Page 105 of Always Meant for You
“This one’s cinnamon apple,” he says.
He scores the top and slices clean through the center. The paste is firm and golden, threaded with faint pockets of apple. The rind, brushed with a dusting of spice, glows under the room’s warm overhead lights.
“We age it long enough for the apple to pull forward without muting the cinnamon,” he explains.
He cuts a triangle, slides it onto a small board, and hands it to her.
“Take your time. You’ll taste the cinnamon up front, then the apple comes in soft behind it.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She takes a bite and waits. Then her shoulders drop, and a quiet, satisfied hum slips out.
The sound knots my gut in the best possible way.
She’s not performing. She’s not playing along. She’s here, fully present, tasting the result of what we built while she was gone.
And I want more of this from her. Not performance. Not praise. Just her presence. I want her to feel the town. To believe in what’s changed. What’s possible. I want her to stay. I want her here with me, where I know she’s safe.
“If this were the last thing I ever ate,” she says softly, cutting into my thoughts, “I’d be okay with that.”
Harry puffs up. “There’s no better compliment. Thank you.”
“You do have a thing for cheese,” I say, half-teasing. But when she looks at me, the moment stretches. She’s luminous in that way that hits low in my chest.
She turns to Harry and reaches into her purse for her phone. “This would be perfect for a food swoon post.”
“Food swoon?” he repeats, puzzled.
“It’s popular online, Mr. Sperry. People use the hashtag to discover new foods. It drives visibility, reaches new eyes. If I post this and tag the location, people will learn about your dairy. It’s quiet marketing, but it works.”
Harry rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not one for computers and tagging. Lois Mary keeps telling me to sign up for those computer classes at the library. I haven’t joined yet.”
“I’m happy to do it for you. It’s part of my job now,” she says gently. “May I take a photo to highlight Elverna?”
Harry nods. “By all means.”
Mabel scans the table, and I see the wheels turning in her head.
She taps her chin. “Would you mind adding that knife and the towel? And maybe a bottle of milk. It’s about composition. Those finishing touches matter. They tell the cheese’s story.”
“The cheese’s story?” he repeats, brows drawing together.
She waves him in conspiratorially. “It’s a fancy way to say we’re going to gussy it up a little.”
Harry brightens. “I can get behind that.”
He’s already moving.
And she’s met this moment with a quiet kind of poise.
She did that with Gran, too.
Suddenly, I feel like a real ass for asking what she’d done for someone other than herself.
I take a step back, give her space, and watch her work. She’s in a vintage Chanel dress she bought with Jamie.
Yeah, I remember it.
She’d asked him to drive her to an estate sale outside Chicago for her sixteenth birthday. Of course, he said yes. I was at the Muldowney farm when they got back. She was wearing the dress, said she made Jamie pull over at a gas station so she could change into it. I pretended not to notice her, but I did. She’d burst out of the truck, rambling to Jamie about the deal she’d scored, then ran to the wildflowers that grew beside the main house and spun in a wide, crooked circle. Arms out, letting the dress’s denim pleats flow in the breeze. One of her heels sank into the dirt, and she’d laughed.
