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She studies me for a moment, her eyes scanning my face. Then she says, “Her house isn’t far from here. I can give you a map with the town’s amenities and include her address.”
Knightly pulls out a glossy brochure and starts scribbling on it with a pen.
As I glance around the cozy reception area, I spot a table set with coffee, water, and a plate of freshly baked cookies. “Are those cookies from the bakery down the street?” I ask.
“Oh no, we make all our baked goods in-house,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Dinner is served at six, and we have breakfast available starting at eight in the morning.”
I nod, trying to hide my nerves. My stomach is knotted with anxiety about meeting my estranged grandmother for the first time. I resist the urge to grab one of the tempting chocolate chip cookies to calm myself. Maybe I’ll stop by the bakery after I’m done with the first meet up.
“Thank you for the information,” I say to Knightly as I take the brochure from her and hoist my duffel bag strap higher onto my shoulder. “I’ll probably just head to my room for a bit to freshen up.”
“Of course, take your time getting settled,” Knightly replies warmly. “Your room is just upstairs, first door on the right. If you need anything else, please let me know.”
“Thanks again,” I say with an appreciative smile. I turn and make my way slowly up the creaky wooden stairs, nerves still churning in my stomach. I find my room and unlock the door. After setting my bag down, I take a deep breath. Just a quick rest, and then I’ll head out to finally meet my grandmother. I say a silent prayer that our first encounter goes okay before heading to the bathroom to splash some water on my face.
ChapterFour
McKay
Accordingto the map Knightly gave me, everything in town seems to be within walking distance. I change out of my comfy leggings and sweatshirt into a nicer pair of jeans and a sweater before heading out. Although wandering the charming bookstore, other shops, and the quaint bakery would be more enjoyable than showing up unannounced at my grandmother’s house, I know I need to tackle the most difficult part of this trip first.
I allow myself a few minutes to gaze longingly into the window of the charming vintage record store, thinking of how much time I could spend sifting through their merchandise. As I pass through the center of town, the aroma of fresh bread and pastries floats out from the bakery, drawing me in. I wave at the friendly older woman behind the counter before forcing myself to keep walking.
I continue on until I reach the small cottage at the end of Autumn Ridge Street. Vibrant red and orange leaves blanket the front yard, contrasting the faded white siding and dark green shutters of the house. A creaky-looking wooden porch wraps around the front, complete with a porch swing and rocking chairs ideal for warmer evenings. As I walk up the stone path to the front steps, I take a deep breath, my heart racing with nerves at the thought of coming face-to-face with the grandmother I’ve never met.
Though I’m nervous, I gather my courage and knock firmly on the faded green door. I shift my weight back and forth, listening closely for any sounds of movement inside. All I hear is a sorrowful meow from a cat somewhere in the house. After a minute, I knock again, a little louder this time, but still no answer.
Well, so much for tackling the hard part first. I double-check the address my dad gave me to the one Knightly jotted down, confirming I’m in the right place. I soon realize that the owner of the bed and breakfast gave me a completely different address. Or maybe Grandma Eugenia is out running errands? I decide to head back into the center of town and ask in one of the shops if they know where McFolley’s farm is located.
As I walk back, I wonder if there’s been some kind of mix-up. Maybe Knightly had thought I was someone else’s granddaughter when she gave me directions here. It only takes me about ten minutes to get back to my car at the bed and breakfast. I punch the latest farm address I was provided into the navigation system and follow the robotic voice guiding me out of town.
When I pull up to the address, however, there’s a large sign out front that reads “Harris Orchard.” My shoulders slump in frustration and confusion. Where is my grandmother’s house? Did my father send me on some kind of wild goose chase? I’m beginning to think this won’t be as straightforward as I’d hoped.
I follow the signs and park in the visitor area, then head into the small gift shop.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Harris Orchard,” a cheery female voice calls out. “I’ll be right with you.”
A moment later, a young woman in her early twenties with funky purple hair and colorful tattoos covering her arms bounces up to greet me.
“Hi there, I was wondering …” I glance around with uncertainty. “Do you happen to know where McFolley’s farm is located?”
She tilts her head, brow furrowing. “McFolley’s? I don’t know that place, sorry.”
I sigh. “My dad said it was around here somewhere.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She gives an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorta new around the area and just started working here a few weeks ago. I’m going to college in the next town over, but I’m originally from Nebraska.”
I nod, pressing my lips together anxiously. “You’re a bit far east,” I try to joke, not showing my disappointment. I was really hoping someone local would be able to point me in the right direction.
“Yeah, I’m a little far from home,” she confirms with an easy laugh. “But it’s such a small town, I don’t miss my family too much.”
She glances around the shop. “Can I interest you in some fresh cider or maple candy? We’ve also got t-shirts and other souvenirs.” She gestures to the wall displaying an array of logo merchandise.
“Maybe on my way out, after I’ve finished my … business,” I reply evasively, sighing.
“I wish Mr. Harris were here, he would be able to help you.” She taps her chin in thought. “Actually, he might be in the brewery. Let me send him a message.”
She pulls out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. After a few moments, she says, “Yep, he’s back there. Just head over to the next building and slide the door open. He’ll probably know where you’re trying to go. You’re sure it’s not the Harris farm that you’re looking for?”
