Heather Tabers
“Abigail Baxter? Your name is Abigail Baxter?” I pull the faded red bandanna from the pocket of my Dress Blues uniform trousers and wipe my brow, looking at the beautiful woman I obviously don’t know as well as I thought.
“Shh! Would you pipe down?” Abbie’s eyes dart back and forth as she scans the tiny pie shop, obviously leery of any eavesdropping customers.
Nosy Mrs. Sheldon looks up from her plate of pie, so Abbie steps out from behind the counter and drags me through a curtain into the back room of the store.
“What are you so worked up about?” I demand. “You’re not the one who’s been lied to.”
“Ben, don’t be dramatic. I didn’t lie to you.” She squishes her lips together and to the side and sighs. “I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
“Abbie, I’ve received orders for the Pacific. My ship sets out next week. I was going to propose to you tonight, give you all the money I’ve saved, and ask you to go stay with my parents in Colorado until I get back.”
“You were?” Her emerald-green eyes are as wide as saucers, but I’m too angry to let them bewitch me this time.
“Of course. It’s not safe here in Key West with those German subs off the coast. But imagine my surprise when I stopped at the courthouse to inquire about a marriage license, and the old court clerk informed me that the love of my life is Abigail Baxter, not Abigail Winfield.”
“You love me?” This time she squishes her nose up like a bunny.
“I love Abigail Winfield. I have no idea who you are.”
“Ben, I didn’t lie. My name is Abigail Winfield . . . Baxter.”
“Baxter,” I repeat, flailing my arms through the air. “Baxter, as in . . . all this? As in Baxter Pie Shop? As in Baxter Farms? As in . . .”
“As in A.W. Baxter, the largest exporter of key limes in the western hemisphere.” She completes my sentence with her arms crossed and those gorgeous eyes narrowed in on mine. “What about it?”
I crumple my white service cap in my fist and look to heaven for help. “What about it? I don’t know. Maybe I’m just confused how the Abbie I’ve been dating the past six months went from the sweet girl who works behind the counter of a pie shop to the daughter of one of the wealthiest produce exporters in America.”
“The western hemisphere,” she corrects me. “And I’m not his daughter. I’m him. Her, I mean. I’m A.W. Baxter. Abigail Winfield Baxter.” Abbie pulls at the red ribbon holding her chestnut curls in place as if simply telling me the most normal thing about her day.
I just stare.
“Could you please say something?” she asks, the sweet girl I know from behind the counter overshadowing the international produce tycoon who just revealed herself to be one and the same.
The bell over the front door jingles and I poke my head out of the curtain to see the afternoon help walk in. “Marcy, can you cover the store for a minute?” I ask.
Marcy looks behind me at Abbie and gives me a wink. “You two have fun.”
Taking Abbie’s hand, I head out the back door onto Duval Street, but she stops, runs back in, and grabs a fresh key lime pie and two forks. In silence, we walk down the little cobblestone path to the beach. Our beach. The one we’ve sat on almost every night for the past six months, watching the sun set before I report for night duty on base.
“Can we start over?” I finally ask, motioning for her to sit beside me on a large, white rock.
Abbie sticks her fork into the middle of the pie, something that drives me crazy, and takes a bite before she answers. “My father was Andrew Walter Baxter. The original A.W. Baxter. He planted all the key lime groves on Boca Chica Key and Stock Island after learning how well they grow here. My mother died when I was a baby, so I don’t remember her.”
She pauses and hands me the pie, so I take a bite from the outer edge like a civilized adult.
“Father hired a wonderful nanny who raised me,” she continues. “But he kept his distance. He had a lot of people threatening him, angry that he made his fortune on land that he’d bought from them for very little money after the Florida land boom collapsed. I stayed in a small house with my nanny who I called Aunt Rosie so nobody would connect me to my father. It turns out he had good reason to worry. They killed him when I was a little girl.”
I scoop Abbie into my arms, picturing the little girl she once was who lost so much. “Are you still in danger?” I ask, kissing her softly on those pale pink lips.
“That was over fifteen years ago, and my father’s murderers are in prison. The island is small, but the gossip is big. Most folks know who I am now. I’ve hired several of them to work in the key lime groves and at the shop. But I don’t make a habit of telling sailors I’m a millionaire, for obvious reasons.”
I shake my head and laugh. “All this time, I thought I was dating a girl who was trying to make a living selling pies and it turns out she owns half the Keys.”
Abbie giggles, and I know I want to hear that angelic sound the rest of my life.
“It doesn’t change the way I feel about you,” she adds. “Once I knew I was falling for you, I didn’t know how to tell you my secret.”
“What would you want with a sailor headed to the Pacific, anyway?” I ask.
“Oh, just an eternity of key lime kisses.”
When she’s not writing, Heather can be found creating polymer clay jewelry, playing with her two fur-babies (Murphy & Maisy), spending hours at the dinner table laughing with her family, reading a good book, or binge-watching a romantic period drama. She holds a BS in Communications from Arizona State University and recently earned an MA in English Composition from Liberty University.
Heather is blessed to work alongside a wonderful ministry that shines light into the darkest places. She serves as the Operations Manager for Love Missions Global, an organization that fights human trafficking by empowering survivors and educating the community.
Connect with Heather on Facebook, Instagram, or her website.
Spark Flash Fiction 