Page 45 of Fall is Brewing

The silence stretches again, softer this time.

Outside, the sun finally breaks over the horizon, light spilling across the orchard in slow, golden lines that make everything look steadier and more rooted than I currently feel.

Grandpa drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug down with a quiet clink. “You going over there today?” he asks.

I tighten my grip on my own mug. “I don’t have a choice.”

He snorts, pushing back from the table as he stands. “Sure you do.”

I frown up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He pauses by the sink, glancing back at me with that same steady, knowing look. “Means you get to decide how you show up,” he says. “That’s always been the part that matters. Besides, it’s better that you’re the one on his orchard, not the other way around.”

My hand stills just as I’m lifting my mug for another sip and tilt my head. “How do you figure?”

“Well, would you really want our competition over here working our apples? Seeing what we do, how we do it, and why? I sure as hell wouldn’t. But you? You’ve been handed the golden ticket into the chocolate factory.” Grandpa crosses over to me and cups my cheek, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “So lemme ask you again. Do you really think that Calder boy won now?”

He exits the kitchen and I sit there for a moment after he leaves the room, the house still quiet around me, the orchard now fully awake beyond the window with birds flitting around and singing their morning songs.

My stomach knots.

Because he’s right. This isn’t a loss. It’s access. It’s proximity. It’s a front-row seat. It’s a chance to see what Brooks Calder has built… and exactly where it might break.

I get to walk straight into Brooks Calder’s world and see it for what it really is.

See him for what he really is.

I push back from the table and stand, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor as the weight in my chest shifts into something sharper and more focused.

Brooks Calder thinks he won. But he actually just handed me the keys to his entire operation. And this time—I’m not second-guessing a thing.

By the time I pull up to Calder Cider, the sun is fully up and I’ve already given myself three separate pep talks in the car.

None of them worked.

The building sits back from the road just enough to feel intentional. Not tucked away like Hartley & Sons, not softened by time or tradition or the kind of history that lets things settle into the land.

No, this building looks like it was placed here.

Deliberately.

The sign—Calder Cider—is mounted on clean, dark wood. Modern, but not flashy. The kind of understated that only works when you know exactly what you’re doing.

I cut the engine and sit there for a second, fingers still curled around the steering wheel.

This is fine.

This is temporary.

This is strategic.

I step out of the car, my boots hitting gravel, the morning air cooler here than it was at home. Or maybe that’s just my nerves. The orchard stretches behind the building in clean, deliberate rows. Younger trees standing more uniform like little cadets lined up for duty. Less wild than ours.

Less… lived in.

But not careless.

Not sloppy.