Page 33 of Under the Orchard’s Spell
“Optimistic?”
“Delusional.”
I flinch.
Val grimaces and shoots me an apologetic look. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it. Those journals…I’m just sour is all.”
“Yeah,” I say, because I get it. My uncle’s words have been replaying for me, too, especially Visitors—None. “It’s fine.”
“But what I said, less gently than I should have, is still true. We need a better solution than hope.”
I wince, confronted with the sudden, almost physical urge to grab the waxen pears littering the table, march them across the property, and hurl them into the burn pile.
But then Logan asks, “What about a backup plan?”
We turn to him. He’s been quiet for a long time, running a callused thumb across the surface of one of the pears. Taking his time to think.
“What do you have in mind?” I ask.
“I don’t think we’ve hit the worst-case scenario yet.” He tilts his head toward me, a reassuring glance. “But we can’t stop the disease from spreading, and we can’t start picking until the end of the month. Maybe we need a contingency plan. Diversification.”
I nod because I like what he’s saying—or maybe the steady, logical way he’s saying it—even if I don’t know what he means yet. “Like leasing or something?”
“Leasing isn’t an option,” Val cuts in. “I’d sooner break both hips than see someone without the name Reid farm this land.”
“Nothing that drastic,” Logan reassures her. “But there has to be another way for the orchard to make money.”
It’s a good idea. Besides, the weeks before harvest are quiet. It’d be great to have something productive to do while I’m waiting for the pears to finish growing.
“I could make jams,” I offer. “The freezer in the basement is basically a fruit vault.”
Val hums noncommittally. “Not bad, but you’ll have to sell a shitload of pear jam to make a dent in the lost revenue. What about a wedding?”
“A wedding?”
“Sure,” Val says. “They’re huge around here lately. Rich couples from Portland shell out tens of thousands for a few hours of these views.”
While it sounds appealing, it’s also hitting an uncomfortably sore spot. Blake and I were engaged for more than a year, so you might think that I’d already had everything from a wedding band to a color scheme picked out. The truth is that every time things were settled enough to start planning, I’d get overwhelmed by the scale of it all. Besides, Martin got sick a few months after Blake proposed, and between my uncle’s illness and our subsequent move across the country, Blake and I barely had time to think about a wedding. We hadn’t even brainstormed destinations for a honeymoon, at least partly because the idea of getting on a plane and leaving Apple Valley—even temporarily—felt wrong to me. All that said, long before I met Blake, I had pictured the venue. I wanted to get married with a row of trees as my aisle and a mountain as the altar.
It’s still vivid enough that I can’t watch someone else have that moment.
Val doesn’t seem to have noticed my hesitation, but I think Logan does because he says, “Likely not enough time. Couples book venues months if not years in advance, especially for high-end weddings.”
“True,” Val says.
I let out a breath.
“But…” Logan continues, still in that quietly considered voice, “something like a big party might work.”
“What kind of party?”
“Right after Mom left,” he explains, “Dad had to cancel a bunch of big jobs and things got…a bit rough financially. But the Harts—they own the ciderhouse in town—threw us this fancy dinner. Like a charity, although no one called it that. Folks paid for tickets. They served hard cider and someone else chipped in for food. The Harts pulled in pretty good money on it—and they had plenty to cover their expenses and give us the rest. It got us by for a while.”
Val snaps her fingers. “I remember that night. The three of you boys ran around in matching jackets and ties. The little one caught his sleeve on fire.”
“Mason always has been good at blowing things up,” Logan concedes with the shadow of a smile. “So, what d’you think?”
They both look at me. The relief is practically staggering.
