Page 110 of Fall is Brewing

His expression shifts, softening at the edges in a way that makes my chest ache, and then the rest of the square erupts around us.

Calder deserves this. He deserves it.

That realization doesn't hurt the way I thought it would. Like finally setting down a crate I've been carrying for years without knowing how heavy it was.

Brooks accepts the ribbon from Marcy, and Jace nearly tackles him in a hug before Evan drags him back by the collar. I laugh before I can stop myself, and when Brooks looks over again, I mouth, Congratulations.

He holds my gaze.

Then nods once.

Thank you.

Marcy barely gives the applause time to settle before lifting the second envelope.

“And now,” she says, her voice already trembling with excitement, “the People's Choice Award.”

The crowd cheers differently for this one. This isn't the stuffy judges in their little tent with scorecards and water crackers. This is our Orchard Falls. Tourists, families, friends, neighbors, people with cinnamon on their fingers and opinions in their pockets.

This is the award Hartley & Sons hasn't won in twenty-seven years.

“As you all know, this is a blind tasting contest. People of the festival came by the tent and tried all the entries blindfolded and voted for their favorite. It’s a time honored tradition here in Orchard falls!” Marcy opens the envelope and her eyes widen. Then she laughs. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

My pulse stutters as she pauses for a beat that feels like a century. “The People's Choice Award goes to…”

She pauses again because of course she does.

“...Hartley & Sons!” The square explodes but I’m too stunned to move.

For one strange, impossible second, I simply stand there with my hands frozen at my sides, the noise rushing around me like water over stone.

Then Patty makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, and Dad's arms come around me from behind.

“You did it,” he says into my hair.

Grandpa is already crying.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just standing there with one weathered hand pressed to his mouth, eyes shining beneath the brim of his cap.

I reach for him, and he pulls me in so tight I can feel the tremble in his shoulders.

“Told you,” he whispers against my temple, voice rough with emotion. “Told you you’d leave your fingerprints.”

That does it. My tears come fast and hot.

Because this isn't just a ribbon. It isn't just cider. It's every dawn I woke up afraid I wasn't enough. Every recipe I guarded like changing it meant betraying the people who came before me. Every time I thought legacy meant preservation instead of courage.

I look toward the Hartley booth, toward the bottles of cider made from the blend I almost didn't trust myself to enter.

And for the first time, I understand. It still tastes like Hartley… because I’m a Hartley. I get to choose what we taste like now.

By the time I escape the crowd, both ribbons have been photographed, Marcy has cried twice, Jace has asked if the first place ribbon comes with snacks despite the fact that he just ate a whole dang pie, and Grandpa has told seven separate strangers that the people’s choice winning blend was “his granddaughter's doing,” even though he had to stop every time because his voice kept breaking.

I find my way to the edge of the square, where the festival thins out a bit, but I can still see the Hartley & Sons and Calder Cider booths crowded with people.

The trees are quieter here near the gazebo, their leaves whispering overhead in the late afternoon light. Music drifts from Maine Street, softened by distance. The air smells like apples, kettle corn, and the woodsmoke curling from fire pits along Main Street.

I hear him before I see him.