Page 105 of Fall is Brewing

Grandpa reaches for the tasting glass I'd abandoned beside my notebook and takes another slow sip. He lets it sit on his tongue before swallowing, eyes drifting thoughtfully toward the rows of barrels. "This is the one you've been coming back to all night."

It's not a question. I glance at my notebook. Every ratio is scribbled across two pages. Most of them crossed out.

Except one.

"I keep trying the others," I admit. "But I always come back to this."

He nods as though I'd just confirmed something he'd already known. "Why?"

I let out a slow breath. "Because it's different."

"Different bad?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No. Different unfamiliar." I look down at the glass again. "But it won’t work. It doesn't taste anything like a Hartley Reserve Cider."

"No," Grandpa agrees. "It doesn't." I wait for the criticism. Instead, he surprises me. "It tastes like the next Hartley Reserve Cider."

"I think I'm afraid people will notice how different it is,” I admit.

Grandpa chuckles. "Oh, sweetheart. I sure hope they do. When your great-grandfather planted Honeycrisp apples around here, the whole county thought he'd lost his mind."

June laughs. "No."

"Oh yes. They said they weren't proper cider apples." Grandpa shrugs. "So he proved 'em wrong. And now it’s one of the most popular apples everywhere." He points toward the glass. "Every Hartley has left fingerprints on this orchard." His weathered hand settles over mine and he glances toward the barrels. "You don't honor tradition by preserving it in amber. You honor it by believing you deserve to leave your fingerprints too."

Grandpa gives my shoulder one last squeeze, whispering, “It’s your turn.” He heads for the door, leaving the three of us alone with all the tasting glasses, half a pizza, and more to think about than any of us had bargained for.

I look down at the blend sheet in front of me.

It’s funny.

I'd spent all evening trying to decide which cider is brave enough to enter tomorrow.

But maybe the real question...

...is whether I’m brave enough to risk everything.

CHAPTER 22

Brooks

There are exactly one hundred and seventeen things I could be doing right now.

I know because I've mentally listed them all… twice.

The banners along Main Street still need straightening after last night's wind. Jace somehow misplaced an entire case of tasting glasses. Evan texted me twenty minutes ago that one of the refrigeration units is making "a concerning noise," which, translated from Evan, means it's probably fine but he'd like me to look anyway.

Instead...

I'm standing beneath the white festival tent pretending to organize bottles that have already been arranged alphabetically, by vintage, and by color.

Twice.

The town square hums around me with the comfortable chaos that only Orchard Falls can produce. Bluegrass drifts from the gazebo, weaving between children's laughter and the squeal of wagon wheels over brick. Across from me, Patty is frying the signature Hartley & Sons apple cider donuts, the scent of cinnamon and warm sugar floating across the square every time the breeze changes direction.

Tourists wander between booths clutching steaming cups of coffee and bags of kettle corn while locals stop every ten feet because everyone in Orchard Falls knows everyone else.

"Brooks!" Marcy barrels toward me, clipboard clutched against her chest like she's protecting classified government documents.