Page 105 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

He grunts. “This is carpentry.” At my raised eyebrows, he adds, “I didn’t make this with pencils or paints. This is just careful measurement and accurate cuts. Leveling and angles and material selection.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not art.”

He doesn’t look swayed. “What makes it art, then?”

I press his hand to my sternum, right above my heartbeat. Lacework shadows scatter across our faces. The scent of wood and dust mingles with all the emotions stirring in this place: grief, shame, pleasure, longing. None of them are covered by Logan’s mural, only complicated by it.

“Because it’s something I experience with my heart, not my head.”

His next breath catches. Then he reaches for me with his other hand, fingers tangling into my coat pocket and yanking me into his chest. His mouth finds mine and I grip him tighter, fisting the fabric of his shirt and anchoring myself to his body. We stay like that for a long time, each refusing to break.

Because, deep down, I know that this is the last gasp of a desperate, bleating heart.

As much as I want to cling to him, something has breached my walls.

I know what I need to do.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I tell Logan we should talk over dinner. Two hours later, we sit side by side on the porch table benches as the sun sinks low, butter cooling on our fingers, salt still bright on our tongues. The sprinklers have started up their evening regime, sweeping in methodical arcs. They darken the earth and fill the air with their soft, predictable chorus: pshhh-tick-tick-tick. The orange sky catches on crystal pears, scattering light in shards of copper and pink. For a moment, it looks like the trees are burning from the inside out.

Instead of looking away, I let the beauty sting.

When we’ve finished eating, Logan pushes away our empty plates, tips the remaining few drops of wine into both of our glasses, and administers his full attention on me.

“You’ve made a decision,” he guesses.

I nod, running my thumb along the stem of my wineglass. “I can’t take your money.”

An unsteady wind moves over the grass; branches rustle in faint protest.

Logan, however, doesn’t seem surprised. “You figured out a better option,” he guesses again, this time incorrectly.

As the books in my office have made clear, the financial situation of the farm is worse than I might have thought. I have very few options, none of them good. I could try refinancing my loans, but my uncle took most of them out years ago. It’d be impossible to get better terms, particularly given how much debt the farm has. I could lease, but that would only make the problem worse, adding another person—an outsider—who would also need a cut of the already slim profit. I could try selling some of the land, but it’s already such a small acreage farm, and my fixed costs are so high that downsizing would make it even more impossible to generate enough revenue to support my expenses long term.

After going over all the numbers again and again, it’s likely that, without Logan’s money, my only option is to sell. The worst option of all.

It means losing the land, my farmhouse.

Losing the place where I belong and began.

“No,” I say. “I don’t have any better options.”

Somewhere in the orchard, a pear drops, muffled in the grass.

Logan frowns. “Then why?”

I swirl the liquid in my wineglass, then drain the rest. I’ve been going over my answer to this question in advance because I already know that Logan isn’t going to like it. I need to say it in a way that will force him to listen. “Because I don’t want you to give up your future in exchange for mine.”

A sharp line appears between his eyebrows, as I would have expected. “I don’t see how that’s a problem. You’re about to lose your multigenerational farm because of money. I have money from a life that I inherited and never wanted. I can give you a loan, and you’ll pay me back when you’re able.”

“It’ll take me years to work myself out from under the farm’s debt,” I reason. “Even with a string of good seasons. But there’s no guarantee I’ll have that. Things were bad for my uncle for a long time, and there’s no evidence that anything will be better for me. What if I can’t start paying you back in a year?”

“I’ll give you an extension.”

“And if I need more and more of them?”

“Then I’ll give those to you, too.”