But before I could really enjoy the possibility that Candace might be attracted to me, she sort of stammered, “And—and you’re a dad now, right?”
Surprise had me pausing with the box of apples in my hands. I quickly turned away to stack it with the others and to catch my breath. Of course, she’d found out. Of course, she’d asked. My life wasn’t a secret. It was fodder for small-town gossip. Naturally, it would have found its way to her in the weeks since she’d returned.
“Uh, right,” I finally managed, but it sounded more like a question than a confirmation. I still couldn’t look at her.
My business was common knowledge, but I couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked me about Lyndsey outright. The Judds never brought up her or Hannah after the divorce. They gave me space.
Brady had asked early on—right after Hannah had taken Lyndsey and moved to Tennessee—if I wanted to grab a beer and talk about it. I’d said no, and he hadn’t mentioned it again. I’d been grateful that Brady and his family hadn’t persisted, hadn’t asked after the little girl who wasn’t really mine, because I didn’t want to lie to them.
The Judds were good people, and they supported me through a shitty situation and gave me privacy all the while.
So it had been quite some time since anyone had inquired about my former life. And it was the first time the lie had occasion to stick in my throat.
Hannah’s truth was not mine to tell. She had her own family and her own life, and I never wanted to make things hard for Lyndsey. I loved that little girl. Losing her was hard enough. Reliving it now felt like some funhouse version of events, where the reality was distorted and impossible to decipher from the lies.
But I didn’twantto lie to Candace. I didn’t want her to have this impression of me—that I had a daughter I didn’t talk about or acknowledge. That there was a baby out there whose picture wasn’t in my wallet and whose presence I simply ignored.
I endured the gossip and the bad opinions of me because they came from people who didn’t matter.
However, I couldn’t be honest with myself and say I didn’t care about what Candace thought. Somehow I didn’t imagine she’d be able to ignore whatever it was she’d heard about me.
We stayed quiet and busy while we loaded up and headed back to the truck. My response obviously hadn’t encouraged any more conversation on the topic. I could see Candace watching me from the corner of my eye as I drove back to Judd’s.
I’d let a single choice define me for the rest of my life. And for the first time in a long time, I was reminded that trying to do the right thing didn’t always work out.
seven
CANDACE
“Candy, honey, you alright?”
My mother’s words pulled my attention away from the meandering path it had taken.
I smiled. “Yeah, Mom. I’m good. How’s your book?”
We were on her screened porch this morning, the fan off since it was in the low sixties. I wore a pale blue sweatshirt, and Mom was wrapped up in a plaid robe she’d had since I was in middle school.
It turned out that my mother did still drink her tea out here most mornings. And when I’d asked if I could join her, she’d been extremely pleased. So, now I moseyed over from the garage apartment around 7:00 a.m. and brought my e-reader.
Some mornings we sipped our tea and read in companionable silence for half an hour, and others we chatted. I loved having this time with her. I’d missed out on so much over the years. Subtleties and nuance you couldn’t really capture over the phone or on a video call.
Out here on the porch, with the birds chirping and the fog settled like a cozy blanket in the valley, it was the most relaxed my mother ever got. She was a hard worker and always busy with the orchard and the business and church and thecommunity. Amy Judd was a go-getter. Seeing her at ease was something special and rare, and I loved these moments, just the two of us.
While Mom filled me in on the thriller she had spread across her lap, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of these mornings I had left.
I should definitely be job hunting—at least seeing what was out there. If I kept to my timeline, I had less than four months to track something down and go through the lengthy interview process. But part of me—likely the one currently enjoying tea with my momma—didn’t want to limit my options moving forward. There were opportunities a little closer to home. I could always job hunt in Atlanta or Nashville, or heck, even in Charlotte.
My parents loved visiting New York and seeing the sights. They were always interested in checking out the places I frequented and eager to spend time in the city together. But maybe they’d enjoy having me within driving distance. Surely, they’d still see me as successful even if I was no longer based in NYC.
Mom had just started retelling the part where she’d screamed and thrown her book when the screen door banged open, making us both jump.
But it was only Joan standing in the doorway. She looked like she’d just finished up her run. Her light gray tee shirt was dark in places with sweat, and the ball cap on her head was tugged low over her eyes. She had a tiny stub of a mostly gray ponytail sticking out of the back. And the scowl she wore had me swallowing uneasily.
I hadn’t heard from my sister since the staff meeting, two weeks ago. She’d avoided me at work, and she hadn’t joined us for dinner in the farmhouse once.
Joan had even evaded me at the Orchard Festival planning meeting two days ago. I’d found a seat by myself in the conference room at the Kirby Falls Public Library and taken diligent notes in my trusty notebook while the chairwoman of the committee had gone over festival procedures for vendors. Growing up, I’d always loved the Orchard Fest, and I was excited to work the event with my family this weekend.
It hurt to think my sister was so upset about my involvement with the farm that she was staying away as a result. That she’d basically rather have my input over her dead body.
