…what about us? What about me? What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. Divorce me.”

Chapter One

I am one sorry son of a bitch, Quint McCoy thought. A complete, total fuckup. He didn’t have a clue how to rectify the wrong he’d done. It had taken thirty days fishing in the wilds of Alaska, starting in Ketchikan, then deeper inland to the Unuk River, to bring him to his senses. To make him realize he couldn’t run from the pain of losing his dad, or from the grief, or the guilt. He couldn’t shove it all away. Or cut it out. It would always be inside him, wherever he was—as much a part of him as his black hair and his blue eyes.


Now that he was back in Montana, in the empty house he’d shared with Callee for two short years, he faced another raw truth. He’d bulldozed his life. Leveled every good thing about it. Nothing left for him but to move on and recoup. Somehow.

He grazed the electric razor over the last of the month-old beard, leaving his preferred rough skiff of whiskers on his chin, and slapped on cologne. After four weeks in a small cabin with three other guys, he appreciated the scent of a civilized male. He took note of new lines carved at his mouth and the corners of his eyes, lines that bespoke his misery. Losing your dad, and then your wife, will do that to you.


He wasn’t proud of the man in the mirror. He didn’t know if he ever would be again. He’d trashed his marriage to the only woman he’d ever loved, or probably ever would love. Treated her like the enemy. And worse. Her mother died when she was seven, leaving her to be raised by a taciturn grandmother. She’d grown up feeling unwanted and unloved. He’d made her feel that way all over again. He hated himself for that. If Callee never spoke to him again, he wouldn’t blame her.

But then, he wasn’t likely to have a chance to speak to her. She’d left his sorry ass, let their lawyers hash out the equitable property settlement, and moved to Seattle right after he told her to divorce him. It took twenty-one days for the paperwork to go through the legal system. By now, he was a free man. And he didn’t like it one damned bit.

Quint glanced at the mirror once more, expecting to see Dumb Shit stamped on his forehead, but only noticed that he needed a haircut. He pulled on dark-wash jeans, a crisp blue dress shirt and tie, and his favorite Dan Post boots. His dirty clothes went into the duffle on the floor. A scan of the bathroom showed nothing was left behind. He swiped his towel over the sink and counter and stuffed it on top of his laundry, then a second quick perusal, and a nod of satisfaction. Nothing forgotten.


He plunked the tan Stetson onto his still-damp hair and grabbed the duffle. His boot heels thudded on the hardwood floors, echoing through the empty split-level as he strode the hallway, and then down the stairs to the front door.

As he reached the door, his cell phone rang. He snapped it up and looked at the readout. A fellow real estate agent, Dave Vernon. “Hey, Dave.”

“Quint. Well, hang me for a hog. ’Bout time you answered your phone. You still in the land of igloos and Eskimos?”

“I wasn’t that far north, Dave. But, no, I’m in town.”

“Well, now, that is good news. Glad to hear it. How was the fishing?”

“Okay.” If the trip had been about the fish, then the fishing was actually great, but it hadn’t been about salmon twice as long as his arm. It had been about his inability to deal with the loss of his dad. His inability to stop setting fire to every aspect of his life.

“You still want me to sell your house?”

“That I do.”

“Well, as you know, I had it sold…until you decided to skip town. The buyers got tired of waiting for you to return and bought something else.”

“I’m sorry, Dave.” Although Dave didn’t convey it, Quint imagined he was pissed. Quint had cost him a sale. He’d been as irresponsible as a drunken teenager—without the excuse of adolescence. “I’m leaving the house now.”

“All the furniture was moved out while you were gone.”

“Yeah, I found the note about the storage unit and the key on the kitchen counter.” He’d had to crash on the floor in his sleeping bag. “I just picked up the last of my personal items.”

“Well, okay, that’s good, actually.” Relief ran through Dave’s words. “I can put this back into the system immediately if you’ll swing by and renew the listing agreement.”

“Sure. I have to stop at the office first.” Quint stepped outside into the overcast day. The end-of-May gloom suited his mood. “Give me an hour or so, and I’ll head your way.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“See you around eleven.” Quint stuffed the duffle into the back of his Cadillac SUV and gave the house one last glance before climbing behind the wheel and backing out of the driveway. The development was small, full of similar homes stuffed between Siberian larch and Scotch pine, the kind of place where newlyweds started their futures. Started their families. Like he and Callee had hoped to do when they’d moved here.


A heaviness as dense as the cloud cover settled on his heart. He kept his eyes on the road ahead and didn’t look back. He didn’t need to see the regrets in his rearview mirror; they were etched in his brain. As he drove north toward town on I-93, the vista vast in all directions, he wondered how it could all look so familiar, so unchanged, when he felt so altered.

But something about the crisp Montana air and the wide-open spaces gave him heart. In contrast, the wilds of Alaska—with giant trees pressing toward the river’s edge and just a patch of sky overhead—had made him look inward, at acceptance. Here, he could look outward, at possibilities.

Like what, if anything, he might do to salvage his business, McCoy Realty. He knew he’d be lucky if he ever got another listing in this town, but by God, he meant to try. It had taken him three years to build his reputation and clientele list into one of the best in Flathead County, and three months to destroy it. He’d gone from Realtor of the Year two years running to a pariah. The only reason the office was still open was because he owned the building.

And his office manager, Andrea Lovette, hadn’t given up on him. Although he’d given her enough reason. Was she at the office yet this morning? He dialed the number, but the female voice that came on the line was electronic. “I’m sorry, the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”


Huh? Had he misdialed? Or had the phones been disconnected? He sighed. One step at a time. Instead of hitting redial, he pulled to the side of the road beneath a billboard and punched in the office number again. Slower this time. The response was the same. He disconnected. One more grizzly to kill.

He tried Andrea’s cell phone. The call went straight to voice mail. As he waited to leave a message, his gaze roamed to the billboard. A gigantic image of his own face smiled down at him. An image taken a month before his dad died. Happy times, he’d thought then, not realizing he was already on the track to losing it all. Overworking, ignoring his wife, his mama. His dad. He shook his head. At least this was proof his business on Center Street still existed, sorry as it was. Right across from the Kalispell Center Mall. Location, location, location. If nothing else, he had that in spades. He supposed it was one positive to hang on to today.


He pulled back into traffic. He needed to confer with Andrea and figure out what steps to take to get the business back on its feet. Starting with getting the phone service reconnected. He called her cell phone again and left another message. Nothing would be easy. He didn’t deserve easy.

“Quint, my boy, there isn’t a problem so big a man can’t solve it with a piece of your mama’s sweet cherry pie in one hand and a fishing rod in the other.”


Fishing wouldn’t solve what ailed him, but a piece of his mama’s sweet cherry pie might take the edge off this morning. The thought made his mouth water, but pie for breakfast? Aw, hell, why not? His spirits could use a lift.

His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. Business as usual for a Realtor. “Quint McCoy.”

“Quint,” his mother said, warming his heart and his mood. She’d had that effect on him for as far back as he could remember.

“Mama, I was just thinking about you.” He’d missed hearing her voice. “How’s my best girl? I’m hoping she’ll take pity on her poor, homeless son. Maybe do my laundry? I just left the house for the last time, and I’m feeling lower than a rattler’s belly. I have some business that can’t wait, but—”

“Uh, that’s why I’m calling.”

“How about I pick you up for lunch and you can tell me how the pie shop is coming?” She was remodeling the half of his building that he wasn’t using into a take-out pie shop. It was set to open later that month. The plans he’d seen before leaving for Alaska included a kitchen in back and a display case and counter in front. Small and compact—like his mama. He smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll see you around one, then after lunch, you can give me a tour of your little shop—”

Call-waiting beeped. “Quint, will…please…I—”

He glanced at the phone’s screen. A client. Thank God for small blessings. “Mama, I have to run. Say, you haven’t seen Andrea, have you? She’s not answering her cell phone, and I’m hoping to get together with her today. See what we can do to salvage my realty business.”


“Well…as—” Call-waiting beeped.

“Look, I gotta take this call, Mama.”

“Quint, about Andr—” Call-waiting cut off his mother’s words again.

“See you at one,” he said, and switched to the incoming call, realizing as he did that some small part of him kept wishing every incoming call would be one from Callee.

*  *  *

Callee McCoy pulled the small U-Haul truck into the parking spot at the Kalispell Center Mall, cut the engine, and listened to the motor tick-tick as it cooled. One more thing to do. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as though the vehicle careened downhill at uncontrollable speed and an ensuing crash could only be prevented if she hung on tight enough. But the crash had already occurred, rendering her marriage a pile of bent metal and smoking ash, rendering her shell-shocked at the velocity with which the devastation struck.

She felt as someone might who’d been hit by lightning twice—surprised, certain she was immune to any second such occurrence, given the first had been so devastating. Callee thought nothing could ever hurt as much as when her mother died. She’d been wrong. Losing Jimmy McCoy, the only real father she’d ever known, had knocked the pins out from under her again. This time, however, everything should have been different. After all, she had Quint.

A bitter laugh spilled from her, and she gave herself a mental shake. It was all water under the bridge. She was moving on, sadder, but wiser, the Kalispell to-do list almost complete. After landing at Glacier Park International yesterday and renting this U-haul truck, she’d visited the storage unit she’d leased before leaving for Seattle and retrieved the belongings she’d negotiated in the equitable settlement part of the divorce. This morning, she’d met with her attorney, finally given him the go-ahead to file for the final decree, and signed the required paperwork. One loose thread left to tie, and then she was out of here. Montana would be a distant memory that she could look back on whenever she felt maudlin or needed a reminder of how good her new life was.

Live and learn, her mother used to say. Of course, she always said this after bundling Callee out into the night to somewhere her latest disaster of a romance couldn’t find them. According to her grandmother, her mother was a tramp. She’d pounded this into Callee’s head from the day she came to live with her, hoping, Callee supposed, to make sure that Callee didn’t turn out the same. But the mother Callee remembered was a free spirit, always laughing and hugging and promising adventures.

When she was old enough to understand such things, she realized her mother had been acting out, rebelling against a too-strict upbringing by running wild, by living fast and hard as though she knew somehow it would all end too soon. Callee was the end product of both upbringings, as emotionally unequipped for a long-term relationship as a mother who had no idea who’d fathered Callee, and a bitter, taciturn grandmother. As proof, the first punch life threw landed squarely on Callee’s chin and knocked her clean out of the ring.

The ring. She glanced at the third finger of her left hand, at the diamond and emerald ring that had belonged to Quint’s grandmother. The family heirloom had a fragile, antique beauty, the platinum band filigreed. As much as she adored it, she couldn’t keep it. She tugged it off, surprised at the sudden sense of disconnection it brought—as though she’d pulled something of herself loose. Silly. She should have removed it the moment Quint walked out on her.


But she hadn’t had the courage to let him go then. Not then. Had she . . .