Page 44 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

I swallow. “Maybe he was hiding something.”

It’s not a pleasant thought. Why would Martin have hidden this from me, especially considering the weight of the responsibility I was taking on? He knew how important it felt for me to get this right. He would have wanted me to have all the information so I’d have the best chance.

Right?

“Why not tell you, though?” Logan asks, mirroring my thoughts. “Before he left you the land? Surely, he must have figured you’d find out on your own.”

I blow out a long breath as I reflect on our conversations from last winter, when I finally stopped fighting the idea that my time with Uncle Martin wasn’t just finite, it was filled with lasts. The last time we’d walk through the trees together. The last time I’d hear his wheezy chuckle. The last time he’d tweak my nose.

I had so many questions for him—about soil management strategies, the mountain of debt, legal logistics, contacts at the packing house. I clung to his answers like they were precious beads of his own soul. And even though his advice was often peppered with his trademark irreverence, it was also underlined with an uncharacteristic realism. Like Uncle Martin was emphasizing every possible problem, and constantly checking in with me to see if I was really sure I wanted to take them on.

Yes, I kept telling him, I’m sure.

It doesn’t seem possible he could have been holding back.

I shake my head, pushing away that uncomfortable thought.

“No,” I say more confident now. “Uncle Martin was full of secrets, but they were the harmless kind. Like, the man had a whole box of hats he ‘wasn’t allowed’ to wear on certain days of the week and he always smelled like cinnamon even though I never once saw him bake. When it came to the big stuff, he would have told me everything. Especially about the land. He must not have known.”

Logan hums. Despite all this talk of something so big and, frankly, terrifying, he’s at ease again, that relaxed confidence shawling his wide shoulders. Now that he’s powered down, I can see just how worked up he was earlier.

On the south-side creek’s opposite bank, a white bird with long pale legs bobs like a teeter totter, pecking intermittently at the shoreline. I shift. My hip skates against Logan’s torso, drawing another electric tingle up through me that I can barely keep from showing on my face.

His head dips to the side. “Go on.”

“How did you know I have something to ask?”

“You get this kind of round-eyed look when you’re about to ask me something you think is too personal.”

I lower my chin. “Round-eyed.”

His lips lift. “Well, you would have been offended if I’d said doe-eyed.” Then he tips his head back again, eyes closed, exposing the long line of his throat in a way that’s downright distracting. “Ask your question, please.”

I watch his beard. “Don’t answer if you don’t want to, but what happened? With the skunk, I mean.”

Logan opens his eyes slowly and takes in the wisps of clouds cruising across the sky. He’s silent for long enough that I’m sure he’s not going to answer. But then he lifts a hand until the current sends ripples across his fingertips and starts to talk.

“It happened a few months after our mom left. Mason couldn’t stay asleep—he never slept well back then—but that night was particularly bad. He kept waking up screaming, soaked in sweat. Inconsolable no matter what I tried. I figured I needed to get him out of the house, you know? I took him to the park.”

He pauses. “It was late, but he was having fun running laps down the slide. I dozed off on a bench, listening to him play. When I woke up, he was screaming, on the other side of the tennis courts. I sprinted after him and I could already smell the skunk.

“I don’t know if it was the smell or the dark or sleep deprivation, but he kept running away from me—right into the road and in front of a pickup truck. The guy slammed on his brakes, but it was a moment too late, and Mason got hit.”

I cover my mouth with a hand as Logan’s face tightens.

“I held him against my chest, his little broken body still smelling like that fucking skunk, and I screamed at the driver to call 911.”

“He was okay, though?” I ask.

“He had a concussion and a wrist fracture, but nothing physical that didn’t heal.”

“I’m glad.”

Logan blows out a long, controlled exhale. “That night was the first time I really let myself feel angry at her. It hit me in the hospital, when I was waiting for the results of the CT scan. When I still didn’t know just how bad it would be. Because she was the reason it was happening. And I was alone.”

I repress a shudder. “Your dad wasn’t there?”

“He didn’t answer his phone. Later he said the battery had run out or something, but who knows.”