Page 80 of Fall is Brewing

It happens one door at a time.

One conversation at a time.

One pumpkin spice donut with the woman I’m supposed to be beating at a time.

CHAPTER 17

Willa

I didn’t mean to betray my family, my legacy, but apparently that’s exactly what I did.

In fact, I don't even realize I've done it until Patty plucks the Calder Cider travel mug from my hand with the efficiency of a woman who's spent twenty years stealing sips of everyone else's coffee.

“Well, well, well,” she says, sniffing the mug. “What do we have here? Enemy brew?”

Silence hangs between us for exactly half a heartbeat before her eyebrows climb so high they're practically lost beneath her bangs.

I snatch the mug back. "It was... available."

"Mm-hmm."

"And I was running late."

“You’re never running late,” Patty says.

"And it would've been rude not to drink the coffee someone already made."

"Mm-hmm."

"Stop saying that!” I stomp over to the sink, washing the Calder Cider mug out so that I can stash it in my bag until I can return it tomorrow… hopefully with no one else in my family being the wiser.

“I’m not saying anything except mm-hmm!” she replies.

“Exactly.”

Patty grins and goes back to her pie crust she’s rolling out on the counter.

The kitchen smells like cinnamon, butter warming in the oven, and apples waiting to become something worth gathering around. Morning sunlight spills across the old pine table where generations of Hartleys have eaten breakfast before heading into the orchard. Outside the window, I can see Grandpa walking the eastern rows, one hand tucked into the pocket of his faded flannel, the other absently brushing the branches as though saying good night to each tree.

Everything about this place has always meant home.

So why does part of me still feel like it's standing in Brooks's kitchen, listening to rain tap against his windows while Jace argues about raccoons?

"You've got that look." Patty's voice pulls me back.

"What look?"

"The one where you're physically here but mentally somewhere else."

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

I open my mouth. Then close it again.

Because somehow saying Calder Cider's distribution strategy out loud feels infinitely more incriminating than simply thinking it. "Work," I settle on instead.

She studies me for another second before mercifully letting it go. "For what it's worth," she says, reaching for the rolling pin, "I'm glad."