Page 95 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

He opts for simple. “This is Ali.”

We’ve met before, but it was years ago and we’re completely out of context, so I’m not surprised when Lydia says, “Nice to meet you, Ali.”

I nod, remaining silent, because if Logan doesn’t feel pressure to make this interaction pleasant and socially acceptable, then I’m certainly not going to.

Lydia fiddles with a measuring tape looped into her belt, then sighs. “Would you like to talk? I can close early for the day.”

At Logan’s curt nod, she leads us through a door to a small room dominated by a worktable, then forges back out, presumably to close up the front.

While we wait, I perch uncertainly on a high metal stool, and Logan remains upright, hands thrust into his pockets as he studies the wall. It’s occupied by a huge slab of wood carved with hundreds of cutouts, creating an ornate and repeating trellis pattern. It’s intricately done and…I would say beautiful, but that thought feels disloyal.

He’s still sizing up the carved wall when Lydia steps back into the room, juggling a swing-top bottle topped with three overturned glasses. Her eyes tighten as she watches Logan’s back for a moment, lets out a small breath, and closes the door.

“Fretwork,” she explains as she joins him. “This one was made with a scroll saw. A common misconception about fretwork is that it has to be done with a fretsaw to count, but it’s not like champagne or Manchego. What matters is what comes out, not how or where it was made.”

Logan clears his throat. “I’m a carpenter. I know what fretwork is.”

“Oh? Are you?”

“Not by choice,” he says flatly.

Lydia regards the side of his face with confusion. I’m sure she can read his tone, but I also don’t think she appreciates his textured meaning because she turns to the big worktable, arranges her glasses.

“Well,” she says, popping open her bottle with a thumb and pouring out gently fizzing water. “The artist who made it is quite well known and lives here in town. I’d be happy to give you his name if you want to check out his studio.”

She slides a glass across the table to me and extends one to Logan. He turns to face her, but doesn’t take it. “You didn’t make this.”

“No, no. I just do columns, and mantelpieces, and such.”

“So,” he says flatly, “you’re still a carpenter.”

Pink slides into Lydia’s cheeks as she retracts the glass, then takes a few swigs of it herself. She clears her throat, again reaches for a smile. “We call ourselves woodworkers around here, but mostly so we can upcharge the rich customers.”

“You’re a carpenter,” he repeats. “In Maplehurst.”

Now I think both Lydia and I see where this is going because Lydia’s face has gone from red to a blotchy kind of purple. She takes a shaky step backward.

“If you came here looking for a compelling explanation for my life choices,” she says carefully, “I’m sorry to say you’re going to be disappointed.”

Logan watches her for another beat. “No,” he says finally. “That’s not why we’re here.”

He rounds the table and takes the seat next to me. One of his hands goes to my knee and his gaze catches mine. There’s something in there like a question. Or maybe an appeal.

I rest my fingers over his and clear my throat. “We wanted to ask you about the orchard. And the curse.”

Lydia blinks as she turns to me, eyebrows climbing. “Martin’s orchard?”

“Martin Reid died earlier this year.”

“Oh.” She sways and grips the edge of the table, then sinks onto a stool. The water trembles in the glass as she raises it and takes another shaky swallow. “Okay, just—I think I might just need a moment to process that.”

“We’re here to ask you about an interview you gave for a documentary a few years ago,” Logan presses. “Ali took over the farm earlier this year and we’re trying to answer some questions about it.”

Lydia’s attention rises to me again, recognition in her eyes. “Martin’s niece. You’re Ali.”

I nod. “In the interview, you said you saw strange things on the land?”

She sighs and takes another trembling sip before answering. “I shouldn’t have. Martin never wanted me to talk about it to anyone, especially not like that. But those documentary guys offered to pay. It wasn’t much, but I needed the money. I tried to apologize later but…” She drifts off and her lips harden as her eyes find mine again. “Is it causing you problems? Martin thought it would one day. He said it…Well. He was very upset.”