Page 68 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Because this place? It’s not just where I belong; it’s where I began. Every hill holds proof. The branches remember my small, determined hands. The stump still bears the ghost of my fall. The old Deere tracks have long since blurred into soil.

These days I walk the rows with steadier steps, my boots pressing into the same furrows where I once ran barefoot. But some mornings, when I’m cradling a mug of coffee and the light filters through the leaves, I can practically feel it: the quiet exchange between what I’ve tended and what’s tended me.

My trees—my roots—remind me that I am part of something living and lasting. That I’m allowed to settle. To exhale. To grow here, too.

“Yeah,” I say. I’ve been rubbing at that scar on my elbow. I drop my hand. “You were right. It doesn’t change my mind.”

Val pats my wrist. “Martin would be proud.”

The words feel like an ice pick to my rib cage. I blow out a breath. “As long as we can get through this season.”

“Not long now.”

“Yeah,” I say. We have ten days until the end of September, and even though I can’t see the fruit from here, I know what’s happening outside the kitchen window. The pears that haven’t crystallized are on the edge of ripe: the color developing, the pieces full and round, good sugar content. The problem is that, at this point, the ones that have turned are just as numerous as the ones that haven’t. “I just have to hope it’s enough.”

Val eyes me sharply. “You have some reason to think it won’t be?”

“Not…specifically,” I say. I might not have stepped foot in the office or familiarized myself with the exact contours of the numbers, but increasingly, avoiding them has felt like delaying something inevitable rather than holding out hope.

“Well,” Val says, patting my hand. “The gala replaces about half your crop. You’ve got the other half ready to pick. Given how long Martin hung on with things like they are, that will be enough to get you through to next season. You might not get ahead, but you’ll be keeping it all afloat.”

I blink at her, doubt still worming around my heart, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder when our roles reversed. But then I push away the thought. This will work out.

The gala will be a success.

We’ll start picking in a week and a half.

Everything will be okay.

Chapter Sixteen

I’m not sure how to tell Logan I was right about the curse. Nor do I know how to talk to him about us. I’m also worried that, by the next time I see him, he’ll have retreated into his protective armor of restraint and self-control.

Fortunately or unfortunately, between his trips to Maplehurst and then to pick up the cider kegs from the Harts, about forty-eight hours pass before Logan and I have a chance to talk again. Nearly every minute of that is filled with my own final preparations for the gala—arranging the fall-themed centerpieces on our tables, plating my panoply of pear desserts, setting up signs for parking—so I also barely have time to think about what I’ll say.

Less than an hour before the guests are set to arrive, Val directs two food trucks to their spots next to a pop-up canopy and then perches herself on a stool by the barn doors, where she’ll collect tickets. Meanwhile, I duck into the house, change into a dress appropriate for the evening, and swipe on some mascara.

When I stride through the barn’s new doors, I’m finally able to appreciate what we’ve pulled off.

Dozens of string lights drape from the rafters, casting a soft glow across the dance floor. Wine barrels serve as high-top tables, each adorned with taper candles in amber glass holders. Beyond them, the room is rimmed with hay bales and tables on loan from Val’s retirement community, disguised beneath plaid bedsheets and centerpieces of pumpkins and pine cones. It smells like cinnamon, orange, and a hint of sawdust, and the stereo hums with a song that’s romantic but restless.

And I don’t recognize it? I could have sworn I started this paylist with “Uptown Funk.” When I make my way over to the phone to investigate, I find mason’s no skips, all bangers has taken over my Spotify.

“You must be Ali!”

I spin to find a tall guy releasing a dolly behind the bar and then driving across the room for a hug. He breaks it off only to hold me at arm’s length and inspect me from head to toe. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He grins in a way that can only be described as shit-eating.

Obviously, this is Mason.

In features, he’s a near replica of his older brother, with the same strong jaw and chin. Mason’s an inch or two shorter, though, with slightly longer hair and softer, more youthful features. The biggest difference between them is their expression: Mason’s wide smile is the near opposite of Logan’s serious countenance.

“What exactly have you heard?” I ask as Logan, metal tap handle and rubber mallet held in one hand, strides up to clasp his younger brother around the back of the neck, dragging him a few steps backward.

“We’ve talked about this,” he growls.

Mason grins back. “Talked about not repeating your compliments to attractive women in purple dresses? Because I can assure you, we have not. In fact, I don’t think you’ve ever said so many nice things about—”