“What’s that mean?”
“It means you’re the type of person who doesn’t give up and still shows up. Even when it’s hard.”
My throat tightens. I swallow around it. “Showing up doesn’t fix everything.”
“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “Sometimes it’s just the first thing that makes the next thing possible.”
We roll past the hay-rack turnoff, the maze entrance, the field where the apple cannons sleep. The patch looks naked without families layered over it. Winter is closer today than it was yesterday. I feel it in my ribs.
“I’m not fishing,” he says after a beat. “But if you want to talk, I’m here. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
A wet laugh slips out. “You’re good at this whole comforting big brother role.”
“Lanie trained us well,” he says. “Look—Quinn’s been… wound. For a long time. I forgot what he looks like when he’s having fun. You reminded me.”
The window fog blurs the view. “Smiling isn’t the same as saving the farm.”
“Feels related from where I’m sitting,” he says. “And the numbers are better. Not just because of the signs, or the map, or the website. Because people can feel it when a place is alive.”
I stare into my coffee. “I’ll finish the season. I promised. But I won’t be back next year.”
He doesn’t pretend to be surprised. He nods once, a small acceptance that hurts more than if he’d argued. “Patience,” he says anyway, soft. “My brother’s slow. He tries to fix things by himself until his hands bleed. But he’s not stupid. He knows when something’s worth keeping.”
We pull into the lot by the office. He puts the truck in park but doesn’t cut the engine. The heater keeps humming. Outside, a crow stalks the fence post like it’s considering a career change.
“Thanks,” I say again, and my voice is steadier than it feels.
“Anytime.” He tips two fingers off the wheel. “Oh—and if Karen says anything, do not hesitate to call me. I’ve got a list of synonyms for ‘busybody’ saved in my notes.”
“Noted,” I say, and push out into the cold.
Lanie has two coffees waiting on the desk in the front office.
At this rate, the Carvers are going to make me the most caffeinated employee on the property.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she says, sliding a cup in my direction. “You don’t owe anyone here one.”
“Thank you.”
She takes a sip, then lowers her voice. “But if you need to scream, the hay maze has excellent acoustics. Plus, people will just think it’s part of the experience.”
I give a short laugh. “I might take you up on that later.”
“I’m on your side, Tricia. I have been since you face-planted in our mud and didn’t sue.”
“I wouldn’t have sued.”
“I know.” She glances toward the door, then back to me. “And I’m holding out hope my oldest brother will stop being a dumbass before I lose the twenty bucks I bet on him.”
A startled laugh flies out of me. Relief and sadness collide in my chest like two birds meeting a window pane. “You bet on him?”
She winks. “Never bet against a Carver’s capacity to be wrong and then fix it loudly.”
“Good to know.”
We get to work because it’s what we do. I answer emails, process a set of group reservations, schedule a post about the Great Pumpkin Festival that I’m not sure my heart can survive if we pull it off.
People trickle in. Vendors dropping invoices, a delivery guy with a pallet of cider, a teenager asking about weekend hours. Imake the kinds of decisions that make a place run. Yes to more wristbands. No to three more tubs of glow sticks.
