Page 83 of Fall is Brewing

Dad shrugs. “We’ve never had direct competition here in town. So the question is… what’s your strategy for Hartley & Sons?”

Nerves rattle around in my belly. Is now the time for them to hear my ideas? Will they truly listen to me? I glance around the kitchen at my family, at each set of eyes fastened onto me, waiting and take a long slow breath before speaking. “Well… we’re known for nostalgia. Classic flavors. Legacy recipes that stand the test of time. The kind of quality people remember from childhood. And the traditions that keep them coming back. But we can’t just coast on that. So we should develop new ways to keep nostalgia alive. Maybe… maybe we could open the orchard up to events. Build a pavilion, something simple, but tasteful, and have people rent our space for weddings and events. We could even host our own event for the community… something vintage and elegant. Like a sock hop or barnstormer’s ball.”

Patty beams. “That’s so fun!”

Even Grandpa’s eyes light up. “Well now, that could be a helluva good time!”

Their smiling faces encourage me to keep going. “We could partner with the transportation museum and maybe get a few of their vintage cars up here to do rides in.”

“This is a great idea, Willabug,” Dad says and Patty claps her hands gleefully. Then, after a thoughtful pause, Dad adds, "If Brooks' strategy is innovation, I like the idea that Hartley & Son’s strategy is nostalgia. Neither is wrong. They're just…”

“Different,” I finish the thought for him.

“Only one problem,” Grandpa grunts. “Where we gonna build a pavilion if them Calder boys take the easement land with their fancy lawyers?”

The realization settles quietly between us and my smile falls.

“I don’t have an answer for that,” I say.

“Yet,” Dad says, booping his finger to my nose.

"I still feel guilty," I admit.

"For what?" Patty asks.

I look down at my notes app, filled with observations I'd scribbled over the last few days. New planting methods. Customer flow. Display layouts. Ideas I'd never considered before.

"I kept taking notes." Grandpa raises an eyebrow. "I know that's why I'm over there," I continue quickly. "The bet was supposed to be educational."

"But?" Dad asks.

"But it doesn't feel like learning anymore." The words surprise me as much as everyone else. "It feels..." I search for the right comparison. "Like he's opening the doors to his house while I'm secretly measuring the windows."

Silence. Even Grandpa doesn't have a joke for that one.

"I hate that feeling,” I add quietly.

Dad wiggles in closer beside me, glancing down at the notes app still open in my hands before resting one hand lightly on my shoulder. "Willa." I look up. "Learning isn't stealing."

I frown. "Isn't it?"

"No." He smiles gently. "Taking someone else's ideas and pretending they're yours?" He shrugs. "That's stealing. But paying attention to someone who does something well..." His eyes drift toward the orchard beyond the kitchen window. "That's how every orchard owner I've ever respected got better."

Grandpa nods reluctantly. "I hate agreeing with him."

"You usually do,” Patty snorts.

Dad rolls his eyes, then squeezes my shoulder. "If Brooks is smart enough to let you see how he operates..." he says, "then he probably believes his greatest advantage isn't something you can write down in a notebook."

My eyes drift back to my notes. For the first time since I showed up at Calder Cider Monday morning, I don't see a list of their ideas. I see Brooks. Standing behind a tasting bar. Loading trucks before sunrise. Smiling at customers. Building something that looks nothing like Hartley & Sons and everything like the dream he'd inherited.

The guilt doesn't exactly disappear. But it changes shape.

Maybe I hadn't been sent over there to discover Brooks' secrets. Maybe I was discovering something much more dangerous. That the best competitors don't spend all their time looking sideways.

They spend it looking forward.

CHAPTER 18