Page 70 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Mason’s shoulders deflate. He blinks, looking between us. “Oh. That’s all?”

“What do you mean ‘that’s all’?” I ask as Logan mutters, “As expected.”

After checking around my shoulders for guests who might have started filing in early, I whisper to Mason, “Let me be clear: It doesn’t surprise you that the farm has glowing beetles, flowers that grow only when certain people are present, and pears turning to crystals?”

I decide to leave off the part about how it curses people to leave. I’m not about to have that rather loaded discussion in Mason’s presence.

“Wait.” Mason’s eyes widen toward the windows, his mouth splitting into another smile. “Val said those were decorations.”

“I’m glad to hear you found that convincing.”

“And here I thought you were just very committed to theme. Impressive. The rest of it is exactly what I would have expected, though.”

I squint at him. “The rest is what?”

He slings a towel over the shoulder of his suit and splays his hands out on the bar’s burlap, grinning like he’s savoring his own nonchalance. “How old are the trees on this property?”

“Uh, well, it varies, obviously. Most of our trees live for decades, some even a century. My uncle used to say the oldest one was planted by my great-great-grandfather. Supposedly, the first tree ever planted on our farm.”

“And your family has owned this land the whole time?”

“Yep. Five generations of Reids.”

Mason swings a hand like I’ve proven his point. “There you go. The whole concept of a family-run orchard? We’re just asking for one of these suckers to get mystical.”

“Because…?”

“Because trees are like snakes and ravens. Across nearly every culture worldwide, they’re some of the most common symbols ascribed with spiritual or mythological significance. And trees are most mystical when they’re connected to ancestry. There’s a reason we call it a family tree, and it’s not just because it looks like one.”

Behind us, the door rolls open and Val heaves off her stool, welcoming the first set of guests. They wander into the space, and I enjoy the way they survey the light-strung rafters and centerpieces with obvious awe.

Logan is still frowning. “As appealing as it is to have an explanation for Ali’s cursed pears, I can’t help but wonder if the reason trees are a common mythological symbol is just that trees are pretty much everywhere.”

Mason rolls his eyes and jerks a thumb at his brother. “Don’t listen to him. Just a complete failure of imagination on this one.”

Logan snorts. “Says the kid who started telling me I have ‘heavy Saturn placements’ when he was nine.”

“Well, you do,” Mason says. The door rolls open again and he drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But this I learned in a religious and cultural anthropology class. We spent a whole lecture on trees as cosmological anchors, sites of ritual, and metaphors for kinship, ancestry, and transformation.”

I tilt my head. “Really.”

“Yep.” His attention darts to my side. “But also, I’ve got four kegs of hard cider and our first thirsty guests.”

I glance over my shoulder to find a couple has lined up behind us. Logan shoots me an apologetic look before stepping behind the bar to join Mason, who is already fishing out a pair of glasses.

As I move away, Logan asks for IDs and Mason elbows him in the rib cage. Smiling, I take a lap around the room to say hello to the guests starting to trickle in, rearrange a few of the dessert trays, and straighten a pine cone centerpiece.

Most of the attendees don’t bother to hide their looks of patent curiosity as they circle the room. I expect most of the town is relishing the opportunity to see this quirky little pear farm up close. But I don’t mind. These people are saving my livelihood. This gala is happening, already a success. I can’t be mad if that’s due to some errant curiosity.

“Stunning decorations,” someone murmurs as I pass by Val’s stool. “I just love the lights outside.”

Val winks at me, and I can’t help but grin back.

Sometime later, I fill a plate with desserts—a ginger scone, two tarts, and a pear and goat cheese galette with honey and thyme—and stake out a free barrel just off the dance floor. It’s begun to rain, as the forecast promised, although I can’t hear the rooftop patter over Hozier in the speakers, and it hasn’t seemed to dampen our turnout. Rather, the corner by Val is filling with wet umbrellas while the hum of conversation and tinkle of glassware begins to swell. A short line has formed in front of the bar, where Mason is pouring glasses while gesticulating wildly.

Oddly, I don’t see Logan—until I feel the warm brush of fingertips at my elbow. I turn, and there he is, tall and close, eyes steady on mine.

“Apparently I was ‘killing the vibe,’ ” he explains with a half-crooked smile.