Having your deficiencies exposed made you vulnerable. And in the long run, having the illusion of a family was worse than growing up without one.
I’d been raised by my aunt after my mom took off when I was a baby. Having a kid hadn’t worked out for my young mother, and I’d never known my father in any capacity. My aunt Autumn was pretty sure my mother hadn’t even been sure of my paternity.
I barely had memories of my mom. A few old photographs in a shoebox in my closet and a hazy image of a blond woman humming “Blackbird” as she held me. There wasn’t much to go on and even less to miss.
Aunt Autumn had been bitter and resentful, having to raise a kid she’d never asked for. I’d been clothed and fed, so I couldn’t complain too much. I had it better than a lot of kids out there. The best thing Autumn had ever done for me was move us to Kirby Falls when I was twelve. I’d had people who cared about me and a place to call home.
For a little while, at least.
“So, what are you going to do?” Wenn’s deep voice yanked my thoughts out of the past, and not a moment too soon.
“About what?”
“About the girl—Candace. Are you going to tell her who you are? That you have history together?”
Taking in the darkness beyond and the sweet scent of honeysuckle growing on the hillside, I let myself picture her friendly but mortified expression from this afternoon. And then I smiled.
“Nah. I’m going to let her figure that out on her own.”
three
CANDACE
I stacked another box in the corner of the room and then batted away the plume of dust that erupted as the cardboard joined its brethren.
The small office located behind the counter in the Judd’s Orchard Apple House hadn’t been used with any sort of regularity since my grandfather was alive. My mom and dad were usually too busy to have a use for it, and anything requiring a computer was done up at the farmhouse.
When I’d broached the subject of cleaning out the space and using it for myself, my parents had been all for it. Just like with everything else I’d ever attempted, Nick and Amy Judd supported me wholeheartedly.
I’d done a cursory glance through the farm’s social media accounts and was surprised to see the orchard was pretty active on Twitter. Less so on the other channels, but the content was solid. The photographs that were posted of the farm were irregularly spaced and infrequent, but they were beautiful. The shots of apples on the trees and all the merchandise and refreshments available had blown me away. I couldn’t wait to implement a consistent marketing and advertising plan around the already stellar content.
In fact, I’d already been snapping photos around the farm to supplement. I liked getting shots of people in action. I’d caught my mom’s smiling face at the refreshment stand and my dad sorting and washing apples for the press. I’d eventaken several pictures of Joan and Mercer at work, but I made sure to crop them or at least keep their faces hidden. Joan because I didn’t want to incur her wrath, and Mercer, well, I got the impression he was a pretty private guy.
So here I was, my first week in Kirby Falls, organizing old files, discontinued signage, and neglected storage items, getting this old office ready to be mine.
There was a battered wooden desk and a rolling chair, the back support adjustable, and the seat a dull avocado color with the texture of worn burlap. The chair squeaked whenever it rolled or when I sat on it or just generally breathed in its direction.
The wood-paneled, windowless room had three filing cabinets along the front wall and no artwork to speak of. But there was a largemouth bass mounted on a plaque behind the desk alongside the oldest analog wall clock I’d ever seen, permanently frozen in time at four thirty-two.
I used the bottom of my tee shirt to wipe sweat off my forehead. Even with the door propped open, there was little air circulation to speak of. I’d need to allocate some funds to purchase a portable air conditioner, or I’d never be able to work in here as summer slowly wound down to fall.
Inexplicably, the next box I searched through held six bowling trophies from down at Lucky Strike Lanes and some old Kirby Falls postcards from over the years. I thumbed through the stack, noting how much the town had changed. At one point, there’d only been a single stoplight on Main Street. I took in the blue-and-white sign over Apollo’s. When I’d ridden with Mom last night to pick up pizza, I’d noticed a new-and-improved logo directing restaurant-goers to one of our family’s favorite dining options in Kirby Falls.
I’d already emptied the desk drawers and wiped everything down. My laptop was perched on the scarred oak surface, just waiting for me to brainstorm ideas for the farm. I had quite a few things I wanted to run by Joan and my parents, just to see what would be feasible. But so far, Joan had been keeping her distance.
She had shown back up at my mother’s dining table two nights ago for chicken and dumplings. But my sister had been quiet while my parents kept up a running commentary and I fielded their questions about New York. I’d felt uneasy and barely able to drink my sweet tea as I avoided talking about my unceremonious exit from the city.
As far as my family knew, I had a better opportunity lined up later in the year. The Christmas holiday had seemed like a good arbitrary timeline, but even though we were over four months away from December 25, I could feel the deadline looming, and my lies holding me hostage.
I hefted the final box off the filing cabinet and rolled my eyes when I opened it and saw it was packed full of stuff from my brother’s bedroom which had been converted into a craft room for my mother. There was a stack of car magazines, a collection of greeting cards held together by rubber bands, a soccer medal from his senior year, and his high school diploma, still in the protective holder embossed in gold withKirby Falls High School Class of 2012.
I’d have to ask him if he still wanted any of this crap. I also unearthed ticket stubs in an old Altoids tin that, somehow, still smelled strongly of peppermint, and a smudged and faded handwritten note on folded notebook paper. Before I could read it and happily invade my brother’s teenage privacy, I caught sight of his yearbook at the very bottom of the box.
Smiling to myself, I sat down in the green chair as it squeaked in protest.
“Would you look at this, Lance Bass,” I mumbled to the mounted fish, who I’d recently named. Unsurprisingly, he had no comment.
Excitedly, I flipped through the pages until I found my brother’s goofy, grinning face in his senior portrait. The guys all wore those faux tuxedo shirts while the girls sported off-the-shoulder, V-neck maroon velvet tops.
