“I actually think you’d love Maurice. He takes great pleasure in kicking my ass.”
Her brows went high, obviously impressed. I guess the thought of me in pain was doing it for her. “Oh yeah?”
I nodded eagerly, playing it up a little for her benefit. “Definitely. I’ve been doing virtual workouts with him since I’ve been in North Carolina, but I’m going to meet your brother and someone named Abby at the gym tomorrow morning.”
Joan shook out her arms. “Jesus. So it begins.”
“So what begins?”
She motioned for me to follow her, then resumed her jog. “Your indoctrination into this town. Before you know it, you’ll even be in the fucking Facebook group, arguing with the lunatics who live here.” Her words were a little harsh, but there was fondness in her tone, a softness around her mouth, like maybe theywerelunatics, but they wereherlunatics.
“There’s a Kirby Falls Facebook group?” I pulled out my phone. “I want in. Send me an invite.”
She rolled her eyes once more, but she kept our pace slow and steady as we made our way up the hill where the Cosmic Crisps grew.
It felt like a gift.
From someone who didn’t hand them out very often.
five
JOAN
Filming started this week.
There was more traffic on the highway, new people crowded around brewery tables in the evenings, and if I listened hard from the fields, I could hear people shouting orders and equipment moving around.
Ian’s schedule was now unpredictable. Some days he had early call times, so he joined me for runs when he was able. I made sure to keep my route the same in case he needed to find me. It was easy enough to manage, on my part. But it felt like a concession, a little like weakness where he was concerned.
My little visitor returned two days ago to watch me work on the tractor. George stayed for forty minutes and only asked two questions, but he watched and listened as I showed him what I was doing to the engine. I managed to confirm that he was in town with the movie people and was seven years old.
Similar to the first time I’d seen him, his watch buzzed after a while, and he told me to have a nice day before hurrying off in the direction of the set.
Now, he was standing on the step stool to my right, watching me prune some of the early varieties.
“How old is that tree?” George asked as he squinted into the early afternoon sunlight.
“Probably ten or twelve years old. I have records back in the office, but judging from the size, that’s about right.”
“Do the trees ever die?”
I glanced his way. His expression was a little more intense than the question warranted. I wondered for the umpteenth time what this kid’s life was like and what had molded him into the quiet, thoughtful, curious boy at my side.
“Sometimes,” I explained. “But that’s why I’m pruning. When apple season is over, we try to keep the trees healthy and watch for any disease while they’re dormant. But after a while, the older trees produce less and less fruit. So we rotate them out every five to ten years and plant saplings in their place.”
“Oh.”
I moved to the next tree, and George carefully shifted the step stool over. His watch buzzed for the second time in the last few minutes, but he ignored it.
“Do you need to go?”
He sighed. “Probably.”
“Are you going to get in trouble?”
His brows furrowed. He looked deeply offended. “Of course not.”
“So your mom doesn’t mind you running off and hanging out in the fields?” I kept my tone casual. He usually clammed up when I asked about his parents.
