Page 117 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Mom draws in a breath. “As long as she needs me.”

“Fine, then,” Val says, although it sounds like its not.

That night, when we’re alone again, Mom washes her hands like a surgeon before she makes a caprese salad with mozzarella and slices of tomatoes from the vegetable bed that Liv planted and I forgot I had. The plant’s leaves are yellow and curled and there are only a few tomatoes clinging to its stems, but Mom still harvests them and trims back the diseased leaves. When we finish eating, I tentatively ask her about Val.

She doesn’t answer for a long time.

Then she says, “Val is the first person I ever loved. But she wanted to stay in Apple Valley forever and all I wanted was to leave. So, I chose your father instead. I left here with him and I—I didn’t even say goodbye. I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive me for it.”

I consider that before I say, “Maybe she will. She just needs time.”

Mom nods.

“And,” I venture, “possibly an apology.”

She swallows. “Yes,” she says. “I suppose she does.”

Later, when I clear our plates, I find a new potted plant on the kitchen windowsill. It’s a healthy cutting from the tomato plant, rooted in new soil, with a label in Mom’s simple block letters:

FOR NEXT YEAR

I stare at the words for far too long.

Over the next few days, Mom walks the irrigation lines to check for leaks and flush the filters and sediment traps. She asks to look over the books and finds three mistakes, which she corrects in precise script. The morning I wake to the first glimmer of frost clinging to fallen leaves, she visits Martin’s grave. I don’t join her, but she returns in the afternoon, her cheeks and ears tipped with pink. I’m leaning over the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, and she squeezes my shoulder without a word.

That evening, Mom and I sit by the fireplace, legs tucked under my grandmother’s quilts, and I venture to tell her about Logan. About falling in love with him, his past dredged up on the land, his art. How I now understand why he needed to leave. Not because of a curse, but so he could live the limitless life he deserves. She remains still, but for this moment, when my words land heavier than I intended.

She blinks hard and wipes her ring finger against the corner of her eye. Then she asks, “Show me his art?”

Even though it’s late, we pull on boots and plod toward the barn, surrounded by crystal pears that reflect the moonlight and bathe the ground in a pale glow. When I roll open the doors, Mom inhales sharply.

Logan’s mural is even more beautiful in the moonlight. Pinpricks of light scatter across the surface like stars, drawing shadows from its divots.

Mom’s hands go tight as she steps toward the portraits. Her lips tug into a soft smile at Val’s frown before she angles toward my face. My portrait’s expression, so bright in the daytime, has taken on a different cast in the muted twilight. Serene, but thoughtful. Complicated.

Mom traces a gloved finger along the wooden cheekbone. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she whispers. “It’s beautiful.”

There’s this tug in my chest, like a wave of homesickness even though I’m already home. I might be happy for him, but that doesn’t stop me from missing him.

I can feel the pressure of tears building behind my eyes. “I know.”

Mom turns. I ignore the urge to hide my red-rimmed eyes. A tear trips down my cheek. Her fist tightens by her side. Then she strides toward me. She cups my cheek, catching my tear with her gloved thumb.

“You’re so beautiful.”

My heart nearly shears in half.

Outside, I hear a pop. Then another. The sound is loud and close, like a cork firing off a champagne bottle.

We glance at each other before hurrying out of the barn.

The air is still until a third pop draws our attention to a tree with a cockeyed branch. As we step toward it, a pear crystal bobs, as if springing loose from an invisible hand. A rough sound scrapes from it as a jagged line moves through its center. Then, with another loud pop, glass-like shards split apart. The pieces, like the fragments of a splintered lightbulb, catch the moonlight as they rain down and dissolve in a shimmering puddle.

Mom’s arm edges out, angling me behind her as she strides toward the pear, newly emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis, bobbing gently on its branch.

I reach around her to snap it loose.

Under my fingers, the fruit is full and firm with just the right amount of give. It’s like the other uncrystallized ones: fern green, just on the edge of ripe. But with no markings from the hail. Ensconced, but protected.