Page 10 of The Pack's Knotty Runaway
I widen the search radius to sixty miles and spend the next hour and a half calling every hotel, motel, and bed-and-breakfast on the screen, only to get variations of “Sorry, we’re completely full.” By the time I finally give up, the sun is slipping behind the pine ridges, casting long, bruised shadows across the diner parking lot.
And that’s when I dial the one number I know will always pick up.
“Luna? Honey, is that you?” Her voice is warm, steady. “How is the wedding going?”
The dam breaks. The scene I made, Derek’s cancellations—I pour it all out.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “Well, you did the right thing.”
Something in my chest loosens. A fraction.
“But I have nowhere to go,” I say. “Everything is booked. The retreat doesn’t start until Tuesday, and Lakeview is eight hours away. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”
“Wait. Where are you right now?”
“Somewhere past Millford. On a county road heading west.”
She goes quiet. “Luna, I might know a place.”
“Where?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Apple Blossom Orchard. It’s right off that road.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “It didn’t show up on my app.”
“I’m not surprised, I remember this place being pretty discrete,” she says. “The Millers run it. Margaret and Tom. It’s not their main activity, but they had small cabins back in the day. I stayed there in eighty-two. Maybe eighty-three.” Her voice softens in a way I rarely hear. “It was the most peaceful place I’ve ever been... Margaret used to say the trees were older than anyone’s problems.”
I stare at the dashboard. If they aren’t on any apps, they might not be booked solid. “Do you think they still rent cabins?”
“I don’t know, it’s been decades. But look it up. Apple Blossom Orchard. If it’s still running, it’s maybe forty minutes from where you are.”
I open my browser and search. The website is a static page: a photo of a barn, apple trees, and a row of small wooden cabins. No booking system. No availability calendar. No phone number.
“I found it,” I say. “But there’s only an address.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” she says. “Their whole life is apples. The cabins were always more of an afterthought.”
“I can’t just show up, Mom.”
“Luna,” she says. “Back when I showed up there, it was ten at night and I had a flat tire. Margaret handed me a key and a jar of apple butter. If the place is still standing, drive there.”
I stare through the windshield at the darkening road. “Okay.”
“And Luna? I want to say it again, I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks Mom,” I say, my throat tightening up. “I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
The call drops with a soft beep. I bring the phone down from my ear, staring at the screen for a beat before entering the orchard’s address into the the GPS.
Forty-three minutes.
5
Ash
The orchard announces itself two miles before the property line. The road dips, the tree line thickens, and the air changes. I roll down the window. Apple blossom, cut grass, and the mineral bite of the south-ridge creek.
