Page 121 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Logan clears his throat. “Another time, big guy.”

Mason falls silent with a pout, and Andrew’s lips twitch like he’s torn between brothers, unsure whether to laugh or frown. I’ve met him only a few times now—he’s only home twice a year when he’s on leave—but he strikes me as the middle ground between the other brothers: as quick with a smile as he is with a courtesy. The kind of man who I fear may have his heart easily broken.

“Also,” I say, trying to redirect the conversation well away from anyone’s anatomy, “the trees I’ve planted are still too small to prune. Who knows what will happen with them.”

Val’s eyes tighten around her smile.

“I know,” she says. “Don’t you?”

My gaze wanders to a row of trees even as Logan’s arm cinches tight around my waist. The last three years haven’t been easy. Since the crystals cracked, production has improved, but even with the aid of the supernatural, a farm’s fortunes don’t turn around overnight.

That first year, Mom, Val, Logan, and I got nearly all of the fruit down, both marked and unmarked, but that was still only enough to make minimum payments on my debts and avoid losing the farm. It wasn’t enough to replace my broken machinery or to make serious headway on my financial problems.

That came in the next years, though. The soil, as Val keeps telling me, has turned supernaturally productive. In fact, through some mysterious process that no one fully understands, the more mature trees have started growing without the need for irrigation water. Val thinks it’s because their roots are so extensive they’re tapping into deep recesses of groundwater.

It would be impossible, but so are many things.

“Yeah,” I say as I eye Val steadily. “You’re right. I know it, too.”

Not an irrational optimism that I’m clinging to because I’m terrified of confronting reality, but a steady, filling kind, rooted in truth.

Mom’s lips tip into another soft smile before she busies herself with a forkful of cake. As I look away, she and Val share a smile. Mom hasn’t moved back to Apple Valley yet, not officially, but her trips to the orchard—harvest in fall and thinning in late summer—keep getting longer. Just last week, I overheard her telling Val she’s ready to add her name to the lease at the retirement community. A move that, once she makes it official, will almost certainly be her last. She hasn’t told me about this yet. But that’s how she is, I guess. It takes her time to work up to talking about things, especially when it’s this big.

I feel Logan kiss my temple, and I squeeze his knee.

“More cake?” I ask as I lift the knife and carve another piece, careful to avoid the words nearly sliced away: Congratulations, Logan. And even though we’re not alone—Val has gone back to gesticulating, drawing alternate laughs from Mason, a kind of choking chuckle from Andrew, and gasps from Mom that I think might be the real goal of her campaign—it feels like the two of us are in our own understory.

He groans good-naturedly. “How many pieces do I need to eat before you’re convinced I’ve celebrated enough?”

I scoop another slice onto his plate. “How many pieces will it take for you to admit you’re proud of your art?”

It took weeks to convince Logan to have this party, which he protested felt “self-indulgent.” He flatly refused after he finished his apprenticeship, even though that was nearly a year ago and we’d fully moved in together, turning our irregular weekends and part-time trips into one fully merged life. At the time, Logan claimed he couldn’t celebrate because he was still making ends meet with odd barn jobs around the valley. But a couple of months ago, he signed on to his first big contract—a gazebo roof lattice for a community park pavilion in Portland—making enough money that he’s nearly ready to transition fully to art. Finally, he relented on a party.

Logan’s lips twitch, then he takes a bite. “I guess if five didn’t work, we might as well try our luck on the sixth.”

“Good,” I say. “You deserve it.”

Mason laughs again, a ringing sound that bites over the rasp of Val’s voice, and this time Andrew and my mom join in. I grin across the table as the orange glow of the sunset bakes the porch wood. There’s a sense of rightness again that feels like another steady blast of that rooted optimism.

Logan nudges me with an elbow, and I realize he’s been watching me. He leans over to whisper in my ear, so close that it draws warmth up the back of my neck.

“Marry me.”

I whirl on him. “Did you ask me what I think you just asked me?”

His eyes are on mine in a way that feels like pulling myself through the keyhole into a secret garden.

“I had a whole plan for asking,” he says, “and it involved saplings and the irrigation system and going down on one knee. I have a speech, too.”

“A speech?”

“About how I lived a whole lifetime in darkness. Shades of gray were all I knew. I was so adjusted to it that I thought that’s just how life is. But then, there was you. And it’s not just that you’re bright and colorful where everything else is gray, although that’s true. It’s also that you light up everything else. You’re so bright, you put the rest of my life in technicolor. I want that, Ali. I want technicolored butterflies and bunnies. I want you.”

My heart fills so fast that I have to reach for his hand to keep from toppling over this bench seat.

A wedding. Our wedding.

Trees as an aisle, a mountain as our altar. Mom firmly gripping my elbow as I make my way down blossom-specked grass. Andrew officiating. Val somewhere off to the side, grumbling about allergies as she uses a knuckle to wipe away a tear. Mason, stock still and uncharacteristically serious.