Page 10 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

I don’t know what tense to use for a woman who is very much still alive but will never again be part of my life. I shouldn’t be thinking about Liv, anyway.

“I’m good with names,” I say. “Former consultant and all that.”

June grins. “I’ll be honest, that job always sounds kind of fake. Like something an uptight career woman brags about before she falls for a guy in a pickup truck and discovers the meaning of Christmas.”

I chuckle. “Does it sound more or less made up if I tell you I worked in ‘change management to help organizations navigate business transitions by guiding culture shifts’?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Must have been quite the change to go from all that to this.”

“I don’t have to account for my days in fifteen-minute increments anymore, so I’d tend to agree.”

She laughs before her face firms. “Hey, Ali, I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

She says it in that hushed, conspiratorial whisper that folks around here always use to talk about our farm. Like it’s a little strange, a little off, and maybe safer not to speak of too loudly.

I blink. “Why would you?”

“To see how you’re doing?” she says. When I don’t say more, she adds in a stage whisper, “Val told Kristi what happened. And she mentioned it to my mom. About Blake and Liv, I mean.”

My smile falters. I suddenly register the fact that my thumb has been running laps over the empty place my engagement ring used to occupy. After a year of wearing one, my fingers still feel naked without it. I force them to relax.

“Oh,” I say.

I don’t want to talk about Blake and Liv. Don’t want to think about them, either. Or the front door snapping closed. The lapse of silence as I fell into a fitful, sweaty sleep. The days I spent cocooned in my grandmother’s black-and-white quilt.

Shallow indents in the wallpaper. Rows of lifeless hangers.

I never knew emptiness could feel so full.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come by on my own,” June is saying. “But if you ever need anyone to talk to about everything, you can count on me.”

I know she means well (mostly, I haven’t missed the signs of curiosity), but I’m suddenly seasick and trying to keep myself from flagging.

Not every emotion requires immediate action or deep focus, I remind myself. It’s something I used to tell middle managers in the workshop I taught on leading teams through corporate mergers and major restructures. It used to help my audience in business casual, and I’m sure it can help me, too. Sometimes emotions can be acknowledged and then released. Or, more to the point, shoved into a box and stashed in the deepest recesses of my mind.

“To be honest, I’m doing really well,” I say, steadier now. “It was a big change, but it was also for the best. So, there’s no need for an apology.”

June smiles, and as is so often the case when I announce that, actually, everything is fine, relief washes over her features. “I’m so glad to hear that, Ali. Let me get you a cider. On the house.”

Before I have a chance to say no—or redirect the conversation to her very tall nephew—she stoops with some effort to retrieve a glass demijohn. In an impressive display of forearm strength, she single-handedly pours golden liquid into a mason jar.

Despite many previous attempts to thwart them, people in this town will never accept the fact that I don’t like apples, so I keep my smile in place as she fills the glass. Under her watchful eyes, I take a swig, swallow as fast as possible, and bob my head enthusiastically as I wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

June beams.

“So,” I say, looking around my shoulders for real customers but finding only people with overflowing tote bags milling around the fruit and vegetable baskets. Hopefully I’ve come early enough that I can have this conversation without interrupting her actual business. “I wanted to ask you about something.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, because of everything that happened”—I gesture vaguely—“I’m looking for some extra help picking.”

June nods knowingly. “Ah, yes. Mom mentioned Val was coming out of retirement for the season. I bet she’s grumbling aloud and secretly thrilled.”

I chuckle. “I think complaining might be Val’s love language. But yeah, she also said you have a nephew who might be interested in helping us pick? I think he just graduated high school this year?”

“Mack, yes!” June says brightly. But then she shakes her head. “But no. He’s just joined AmeriCorps.”

“Oh,” I say, heart sinking.