It’s been three days since the farmers’ market and Eloise has not spoken to me once, despite my going over to her houseeverymorning. On Tuesday I left her a lavender latte on the porch, a gesture of goodwill, with a note that saidHey, can we talk?and had my phone number scrawled across it. All day I was glued to my phone. I felt in my bones she would reach out. But the day ticked along, a chilly morning making way for another bright fall afternoon, a crisp breeze floating through the apple trees, which turned into a brisk evening, only for my phone to stubbornly stay silent.
This morning when I woke up I decided I’d had enough of her freezing me out. If this is the way she wants to play it, then I’ll let her know who she decided to play against.
I was iffy on whether or not to release this campaign at all—it does involve significant work on Mrs. Parker’s part, but now I have nothing to lose and everything (revenge on Eloise) to gain. In a flurry of TikTok’s I announce the ‘Day in the Life’ competition, where a lucky winner will be chosen from the list of people who like the video and follow our account. They’ll get a chance to come up to the farm, meet the pigs and Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and they’ll get to take home a basket of home-made goods. To top it off, Mrs. Parker will cook every single meal, as farm to table as you can get it.Andthe lucky winner can bring a guest with them.
Mrs. Parker, for her part, is thrilled. When I show her how many people have entered the competition so far she claps her hands together with glee.
‘You’ll have to tell me what to make,’ she says, putting down her crotchet.
We’re on the porch, as we are every evening, all three of us gently rocking back and forth in rocking chairs. Heat emanates from the cups of apple cider that rest at our sides, a fall tradition for the Parkers. I’ve already asked Betsy for the recipe, although recreating this type of fall magic in my studio apartment in San Francisco will be impossible. Betsy looks so small under the chunky quilt that she’s pulled up so high it almost reaches her chin, and I feel a swell of affection for her.
‘All of your meals are delicious,’ I say emphatically.
‘I could do my roast chicken.’
Joe grunts from his chair. Helovesher roast chicken. Betsy glances at me for approval.
‘That’s a perfect idea,’ I say.
I only let the competition run for one full day before I enter the applicants into a random generator at the end of Wednesday night. I’m exhausted, but I sit straight up, my eyes almost popping out of my head when I read the name the generator outputs:Anna Park.
No. No. No.Anna of all people? How on earth did she win this? I let my mouse hover over the ‘spin again’ button wondering how unethical it would be to just pick someone else. The last thing I want is for Anna to come up here sniffing around, making small talk with Mrs. Parker. For all I know Anna will probably reach out to my mother and bring hertoo.Suddenly I feel like I bit off way more than I can chew.
But when I go to click the mouse, I hesitate. It doesn’t sit right with me to manipulate the contest so much. Maybe having Anna won’t be as bad as I thought. A familiar face could be nice. Plus, I know what I’m getting myself into. I type out a message to her:You’ll never believe it! .?.?.ignoring the nagging feeling that I’m allowing the winner to be Anna for an entirely different reason than it could be nice to see a familiar face—a reason that has everything to do with the fact that this is the perfect way to irritate the hell out of Eloise, who just so happens to be irritating the hell out of me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eloise
The Best Things About Fall on a Farm
–London fog lattes
–Seeing your breath in the morning
–The sun (and the roosters) rising a little later
–Golden turmeric chai lattes (in my opinion, this should be a year-round thing, but the coffee shop has always branded them as ‘their alternative to pumpkin spice’)
–Cardigans
–Home-made sticky toffee pudding cake
Every three years the Fall Festival coincides with a drop of about five degrees in the daily temperature, everyone starts to wear flannel, even the people that insist on wearing shorts in the winter, and Carnation truly comes alive.
There are yellow mums blooming in front door pots and garlands of dried orange daisies hanging from inside windows. Rocking chairs are draped with thick blankets on front porches and chunky knit sweaters are unearthed from the back of the cabinet. Every year Mom spends a whole day pulling out our fall wardrobes, which are home to an embarrassing amount of red sweaters and plaid scarves and way too manyAnderson Farm-emblazoned beanies. But when she does the closet switch, she also makes spritz cookies shaped like pumpkins and the smell takes over the whole house, filling us all up with the cozy fall joy.
This year the cookies smell just as good, but everything else feels a little less joyous. It’s been six days since I last talked to Nick. We have three weeks left before U-Pick season officially kicks off at the end of September. Which means about a month until Nick leaves. I convince myself the contraction in my gut when I think about him leaving is because I dread having to be around him until then,notbecause I don’t want him to leave.
I take refuge in the field to distract myself, putting in a longer day of work than I have in ages, especially for a Saturday. I survey every single line of the orchard for misshapen apples—it’s critical they’re all removed so the trees can direct all their energy to growing the apples we can sell. I lose track of time and end up rushing back in towards the house, hoping to squeeze in a hand or two of gin rummy before dinner. The sun is almost completely set when I head home, the fields rolling endlessly into a dark haze of twilight.
‘Eloise?’ I hear a familiar voice ring out.
I freeze. I’m right at the part of the path where it splits, one direction heading towards the Parkers’. I know that voice. I look around but I can’t make out anything in my rapidly darkening surroundings. It’s dark enough that he may not have seen me, but eventually the outside lights will click on, the ones that stay on for thirty minutes to help guide workers out of the field when it’s dark. If I can hide before the lights turn on, then maybe I can avoid him. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. I duck behind a tree.
I wait a minute, then two, before I decide the coast is clear. Nick doesn’t call out for me again. I stand up and start striding towards the house when the lights blaze on, bathing the whole field in fluorescent white light.
Nick is standing on the opposite hillside. A black-haired woman stands at his side. My stomach drops right as he waves hello.
