Page 3 of Fall is Brewing

Patty might be my stepmom, but she’s been a part of my life since I was eleven years old. She’s the closest thing to a real mother I have. And she’s been waiting seventeen years for me to take over the business so that my dad could retire from working on cider. He’s complained about it every day since I was born, talking about dreams of literally anything else. Owning a restaurant, a coffee shop, traveling… anything but apples.

And as sweet as my stepmom is for reassuring me, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s wrong. Because winning means stability. It means distributors stick around. It means influencers keep posting and talking about us. It means tourists keep coming back here first. It means the orchard my great grandfather planted doesn’t slowly become a nostalgic footnote.

It means I’m doing this right.

It means she and my dad can truly leave and not be concerned every minute that they’re gone that their only child is screwing up the family’s legacy.

Patty sighs but doesn’t argue. She knows better. “Just don’t forget to breathe,” she says instead. “Fall is supposed to be your favorite season.”

I glance back at the orchard—the apples, the trees, the tanks humming steadily behind me.

It is my favorite season. That’s why it matters so much.

The breeze kicks up, sending a flurry of leaves skittering across the ground. Somewhere in town, a door chime rings, and I can already picture the shops setting out pumpkins and scarves, the cafés rolling out their fall menus, Orchard Falls slipping fully into its favorite version of itself.

And in two weeks, everything could change.

I square my shoulders and head back toward the barn.

Sixteen days.

No pressure or anything.

CHAPTER 2

Willa

By the time I lock up the orchard and drive into town, Orchard Falls has fully shifted into its evening personality.

Morning Orchard Falls is all mist and intention and hardworking locals pretending we don’t care that our town becomes a fall-themed snow globe every year.

Evening Orchard Falls?

Evening Orchard Falls is a flirt.

Pumpkin shaped string lights glow over Main Street like the town is trying to seduce everyone at once. Shop windows are dressed in pumpkins and apples and plaid. The sidewalks are packed with tourists clutching cider cups, pumpkin spice lattes, and taking photos like fall might disappear if they don’t document it thoroughly enough. Someone is playing acoustic guitar outside the bakery, and it’s annoyingly charming.

I park six blocks from The Mill House because the universe loves irony and also because I waited too long and now every closer spot is filled by a Subaru with “FALL VIBES ONLY” bumper stickers.

The air bites my cheeks the second I step out, crisp and sharp in a way that makes me feel awake instead of cold. I tug my scarf tighter around my neck and start walking, boots clicking against the sidewalk as my phone buzzes.

Lena:

We got a booth. June is already judging everyone’s sweater choices.

I smile despite myself, tucking my phone away.

Dinner with the girls is supposed to be the part of my week where I loosen my grip on everything. Where I stop counting days. Stop calculating sugar levels. Stop replaying worst-case scenarios like they’re movie trailers I can’t turn off.

But as I push open The Mill House’s door, warmth and noise and the smell of fried deliciousness slaps me in the face, and my brain unhelpfully circles back to Sixteen days.

Like it’s a fun little soundtrack.

“Willa!” someone calls before I even make it three steps inside.

I lift a hand in greeting, automatically smiling. This is the part of small-town life no one warns you about when you inherit a legacy business: you, yourself become public property.

A couple at the bar nods at me, the woman practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re Willa Hartley, right? The cider queen? We did your orchard tour today,” she says, pointing to themselves. “Mr. and Mrs. Cambright!”