I considered her question and then answered truthfully, “I did and I didn’t. It was never going to be long-term for me. Raleigh is a decent-sized city, but you’re surrounded by suburbs and pine trees and land, so it doesn’t feel very urban. I liked it well enough, but it was never going to be home.”
For better or worse, my home would always be Kirby Falls.
There were times I’d given serious thought to leaving. In the early months following my divorce, I’d considered packing up and going somewhere no one knew what I’d lost, what I’d been forced to give up. With my aunt’s passing during college, I had no family to stick around for and no one to keep up with. Part of me had wanted to take the easy way out and leave, avoiding the gossip altogether by taking off and settling somewhere new—another farm in another state.
But I liked my life in Kirby Falls. I cared about the Judds and the orchard. I had a place here and people who meant something to me and a good job that gave me peace.
So, yeah. Maybe it would have been smarter to start over somewhere else, but the selfish, spiteful part of me that I managed to ignore most days, thought I’d already given up enough for Hannah Price. I didn’t want to give up my home too.
“I used to feel that way about New York,” Candace murmured as she watched the fire. “I thought I’d go to college and then come home.”
“Why didn’t you? Do that, I mean.”
Her gaze stayed on the fire pit, but her lips curved in a wistful sort of smile that somehow made her face look sad instead of amused. “Not a lot of job opportunities in Kirby Falls for the field I chose. Once I got started on the path I was on, it felt too late to turn back or change course. Columbia, graduate school, internship. I needed to see it through.”
I watched her for a long moment and wondered for the first time if there was more to Candace’s return to North Carolina than she was letting on.
Her voice was soft when she said, “It’s crazy to think we expect kids to know what they want to do with the rest of their lives when they’re only seventeen or eighteen years old.”
“I don’t think it’s ever really too late to alter your path. There aren’t rules about starting over and trying again. Cages like that are ones you build yourself,” I offered.
Candace swiveled her focus to me, her gaze searching.
I didn’t know what was going on in her head or her heart, but I felt compelled to continue now that I had her attention. “You read stories about grandmothers going back to college or someone writing their first book at fifty. You’re only twenty-five, Candace. You could do whatever you put your mind to.”
Complicated emotions—ones I couldn’t even begin to name in the shadow of our burgeoning friendship—swirled behind her eyes, but I was growing more and more certain that this little trip home wasn’t just an extended vacation for Candace.
Suddenly, the folksy background music ended and a voice came over the microphone drawing our attention. “This will be our final song this evening. Thanks for listening tonight.”
A smattering of applause over on the lawn gave way to softly plucked guitar strings.
When I turned back to face Candace, she was watching the stage, a smile playing on her lips.
“I used to love this song,” she said. “I haven’t heard it in years.”
“I don’t know this one,” I admitted.
“It’s called ‘Matthew.’ Mom used to play this John Denver album in the kitchen while she made dinner and I did my homework at the table.”
We listened together.
I watched Candace as she mouthed the words and kept her eyes on the stage. We listened as the band sang about joy, love, and a windy Kansas wheat field. By the end, our pint glasses were empty, and I had the sense I’d seen a different side of Candace Judd. One that had only revealed itself in the firelight and would be gone again once the embers cooled.
I was glad I’d stayed for a drink, grateful for the chance to know her a little better. There hadn’t been any demoralizing encounters with know-it-all neighbors. No one had accused me of being an absentee father. A crowd hadn’t gathered with their pitchforks.
Maybe this could be okay. Going out, spending time in the community. Getting a drink with a woman I liked spending time with—a woman I liked, period.
Pulling her flannel tighter around her, Candace said, “Well, I guess we better get going.”
“Busy day tomorrow,” I agreed.
The Orchard Festival kicked off in the morning. It would be several days of what amounted to a farmers’ market on steroids. The usual produce vendors would be joined by local artisans, craftspeople, and antique dealers. Booths would line Main Street for six blocks, along with a stage for performers and a tent for storytelling. There would be all manner of apple-related treats from hand pies to cider slushies to fritters and doughnuts. The celebration would conclude on Monday with a 5K road race and an afternoon parade.
Judd’s would be one of the dozens of vendors. We’d be on hand, selling eight to ten different apple varieties to the tens of thousands of tourists who’d make their way through Kirby Falls for the festivities over the weekend. Our start time in the morning was around eight. Nick and Amy would be holding down the fort at the orchard with some part-time volunteers—mostly friends of theirs—while Candace, Brady, Joan, and I handled the festival, where the majority of the crowds would be.
“I’ll walk you out,” I told Candace.
Lightning bugs lit up in the distance as we made our way toward our vehicles. It was dark and cool, and the night was unbearably quiet. With feet crunching over the gravel of the parking lot, I felt very aware of the woman at my side.
