Page 51 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Val crosses her arms but zippers her mouth shut.

“What kind of curse?” I press.

Her fingers twitch against her overalls. Again, her focus flicks between me and the house, as though she’s half expecting someone to come loping down the hill.

Wait. Is she literally expecting someone to come down that hill? “Not…ghosts?”

She scoffs. “No, of course not ghosts.”

“Then what? What kind of curse?”

But Val shakes her head, whirls away, and yanks open her car door. But just before she slams it, she says through the crack: “It’s not my place to say, all right? Try asking your mother.”

Chapter Eleven

It’s not my first choice to talk to Mom about this.

Frankly, it’s not my sixty-seventh choice. A couple of months ago, she barely knew how to respond when I told her I’d chipped my favorite BRANCH MANAGER mug. And that’s not to mention the disastrous conversation we had after Blake and Liv left.

So, I’m not particularly eager to broach the subject of our family’s cursed pear orchard, not least because Mom has spent her entire adult life putting physical and emotional distance between herself and this land. Which is at least part of the reason that I don’t make the call right away.

In my defense, every time I intend to call, something gets in the way—usually because Logan and I are buried in gala prep. I finish every day exhausted, palms buzzing from gripping a power sander or shoulders sore from hauling joint compound. The thought of adding emotional taxation on top of the physical is overwhelming.

I’ll do it once we’re done with the construction work, I decide.

The only problem is that once that’s finished, the pace doesn’t slow—it merely shifts. There are pear-themed pastries to bake, tents to set up in case of rain, centerpieces to put together. I promise myself I’ll call after this batch of puff pastries cools. Or once I’ve put the finishing touches on the garlands. Or after I’m done digging through the attic for serving platters and table runners.

But every time, something new comes up. I forgot to candy pear slices. My grandmother’s serving spoons are tarnished. I don’t have enough extension cords for all the string lights, and I need a last-minute trip to the hardware store. My phone is dead again.

“Tomorrow, I’m calling her,” I tell Logan, three days before the gala. I even had the phone ready to go this evening, propped against a bag of flour, although I was elbow-deep in poached pear filling. But the tart shells took longer to bake than expected and its midnight in her time zone now. “Hold me to it, okay?”

The next night, he steers me away from the pear crumble, which I’m still trying to figure out how to beautify (cinnamon sticks, maybe?), and presses a mug of tea into my hands.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Get comfortable,” he instructs.

“But my pear crumble still looks all ugly and crumbly.”

“I believe ‘crumbly’ is, in fact, the point.”

I harumph. “The photos made it look more appetizing.”

“Sit,” Logan says sternly. Then he adds, “Please.”

I shoot him a skeptical look but comply, holding my mug aloft to keep it from sloshing as I sink into the worn couch and kick my feet onto the ottoman.

“How’s the tea?” he asks.

I take a sip. Clearly, he used a bag from my pumpkin spice tin and topped it with cream and brown sugar—exactly how I make it for myself—but after I swallow, an extra note of spice lingers at the back of my throat. Like he’s also added cinnamon and cloves or…

“Is that cardamom?”

“Do you like it?”

I slurp another greedy sip. “It’s heaven, actually.”

Logan smiles to himself before humming under his breath and tucking a fleece throw blanket, still warm from the dryer, over my legs. Then he steps back to appraise me like he’s checking the alignment on a door.