Page 34 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“It’s a great idea.”

Val bangs a palm against the table. “Excellent. We’ll make it fancy like the Harts did. Call it a ‘gala.’ Charge an arm and a leg for tickets.”

“We’ll need to do it before harvest starts, though,” I say, pulling up my calendar on my phone. Provided that the orchard continues operating like clockwork, we’ll start picking on September 30—a Monday. “And we should pick a weekend day for the gala, plus give ourselves a buffer so we can prep.”

Val leans over to squint at my screen. “How ’bout two Saturdays from now? It’s not much time, but it’s also the equinox. We can call it an Autumn Gala. People always pay extra for shit that’s fall themed.”

“First of all, rude,” I say. “And second, also true. I’ll happily pay double for anything pumpkin flavored.”

Logan’s mouth ticks.

Val rolls her eyes. “Like I said. What about drinks?”

“I bet we could buy some discounted cider from the Harts,” Logan offers. “I wouldn’t usually ask, but June was just complaining about a batch that’s about to get too old to sell. As long as we pay them cost for it, I’m sure she’d be happy for us to get it off her hands.”

“Excellent,” Val says. “And I’ll shill tickets and get a food truck over here.”

“I’m sure I can scrounge up some serving dishes and flatware in the attic,” I say, thinking of the panoply of both I just saw, “but we’ll need furniture. Folding tables and such.”

“I’ll get some on loan from the neighborhood,” Val says, an oblique reference to her retirement community for active seniors, words she never actually uses in conjunction with the place she lives. “All we need is a venue.”

“The orchard,” I say.

“Right, but the house is too cramped and god knows what the weather will do. How ’bout the barn?”

The barn.

The words slide through me like the rough edge of a dull blade. I haven’t stepped foot on those dusty wood floors since that day a month ago.

And, just as quickly, I remember that Logan has this much worse than me. I glance at him, but his expression is neutral, unreadable.

He hasn’t even agreed to help yet, I remind myself. Picking will be hard enough. I don’t want to force him to also spend the next two weeks fixing up the barn his parents built—the last place he saw his mom before she disappeared.

“It’s not enough time,” I say. “The barn isn’t in great shape anymore.”

“Sure,” Val says. “But you have a couple of weeks. Throw up some lights. People will think it’s rustic.”

“But it needs real work,” I protest, “not just lights and furniture. The door is off its hinges and there was a leak in the roof that half rotted the floorboards. I can’t fix all that in two weeks.”

She looks between us like she’s missing something. “Logan is a carpenter.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but he still hasn’t decided whether to stay or not.”

Logan glances toward the window. It’s dark now, but moonlight catches the swaying branches. Beyond them, the barn sits like a stubborn sentry. When he looks back, something in his expression has settled.

“I’ll stay,” he says. “Fixing up the barn won’t be a problem.”

The words loosen something in my chest. I’m about to ask Logan if he’s certain when he starts speaking again.

“But also”—he cuts a glance at Val, flat and deliberate—“I intend to go digging into the past.”

Chapter Eight

Early the next morning, Logan and I begin work with an intensity that belies either of our emotional states.

The hardest part was getting started. An hour ago, we stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the barn’s door, which was still gaping like a haunted eye. Every urge in my body screamed to run away, to turn back before I’m met with the sticky-sweet smell of hay, the creak of floorboards.

I was already leaning back on my heels, preparing to bolt, when Logan’s gaze found mine. And his head was tipped not with an answer, but a question in return. Like: You ready? Or So, can we do this?