🔹 PART 7
“The town begins to notice the new pies—but someone from Emily’s past notices her.”
By mid-June, the town of Galesburg was whispering about the pies.
It started with the raspberry.
Then came the lemon custard, light as breath and just tart enough to make you blink.
Then the maple pecan that drew Mr. Hank, who never stayed past ten, back in at two thirty for “just a sliver more.”
Frank joked that they should change the name from Jessie’s Diner to Emily’s Pies, but Emily refused. The old name stayed. It had roots too deep to rip up.
Still, the chalkboard menu grew.
And so did the line at the counter.
Some nights they ran out by seven.
Emily stayed up late experimenting—sifting, tasting, humming. Her mother’s letter stayed pinned above the prep station. Lucky curled by the back door, belly up, catching sleep between baking sessions.
One evening, just after closing, Emily sat on the back steps, apron dusted with flour and cinnamon. She had a slice of her newest recipe—peach bourbon crumble—balanced on a chipped plate.
Fireflies blinked in the grass. Frank was locking up the front.
That’s when she heard the voice.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Still putting cinnamon in your peach pies?”
She turned.
And nearly dropped the plate.
His name was Colin West.
Back in high school, he’d been all charm and second chances. The kind of boy who kissed you on the swing set and promised a whole world outside the county lines.
They’d both wanted out. Both sworn they’d leave and never turn into their parents.
But life had different plans.
Colin left after graduation. Emily went to college. They drifted. There were letters. Calls. Silence. Then nothing.
And now, he stood before her—thinner, tanner, older. The stubble on his jaw was flecked with gray, and his boots were worn. A delivery tag was still half-pinned to his shirt.
“Colin?” she asked, heart pounding.
“Thought I was passing through,” he said, offering a crooked smile. “But someone told me Jessie’s had pies now that were worth turning around for.”
Emily blinked. “You didn’t come back for pie.”
He tilted his head. “Didn’t know you’d be here. But I hoped.”
They sat on the back steps.
The pie went untouched.
Lucky sniffed Colin once, then curled protectively beside Emily.
“You never wrote back,” she said finally.
“I did,” Colin replied. “Twice. You were already in Denver by then. I think I mailed ‘em too late.”
She looked away. “I figured you moved on.”
“I did,” he said honestly. “Sort of. Took a job running supplies between Peoria and Davenport. Still do.”
“And now?”
He smiled. “Now I’ve got a dog named Smokey, a bum knee, and an odd habit of buying peach pie in small towns.”
Emily laughed softly. “Some things change.”
“Some don’t,” he said, looking at her. “You still hum when you bake?”
Her cheeks flushed.
“I do,” she whispered.
Frank stepped out a few minutes later, eyebrow raised.
Colin stood quickly and offered his hand.
“Mr. Delaney. Been a long time.”
Frank shook it slowly. “You’re taller.”
Colin chuckled. “That’s the boots.”
Frank looked at Emily.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “Just catching up.”
Frank didn’t press. He just nodded once and went back inside.
Colin leaned back on his heels.
“I won’t stay long,” he said. “Just… wanted to say it’s good to see you.”
Emily studied him.
“You still chasing something?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just circling back to what I left behind.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t ask him to leave, either.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
She sat at the kitchen table, flipping through her old college journals. The pages were filled with dreams about city offices, corner desks, business cards with foil-stamped logos.
But none of it smelled like cinnamon. None of it felt like home.
She glanced toward the recipe binder.
Then to the pie cooling on the sill.
Then to the empty chair across from her.
The next morning, Frank found her scribbling on the back of an old diner menu.
“What’s that?” he asked, pouring coffee.
“Something silly,” she said. “Just… I was thinking about a pie truck. Like a food truck. With an oven. Maybe go out to the train station on weekends.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Train pies?”
She smiled. “Mom remembered.”
He set the cup beside her and sat.
“I think she was hoping you would, too.”
Emily nodded.
“I don’t want to leave again,” she said. “But I don’t want to stay still, either.”
Frank leaned back.
“Then move from here,” he said, tapping her chest. “Not from fear.”
That afternoon, Colin returned.
With Smokey.
A wiry mutt with nervous eyes and a twitchy tail.
Lucky tolerated him, but barely.
Colin bought a slice of lemon pie. Then another. Then asked if the diner ever did outdoor events.
Emily narrowed her eyes. “You thinking of something?”
“There’s a fall market in Peoria next month,” he said. “Big crowd. Good vendors. You’d clean up with these pies.”
“I’m not ready for all that,” she said.
“Sure you are,” he replied. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Later that night, Frank came home to find Emily painting an old sandwich board sign in the garage.
Jessie’s on Wheels
Pie makes everything better.
She glanced up. “Think it’s dumb?”
He chuckled. “Only if it doesn’t include meatloaf Mondays.”
Emily laughed.
Then she added: and meatloaf.
The town noticed.
Not just the pies.
But her.
They saw the woman who had left and come back different. Softer. Stronger. Willing to listen now. Willing to stay.
Willing to serve a slice with a side of second chances.
TO BE CONTINUED…
👉 Part 8: “A health scare changes everything—again—and Emily must decide where her heart truly belongs.”