Page 15 of Baking Spirits Bright!

“Yes.”

I laugh. “He does go over the top. But there’s a tour of lights tomorrow night. You should go.”

I park in front of the gazebo beside Ryan’s rental car.

“Will you be there?”

“Hmm?”

“The tour of lights.”

I usually don’t go since I drive past all the stops, or could anytime I want. However, I want an excuse to see him again.

“I can go.”

“Good. Text me the info, and I’ll see you then.” He smiles and gets out of the car before I can respond.

My insides jolt as I watch him drive away. This is the first time I’ve had a connection with anyone in years.

Of course it would be with someone from another state.

Mama and Aunt Margaret are doing a test run for the bake-off.

They were warned ahead of time that I wanted to take photos of them baking for the website. Both are dressed like modern-day Stepford wives, even though they normally bake in old T-shirts and jeans.

In my opinion, it’s more about showing the process and not their appearance, but their generation is hung up on everything looking proper.

Nostalgia hits me as I watch them roll out dough. Brooke and I loved helping Grandma with dough. That was long ago before she retired, and we grew up.

Most of what’s kept me here so long is the memories. It’s great working with my family, but I’d like to explore more marketing beyond apples.

My dad, uncle, and cousin Luke come in after the pies are in the oven.

“What time is everything ready?” Luke asks.

“Soon.” Aunt Margaret huffs. She shakes her head at Mama and me.

“You said you needed taste testers,” Daddy comments.

“We do,” Mama admits.

I laugh and snap a photo of them lined up against the counter, arms folded, staring at the oven. It beeps, and Aunt Margaret holds them off while she takes out the pies.

“This one has pecans, and this one has caramel, and this is the original cinnamon apple.” She fans them with a potholder. “Give us a few minutes to cut them and let them cool.”

“Let me take photos before you cut them.”

“Of course.” She moves back, but stays in front of the men.

They’ve been known to crowd food like buzzards over roadkill.

“Too bad your friend isn’t here to taste test,” Mama says.

“What friend?” Brooke’s voice calls from the doorway.

I turn to Brooke, her son, and her fiancé all staring at me.

And here we go. Half the family is in this room, giving me a questioning eye and a gossiping ear.

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