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A plant.
A plant that now sits on my kitchen table because I couldn’t just leave it on the front porch indefinitely, and sunshine that blinded me from perfectly highlighted blonde hair, large diamonds in her ears, a denim jumper with the Prada logo on it which showed off her long legs, and black and gray Gucci boots.
The girl was dripping in brand names, and from head to toe, the amount of money she wore roiled my stomach. The mystery of her buying this house all the way up here instantly increased. Did she go through a divorce? Is this some kind of therapy where she needs to find herself? Did someone die, and she inherited a lot of money? I must admit I am a little bit curious. Add in the fact that she knew my name, and that curiosity turns to suspicion. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl did something outlandish to force themselves into my orbit. Especially gold diggers, and at the present, I haven’t ruled her out.
What are her intentions? It just makes no sense.
And the final look she gave me as a parting gift made every hair on the back of my neck stand to attention. Something deep down tells me that was not the last I’ll see of her. Only, it’s been a week, and nothing has happened.
What exactly is she doing over there?
“Hey,” Cole says, catching Duke and me just as we’re leaving the cider house. He has an office in the loft that overlooks the cider production, and it’s where he spends most of his days. “Graham from Route 11 called and said they just tapped out on the hard cider and wants to know if we can run him down a keg?”
This is great news.
“Absolutely. We have six kegs left from last year’s harvest, so it’s good to move through those as we start kegging and bottling this year’s next week.”
Five years ago, I bought this orchard. The man who owned it before me had it for about twenty years. He purchased it right about the time Mrs. Benson’s husband died. I think it was a midlife crisis dream of his, but once he was ready to retire, he was ready to be done with the demands and upkeep of this property.
It was an easy decision for me. My mother always loved Horizons Valley. She used to bring us here to go skiing in the winter, for lake fun in the summer, and hiking in the fall. She spoke so frequently of our time spent here that when she was diagnosed with cancer, I knew she didn’t want to be in Charlotte. At twenty-five, I bought the property, and except for when she was receiving treatments, she basically left behind her life and moved into the house.
Needless to say, that did not go over well with my father or my brother.
“All right. I can run it down there on my way home,” Cole says, dragging a hand through his blond hair.
“I appreciate it. Just let him know I’ll send him an invoice.”
Cole is a few years younger than me. He’s my right-hand man at the orchard and has become my best friend. He’s from North Carolina. He went to school for marketing at Appalachian State University and wanted to settle down somewhere in the mountains. That’s the thing about North Carolina. People who are from here love it and stay here. I wanted to rebrand Red Barn Orchard and put in the cidery, and he was on board with everything I had planned from the first interview. For as much as he loves his creative side, he has no problem getting his hands dirty and picking apples with me when we’re in season.
“Any plans tonight?” I ask him, already knowing exactly what they are. It’s a little more than a tenth of a mile back to the house, and sweat slowly rolls down my back from the late afternoon humidity.
A goofy smile takes over his face. “Nothing too much. Amelia is cooking dinner, and we’ll probably go for a walk somewhere. She loves this time of the year when everything is lush and green.”
Cole and Amelia got married last month. She’s a school teacher he met in town at the coffee shop Bean There. It was love at first sight, and we all knew it.
“Sounds like a great night,” I tell him even though I cringe inside. While I’m happy for him, marriage and commitment after dealing with my ex Adele make me want to hurl myself off this mountain to drown at the bottom of the lake.
We’re halfway back to the house when music drifts our way and floats around us. Music I’ve never heard before here on the mountain. I stop dead in my tracks as it’s so out of place—it’s deep, it’s soulful, it’s beautiful.
It’s inconsistent.
Cole and I look at each other, both bewildered as gravel from underneath our feet kicks up dust at the abrupt halt.
This isn’t coming from an album or a playlist, and that’s when it dawns on me. My new neighbor must be playing it.
“What instrument is that?” he quietly asks, not wanting to disturb the moment.
“Pretty sure it’s the cello.”
I’ve been to my fair share of charity galas and benefits and spent plenty of unwanted time listening to stringed instruments.
“Sure sounds nice,” he says, and I hum in agreement.
Slowly, we continue walking. Both of us are lost in thought over the music, and poor old Duke, he’s just moseying along, happy to be with us. I’ve never considered myself an expert on music, but there is no question she is an expert. And from how it sounds, she’s been heavily trained and playing for a long time.
Something warm diffuses its way into my chest cavity. Of all the annoying things that neighbors can do, this is not one of them. I will have no problem listening to her play night after night. My mother would have loved it.
We’re almost to the house when she starts playing the theme song for Indiana Jones. While it sounds beautiful, it’s not what I expected, and my lips twitch. Is playing a hobby for her? Does she belong to an orchestra? As much as I don’t want to be intrigued by this new detail of hers, I am. She’s apparently a rich woman who lives alone, is secluded on a mountain, likes plants, has no pets I’ve seen, and plays the cello. I’m no detective, but something here doesn’t add up.
