Page 57 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

I nod, slide the bundle across the table. Logan eases the letters apart, one by one, until he stops. Pauses. Sets aside the rest of the stack.

He’s holding an envelope now: plain, standard letter size, but yellowish with age. The front is addressed to my uncle in clean, looping handwriting.

I watch as he carefully unfolds the flap and pulls out a single sheet of paper so deeply creased its marred with divots. Clearly, it’s been folded and unfolded over the years, tattered by scrutiny.

The grandfather clock ticks away in the corner as Logan’s eyes glide back and forth. A furrow inches between his brows. Several minutes later, he sets down the page.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Takes a deep breath.

Then he asks, “Does scorpion grass have another name?”

I blink in surprise, but quickly recover, and fumble for my phone. After a few seconds of typing, I look back up at him.

“Forget-me-nots.”

Chapter Twelve

Dear Martin:

I’ve started this letter more times than I’ll admit. Every version has sounded too finished, like I might sign my name and be done with it. But I’m not finished. That’s the problem, really.

Now I’m forging ahead. Mostly because, yesterday, I saw a patch of forget-me-nots coming up through the sidewalk. You would have called it a sign.

I’m somewhere on the coast now. Smaller than Apple Valley, if you can believe it. The kind of place where the sea eats at paint and a lonesome cafe closes by three. I don’t think I’ll stay long, but it’s the first place I’ve found—apart from your orchard—where I’ve finally been able to hear myself think.

I can practically hear what you’d ask if you were standing over my shoulder, watching me write this.

“But Lydia, have you stopped feeling like you’re disappearing?”

“Can you feel the edges of your life?”

“Is this the place you truly belong?”

And to those questions I would say: yes, maybe, and no.

(You’re the only one, by the way, who would have asked me any of that. No demand for my return. No insistent questions about why I’ve left. Just…“Are you okay?” Your questions were a gift. As were our walks, where you gave me the space to answer. It’s rare, you know, to have someone stay truly present when you unravel.)

To answer the last question I know you would ask: No, I don’t miss the version of myself who was playing a part. But I do miss the heft of cedar. The shavings that curled like question marks. Sometimes, when I’m out walking on the beach, I’ll pick up pieces of driftwood and turn them over in my hands, like I’m checking for grain. There is a clarity in that work, something honest that doesn’t need explaining.

I worry, sometimes, about what I’ve left behind. But the more time I have to think, the more I’m certain that this is the cleanest version of love I can offer. You showed me that. And your extraordinary orchard. I wonder if you’re right, that it played a role in us. It pulled us in the same way bark splits when the season turns—slow, then all at once. I can’t say for sure what was real and what was spell work. But I know what I felt was true. My revelations are true.

I hope you’re well. I hope the barn is holding. I hope the pears are as bitter and sweet as ever. If you’re inclined to write back, well, please don’t. Besides, by the time you’re reading this, I imagine I’ll have moved on from this salty town.

Yours,

Lydia Holloway

PS: Going by my maiden name again. Strange, but right, don’t you think?

Chapter Thirteen

As I lower the trembling leaf of paper to the table, Lydia’s words cycle through my mind.

Our walks.

Your extraordinary orchard.

It played a role in us.