Page 25 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Logan doesn’t say anything to that, but he does look at me. His attention is so steady, exacting, I start fumbling with the closed lock of an antique box, just to give myself something else to focus on.

“How about your brothers? Were they able to help?”

“I wanted them to be kids. They’re not anymore, of course. Well, at least Andrew isn’t. He enlisted in the navy when he turned eighteen. Mason is in college now, PNU in Maplehurst.”

“What year?”

“Junior. With the maturity of a kid in braces.”

I smile. “And your dad?”

Logan pries open the brass clasps on an old suitcase and sifts through the contents, although it appears to contain only musty wool scarves and bulky, knitted sweaters. “He’s gone now, too. Fully. A couple of years ago.”

I hardly remember Logan’s dad—Ron, I think his name was? Richard, maybe?—even though we met many times that summer. I do remember Uncle Martin was skeptical of him, which was notable because Martin liked everyone except men in tailored suits and animals with sharp claws. There was this one day when Logan’s dad was late with some supplies from Portland, and every time we drove past the barn site in our Gator, we’d spot Logan and his mom, sitting on a stump, waiting.

On the fourth pass, Uncle Martin leaned over and muttered, barely audible over the engine, “Funny how that man never shows up when it matters. Almost like he’s got somewhere better to be.”

I had no idea what that meant. When I asked, Martin told me he shouldn’t have said it.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

Logan lifts a shoulder. “They both left, just in different ways.” Before I’m able to respond, he closes the suitcase with a click and glances around like he’s looking for something else to focus on. “Tell me about you.”

“What about me?” I ask, slightly distracted because I’ve just found the key to the locked antique chest, inside an envelope and taped at the back. When I click open the chest, I see it’s filled with ribbons grayed with age. Odd, I think, to have that locked.

“It’s been fourteen years,” Logan says. “And all I know is about the last few months.”

“Right. Yeah.” I lift a ribbon and squint at the date—and, damn, it’s a prize from a county fair that’s quite literally a hundred years old. “Well, you already know that Mom moved me to Anchorage after that summer. It was supposed to be Fairbanks, but she changed her mind at the last minute.”

“Did it ever get any better?”

I arch a surprised eyebrow. “You remember I was unhappy there?”

He scoffs. “Of course I remember.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. Those phone calls were a long time ago and—” And now that I’m thinking about it, that must have happened right around the time his mom left. “And I’m sure you had other things on your mind.”

Logan’s eyes are dark as he opens the top of a chest, revealing a set of dusty, brightly colored rocks. Almost like gemstones, but too large and slightly dull. Then he says, “That fall, it started snowing in Anchorage in early October, which everyone warned you could happen, but you didn’t believe it until you saw it yourself. The nights felt unnaturally long and the days weren’t just short, you called them ‘feeble.’ You said the sun didn’t so much ‘rise’ as it ‘hovered along the horizon for a few hours before ducking back under the mountains.’ And you were most annoyed by the wildlife. People kept saying it would be exciting, but the neighborhood moose broke your neighbor’s porch swing and once you were late for school because he was napping in front of your garage door.”

My mouth falls open.

Logan’s lips quirk. “I remember it all, Ali.”

There’s a sharp twang in my chest, like the low ring of a bronze bell. I have to clutch at the broken leg of a four-poster bed to steady myself.

“So,” he says into the resulting silence. “Did you eventually learn to enjoy the wildlife like they all said you would?”

I swallow thickly. “I would say I got used to it.” The novelty certainly never erased the ache of homesickness I felt at the sight of evergreens instead of pear trees. Or the shot of discomfort when I realized I was the only one wearing a shiny new winter jacket and boots with no traction. “Like how the deer are like rats in Pennsylvania or you’ll find alligators sunbathing on golf courses in Florida.”

“And after Alaska?”

At my feet, another chest overflows with Christmas lights and a garish array of Santas that would have delighted Liv.

“Mom dragged me to Georgia for junior year,” I say, closing the chest and thoughts of Liv with it, “and Florida the year after. She kept moving, but that one stuck for me. I graduated from high school there, so I stayed for the in-state tuition.”

“As warm and sunny as people say?”

“All tanned bellies and sunglasses.”