Page 48 of Fall Love

She shakes her head, not believing me, but senses I’ve reached the end of my threshold on this topic.

“How’s the otter?” I ask Isolde.

“I think it might be a beaver after all,” she says.

The three of us meet eyes and burst into laughter.

After breakfast, Lumi and Isolde insist I attend the Fall Harvest Market. Similar to our summer farmers’ market, this one is a bit bigger, offering final summer vegetables and the start of winter ones. Pumpkins are also available along with a plethora of apples from Over the Hill Farm. But there are also crafters present, selling quilts and crocheted blankets, suggesting fall leans toward cool nights and campfires.

Sauntering behind my sisters as they move from stall to stall, my mind wanders. I’m not shopping for anything, but I do stop at Charma’s booth. She has a selection of rings and antique-looking jewelry, as well as a mix of crystals and charms.

I’m not a jewelry person, but one ring catches my eye. The piece is messier than the other items. A gemstone, a pearl, another uncut gem, and a small sparkly item decorate a silver band.

“Those are moonstones,” Charma says, smiling fondly at the ring. “For intuition and femininity.”

I snort. Not many people consider me feminine, especially as I did more ‘boy’ things.

“I think she’d prefer something black, Aunt Charma.”

I spin to find Tate behind me, peering over my shoulder at the collection. The sound of his voice makes my pulse spike before I rein in my excitement, reminding myself I’m upset with his lack of communication since apple picking.

But he’s standing so close to me, his clove scent mingling with the fresh autumn air. He’s wearing dark jeans and another Henley shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The scruff on his face is just a thin layer, making him look a little more rugged, a little more local. And the thought of him being a local makes my heart trip a second before I speak.

“Like my soul,” I counter, a little sharper than necessary, about his comment that I’d prefer black stones.

He glances at me, his rich eyes sparkling like their own gemstone. “Because black stones mean strength.” He looks at his aunt for confirmation.

Huh.

“And willpower,” Charma winks. Then she inhales sharply. “Oh.” Her gaze dances between us while her hand comes to her chest. “Oh. Oh my.”

“What?” I nearly hold my breath as I clutch my belly, leaning toward her, wondering what’s wrong.

“The orange is very strong around the two of you.” She blinks and glances between us again. “Your chakra.”

I blink at her, then glance back at Tate, waiting for one of them to translate what this means, but no one does.

Tate just gives a small, absent shrug and says, “I like orange.” Like it’s the most natural observation in the world. Only he shifts his gaze as he says it, and my eyes follow the direction of his, dropping instinctively to where he glances.

My feet are down there somewhere, in my treasured sandals, because nothing else fits comfortably. Tate looks at my feet, where my ankles are swollen, and my toes are painted bright Halloween orange, partially because I forgot and mostly because I can no longer reach my toes to fix them.

When I look up at him, he’s already moving his gaze again, like it never settled anywhere specific to begin with.

Charma slowly smiles. “Orange is sensual.”

My head whips in her direction.

“And orange can lead to green.” Her eyes widen, hands clasped together just below her chin. She has the largest smile on her face. “Down the well he went, to save his true love yet.”

I hold my breath on that final word. Yet. Yet what? Then I shake my head. This is Charma. Who knows what she means.

“Actually, I like that one.” I point at a simple, thin gold circle with an intricate design on the band. It looks delicate and feminine. Pretty. For someone who is not a jewelry person, I’d wear that one. Not that I intend to wear a ring, but I’m still curious, what does that one mean?

Does the gold represent steadiness as one of the strongest metals? What about the design? Does it mean strength, willpower, or intuition, even on such a tender-looking band? Maybe resilience or perseverance?

An awkward silence falls between the three of us as I wait for Charma to explain something special about that ring, but when she doesn’t say anything, I kindly smile at her, eager to excuse myself.

“Do you want the ring?” she nods toward the one I’ve been looking at. Her eyes hold on mine, as if asking me a deeper question. A question relating to the symbolism of some rings. Rings that represent commitment to another person.