“Even when it’s rainy and muddy,” I pressed.
He kept right on nodding.
“Do you like working with your hands? Getting a little dirty, if need be?”
The boy’s eyes brightened, as if the idea that there could be a job where you were allowed to get dirty had never occurred to him, and he liked it. But he wasn’t smiling. In fact, I hadn’t seen a smile cross his stoic little face even once. But I hadn’t smiled either, so who was I to judge?
“Then I think you’d make a mighty fine farmer,” I told him.
In my limited experience with children, I assumed this pronouncement might get a grin out of him. Both kids and adults liked it when you said what they wanted to hear. It was a universal trait. And it was obvious, even to me—someone who was better with plants than I could ever be with people—that George wanted me to agree, to say he could be a farmer, too.
But the boy still didn’t smile. He did something better. He straightened and took a deep breath, like confidence was filling him up from the inside. Then he nodded once. “Okay.”
I waited, but he didn’t say more. My eyes, again, drifted over his shoulder in an effort to locate his family. But before I could push to stand and get the search underway, George’s watch beeped.
He sighed, eyes dropping to the little device on his wrist. I couldn’t tell if it was a fancy watch that received text messages or just an alarm that had gone off. However, I did notice that he wasn’t wearing one of the bounce pillow bracelets that acted like an entry ticket for the most popular children’s attraction on the farm.
“Better go,” he muttered, clearly reluctant.
Concern had me frowning. “Do you need help finding your parents?”
He shook his head, dark hair swinging into his blue eyes briefly before he shoved it away. “Nope. Bye, Joan. Have a nice day.”
I stood as he trotted back out into the sunlight. He didn’t circle back to the front of the Apple House, where most orchard visitors would be, gathered near the picnic tables, enjoying a freshly pressed cider or an apple hand pie. George didn’t head in the direction of the giant bounce pillow either. He crossed the grass all the way to the tractor path that led to my parents’ house.
I was willing to bet that if the little boy was walking that way, he was going to the rear of the property, where the trailers and production teams were setting up.
Sighing, I turned back to the conveyor belt.
He was probably with the movie people. It seemed about right that one of those Hollywood types would just let their child roam free, where he could get hurt or lost on someone else’s land.
Still, I hesitated, half tempted to go after the quiet little boy and make sure he found his way back safely. But soon, he was out of sight, and I was still very much a stranger.
I could feel myself frowning at the thought of what was to come. For the majority of the next five months, there would be a film crew at the orchard. Well, parts of the orchard. There were limitations and boundaries, minimal as they were. But for the next few months, our land would host bigwigs from Hollywood as they filmed a major motion picture.
And wasn’t that just dandy?
Apparently, some hotshot director had visited our orchard a few years ago. She’d become enamored with Kirby Falls and the surrounding area and had written a script set right here in Western North Carolina.
On that front, I couldn’t really blame her. The land was beautiful, and our town was friendly—practically designed to lure in helpless leafers who sought out tourist activities and beautiful autumn foliage. I’d met more than a few new arrivals and retirees who’d settled here after a vacation or two.
But this was the first time a newcomer had brought their work with them.
Once the director, Della Stewart, had found someone willing to fund and produce her film, they’d approached us with an offer. It had been generous enough to seriously consider. In fact, it would allow my parents to retire a few years early. And it more than made up for the business we’d lose out on by only opening to the public two days a week instead of four.
On Monday through Friday, the production crew would have free rein of Judd’s Family Orchard—except my parents’ home, as well as my cabin on the opposite side of the property. We had a contract and everything. They wouldn’t damage our crops or equipment or outbuildings, and they had to provide a shooting schedule in advance. There would be no impacting our weekend business or impeding upon our private spaces.
We had a film liaison who kept us apprised of any updates or pertinent information, but I was making Candace deal with all that. Quite frankly, I didn’t want to see or manage any part of this. I needed to tend to my duties, keep my apple trees healthy, and protect our legacy from whatever hell we’d wrought by making a very lucrative deal with the devil.
But already the lines were getting blurred. First, there had been that production crew guy poking around the property a few days ago, and now I was somehow playing tour guide for one of their kids.
I shook my head, swiping at the blood on my knuckle one last time before getting back to work.
The following morning left me chilled as I jogged the familiar path between my small cabin and my parents’ house. I generally ran every morning, then joined my dad for coffee before showering and changing to start my workday on the farm. My sister, Candace, jogged with me a few days a week for at least part of my run, but I knew she was busy this morning with wedding plans.
Candace ran our social media, public outreach, and education program. She scheduled events, gave presentations, and handled the tour groups. It was the perfect role for her since she was friendly and personable. Unlike me, Candace genuinely enjoyed working with the public. After returning to Kirby Falls two summers ago, she had decided to stay for good.
A big part of her decision to remain in our hometown was Mark Mercer, my longtime co-worker and friend. The two had fallen in love, and now Candace finally felt like she had a place where she belonged.
