Page 29 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Logan can clearly tell, too, because he hums, flips the page, and starts reading again. Then, his shoulders go stiff.

“What?” I ask.

When he doesn’t answer, I lean over, arching my neck to read the entry in his hands.

May 14, 2011

06:42—Sky cracked pink like it was trying something new.

11:15—No pests. No wilt. Trees humming with me. Not sure which of us started it.

Visitors—Rick and Lydia came out to have a look at the old barn site (work starts next month, weather willing). They seem competent enough. Hired them on the spot, though Rick hurried us along like he was late for something else.

I have to read it a second time before I understand the significance.

Those are his parents.

Lydia is his mom.

Logan’s expression betrays nothing, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s experiencing anything like the jump scares I endured in the days after Blake and Liv left. Blake’s magazine subscription showing up in the mailbox. Liv’s discarded toothbrush head in the bathroom trash can. A calendar reminder popping up about our monthly bookstore and brunch date.

So many things, once impossibly mundane, suddenly terribly consequential.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I say quietly. “I’d get it if you were over this trial period.”

I desperately need his help, of course. I want nothing more than for him to stay on this land and help me pick pears so I don’t lose a third of my harvest—and the income to pay off some of the farm’s debts. But he’s well within his rights to leave. It’s a wonder he hasn’t walked away already.

His gaze catches mine. “You haven’t scared me off yet, Ali.”

My stomach jolts, even though I’m not entirely relieved. “All right, then.”

We decide to split the stack of journals, each taking a handful to comb for mentions of white pears. Val hefts hers—the early years, right after Martin inherited the orchard—to the couch by the fireplace and elevates her still-booted foot with a stack of folded blankets on the ottoman. Logan remains upright at the dining room table to read the middle ones, ending around the time his family built the barn. I take the later years, which include the final entries Martin kept in the months before he died. In an armchair, I curl up with a journal against my knees, hoping his words will tell me what he never got the chance to.

February 5, 2015

08:10—Irrigation line burst on the Dethman block. No warning. Loud as a marching band full of excitable geese. Soaked the whole slope.

09:40—Pipes looked fine. Too fine. Maybe the trees flinched.

Visitors—Just me, Val, and the mess.

This irrigation mishap is the first in a host of strange problems: late frosts that stop at the edge of the property, sawflies with a penchant only for pears, a storm so violent it shatters the barn’s windows. I’d already known about some of these issues—I distinctly remember Val shouting about the “damn freeloading bugs” in the background of a call with Martin. But I hadn’t realized the problems were so numerous. And I never knew that the crops had been worn down by these problematic conditions for so many years—even as early as 2019, my uncle is lamenting how thin the crop is and how few props the trees need.

We read in near silence, occasionally calling out highlights from our entries, and only take a break a few hours later when our stomachs start growling. My fridge is embarrassingly empty, but I still manage to scrounge up a tin of sardines, a family-sized bag of hot Cheetos, and a veggie platter with carrots that are only a bit chalky. Fortunately, neither Val nor Logan complains.

I resettle at the dining room table, dip a hunk of broccoli into ranch dressing, and prop my next journal against a glass of ginger ale.

June 20, 2021

07:15—Mist hanging low. Air closing in.

15:40—Codling moths in the pears again. Too many for traps, sprays did nothing. The trees seem resigned. We might have to cede this round.

Visitors—None.

A lump rises in my throat as I try to think back to our sparse phone calls from this time. I remember my firm had just landed its first contract with the State of Florida, Blake and I had finally moved in together, and Liv was storming into my life like she was laying siege on a fortress. I still called Uncle Martin as often as I could, and when we did talk it always felt like no time had passed since our last conversation.

Still, I could tell something was off. When I visited later that summer—the first one in a couple of years—more than one person stopped me in the grocery store to ask if Martin was well.