“Oh,” she says, offering a gentle smile. “You must be Troy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I straighten instinctively and extend my hand. “Troy Fischer.”
She takes it, her grip soft and timid. “I’m Debbie. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
She steps back and opens the door wider. “Come on in.”
The second I cross the threshold, the smell hits me—garlic and tomatoes simmering, something savory and rich that makes my stomach growl traitorously loud.
“Chloe and Justin are at a friend’s house tonight,” she says, waving a hand vaguely toward the hallway. “So it’ll just be the four of us.”
I nod. “Alright. Thank you for having me.”
She smiles warmly. “Of course. I’ve got spaghetti going. Ashton said you eat about anything and aren’t picky.”
I rub the back of my neck, heat crawling up my collar. “Yeah, that’s true. I’m not hard to please.”
“Well, good. That makes a cook’s life easier.” She studies me for a moment with cautious, assessing eyes. “It sounds like you two have gotten to be close friends this past summer.”
I bite my lower lip, choosing my words carefully. “Yeah. Ashton’s a great guy.”
Her smile softens, like I’ve confirmed something she already knew. “He really is.”
I tuck my hands into my pockets and glance around the house. It’s large but lived in—scuffed baseboards, cabinet doors that hang a little crooked, chips in the hardwood floors. Evidence of half-completed projects is scattered between the living room and kitchen: stacked planks of wood, a toolbox left open, paint samples fanned across the counter.
Ashton mentioned his dad has been keeping himself busy since he retired, unable to relax. He strikes me as the kind of man who prefers to fix things on his own, far too prideful to hire outside help.
A fireplace anchors the living room, its red bricks rustic and weathered, a framed photograph resting on the mantle. It’s a professional family portrait: all five siblings lined up neatly, their parents standing behind them. Ashton’s father wears a neutral, practiced expression, all sharp lines and composure, while the rest of them offer tight, manufactured smiles.
I recognize the photo immediately. I’ve seen it reproduced on jars of Tremblay Orchards cherry jam lining grocery store shelves—an image polished into an advertisement, a promise of wholesomeness and unity. Looking at it now, stripped of branding and slogans, it feels hollow.
My finger brushes lightly against the edge of the frame before I pull my hand back, grounding myself, and turn to Debbie.
“Is he around?” I ask.
She waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, his father swooped him up the second he walked through the door. Didn’t even let the poor boy set his keys down before dragging him outside.” She rolls her eyes,though there’s a thread of fondness there. “Something about a part in his car that needed fixing. They should be back in shortly.”
I swallow the grumble of annoyance that claws at the back of my throat. From what I’ve gathered, Ashton’s dad seems to claim the title of father only when it’s convenient—when there’s something to fix, something to lift, something to do. A favor to extract. An order to give.
“That sounds about right,” I mutter.
Debbie smiles and gestures toward the living room. “You make yourself at home. I’m going to finish up dinner.”
“Thank you,” I say, forcing my shoulders to relax as she disappears into the kitchen.
I pace the living room aimlessly, fidgeting with the rings on my fingers as I resist the urge to step outside for a cigarette. God, I’m craving one, but the last thing I need is for Ashton’s dad to smell the smoke on my breath.
My attention lands on a large painting hanging on the far wall, washed in golden light from a nearby lamp. Olivia’s initials are tucked into the bottom corner, signed in crisp black ink. It’s a landscape of the orchard in mid-bloom—rolling hills draped in white blossoms, petals spilling like snowfall across the trees. Up close, I can see each textured brushstroke. I squint at the canvas, tracing the movement of the paint, the care in every layered stroke.
It’s beautiful.
Staring at the painting, how it anchors the living room and demands attention, it’s clear the orchard is important to all of them. It’s the center of their home. The center of their lives.
Now, I see where Ashton gets it from.
The back door creaks open, followed by the heavy thud of boots hitting tile.
