Page 77 of Once Upon a Fall

“This is it,” I say.

She walks over to one of the dead apple trees, running her hand along a charred branch.

“I’m sure it was hard to see it like this,” she says.

“It was,” I tell her.

“I don’t remember it much until after the fire,” she says. “I would have loved to see it when it was up and running.”

I want to tell her that it wasn’t much then either. But it was to me. So much more than just a farm.

“I wonder what whoever buys it will do with the place,” she says.

I hum in agreement. I’ve wondered the same thing. Many times.

“I hope they don’t tear it down,” she says.

“Me either,” I say. “But that’s probably what they’ll do.”

What else do you do with a house that’s been inhabited by raccoons, a partially burned barn, and a grove of dead apple trees?

“What would you do with it? If you kept it, I mean,” Rosie asks.

I put my hands in my pockets, turning in my spot, looking at the farm, wondering what I’d do if it were mine.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. It’s the truth. “What would you do?”

She looks at me, holding my gaze. “I’d probably paint it pink and turn it into my very own castle.”

I chuckle. “Of course. I should have guessed.”

“I’m kidding,” she says. “I’d probably salvage as much as I could. Fix the siding and porch and paint the house white. I’d rebuild the barn and start planting trees where the orchard used to be.”

She looks across the property. “It would take forever, but eventually there’d be apples again. And I’d fill the house with cozy couches and throw pillows and frilly curtains. And the kitchen.” She’s gesturing now. “A big one. One of those farmhouse sinks, and an island where everybody ends up standing around instead of sitting down—”

“Why would you need a kitchen?”

She stops, pretending to consider my words. “Good point. Why waste the space? Just the island and a fancy microwave.”

“For the frozen pot pies?”

“Exactly,” she says.

She smiles out at the property like she can already see it.

I look at the house again, trying to imagine what I would do with it.

The problem is, I can’t picture anything now except her version. White siding. New trees. A uselessly large kitchen. Rosie standing in the middle of it, making the whole place feel alive again.

It’s a good picture. One I have no business wanting.

That version of the farm stays with me the next morning when I meet with Wendell’s nephew—a man in his early forties named Owen—at the Beet and Barrel Café.

We’re sitting at a small table by the window overlooking Main Street. Between us is a folder with a market analysis, tax records, a listing agreement, photos he took walking the property, and several other things I don’t really understand.

The guy is thorough. Which is a good thing, except my head is spinning and the coffee I’m drinking hasn’t quite kicked in yet. I’m having a hard time keeping up.

Rosie and I were up late, finishing the bathroom and then prepping the Snow White room for painting. This time, the color was called Fairest of Them All. It’s white. I accused Rosie of buying the paint color just because of the name. She didn’t deny it.