Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
Erica
W hat am I doing? I sigh and smack my lips.
I’ve checked my hair and reapplied lip gloss twice, and it’s barely after eight.
I want to look my best since I’m representing our brand and showing the orchard to a businessman. Pumpkin patch people are adjacent to apple orchard people, so I need to make a good impression. However, on a more personal subconscious level, I’m well aware that person is Ryan.
Ms. Dot greets me when I walk onto the porch.
“Morning, dear. Pleasant weather, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile and pass her as she heads for Paul’s front door.
They’re likely going to Mary’s for coffee. I’m waiting to have mine at the orchard bakery. One more perk of the business I can show Ryan.
I drive the few minutes to town square and find him leaned against the railing in the new gazebo. He straightens when he sees me park in front of him. Before I can open the door, he hops the railing and jogs toward me.
I roll down my window and greet him. “Good morning. You’re full of energy.”
“I’m a morning person,” he confesses.
I frown. Until now, I thought we had a lot in common.
“You can ride with me.”
He smiles and climbs inside. I’ve barely backed into the road when he speaks. “I’ve read the blog post, but I’d love to know more about how the orchard started.”
I use the twenty-minute drive to tell how my great-grandparents started planting numerous apple trees and my grandparents expanded it into what it is today, with an on-site bakery and canned products.
He seems genuinely interested, and for a split second it concerns me. What if he’s a Hallmark villain in disguise because it’s too hot for him to wear his sweater vest?
“It must be cool to be a part of something so iconic. My parents started the pumpkin patch when they retired.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Dad has always farmed, but my mom was a chef in town for many years.”
“That’s impressive. I bet she could win the bake-off.” I laugh nervously, thinking about what dessert we will enter.
“She was more of a main-dish chef for a Southern soul food place in Nashville. We live about twenty minutes out of town.”
“I would love to live closer to a bigger town. Tuscaloosa is an hour from here.”
“Have you ever thought of moving?”
I glance at Ryan. I think of moving all the time, but I never talk about it.
For so much of my life I assumed I’d be married by now and settled near the orchard like my family. I tried to make my college boyfriend fit in that plan too.
We were engaged for almost two years. He finally convinced me to set a wedding date. The closer it got, the more I panicked. Deep down I knew I couldn’t commit to him forever. My heart wasn’t in it. I was itching for something else.
I have similar feelings about Apple Cart.
“Yes.” My body instantly relaxes at admitting that.
“Nothing wrong with that. I have an apartment in Nashville.”
I turn onto the road leading to our orchard.
“I eventually want to have a house and some land, but it’s good for now.”
“Yeah, I don’t really know what I want,” I confess.
I’m shocked at how freeing it is for me to admit that aloud. I suspect it’s because Ryan is easy to talk to, and I will probably never see him again after this week.
I park in front of the orchard, and our eyes meet. He gives me a knowing look as if he understands. His eyes scan my face, and he focuses on my mouth. I swallow.
What I’d give to read his thoughts right now.
Someone knocks on my window, causing me to jump. I gasp and hold a hand to my chest.
My mom is outside the car, waving like a lunatic. I open the door, forcing her to move back.
She glances over my head and smiles widely. “Hey, you must be Ryan.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He circles the car and shakes her hand.
I shake my head. This is what I get for never introducing them to guys I date. They are deprived of meddling and act crazy around the first guy they see with me—even though he’s only here for apples.
“Erica said your family has a pumpkin patch.”
“They do. Near Nashville.”
“Oh, how fun.” Mama loops her arm through Ryan’s and leads him toward the main building. “I’m sure Erica will want to pick your brain. She’s always trying to get us to add new activities.”
Ryan glances back at me, and I mouth “sorry.” He waves it off and smiles at my mom. I shrink in a pool of embarrassment as I follow close enough to detour the conversation at the first sign of humiliating stories.
It only worsens when we go to the bakery and Aunt Margaret meets him. She hands out muffins, hot apple cider, and coffee.
Ryan has plenty of time to eat, as he can’t get a word in edgewise with the two women gabbing away. It’s a good thing my daddy usually gives the tours. Luckily, Ryan doesn’t seem to mind.
I stay a step behind them as they describe every detail of our process in the kitchen and warehouse. We end in the orchard, then circle back to my car.
As if they hadn’t embarrassed me enough, Mama and Aunt Margaret both give him a big hug. I lean against my car and wait until they’re totally out of sight before speaking.
“I apologize for all that.”
He laughs. “Why? They’re very hospitable.”
“That’s a nice way to spin it.”
He shakes his head. “Seriously, I enjoyed the tour. Apple Cart County is a nice place.”
I open my door, and he does the same. As we start down the drive, he cranes his neck and stares back at the orchard. Then he focuses on Nate’s house when we pass it.
“I bet it looks really festive out here at night.”
“It does.”
I smile. Christmas decorations are an instant mood boost for me. We drive past the countryside, then go into town.
“As you can tell from the downtown storefronts, we’re big on decorating.”
“I’d like to see that. I’m not getting much sleep anyway with the amount of lights at my RV.”
“Where is it?”
“Mayberry Road in Wisteria.”
My jaw drops as I face Ryan. “Are you staying at Woody Miller’s?”
“Yes.”
I laugh. “He does go over the top. But there’s a tour of lights tomorrow night. You should go.”
I park in front of the gazebo beside Ryan’s rental car.
“Will you be there?”
“Hmm?”
“The tour of lights.”
I usually don’t go since I drive past all the stops, or could anytime I want. However, I want an excuse to see him again.
“I can go.”
“Good. Text me the info, and I’ll see you then.” He smiles and gets out of the car before I can respond.
My insides jolt as I watch him drive away. This is the first time I’ve had a connection with anyone in years.
Of course it would be with someone from another state.
M ama and Aunt Margaret are doing a test run for the bake-off.
They were warned ahead of time that I wanted to take photos of them baking for the website. Both are dressed like modern-day Stepford wives, even though they normally bake in old T-shirts and jeans.
In my opinion, it’s more about showing the process and not their appearance, but their generation is hung up on everything looking proper.
Nostalgia hits me as I watch them roll out dough. Brooke and I loved helping Grandma with dough. That was long ago before she retired, and we grew up.
Most of what’s kept me here so long is the memories. It’s great working with my family, but I’d like to explore more marketing beyond apples.
My dad, uncle, and cousin Luke come in after the pies are in the oven.
“What time is everything ready?” Luke asks.
“Soon.” Aunt Margaret huffs. She shakes her head at Mama and me.
“You said you needed taste testers,” Daddy comments.
“We do,” Mama admits.
I laugh and snap a photo of them lined up against the counter, arms folded, staring at the oven. It beeps, and Aunt Margaret holds them off while she takes out the pies.
“This one has pecans, and this one has caramel, and this is the original cinnamon apple.” She fans them with a potholder. “Give us a few minutes to cut them and let them cool.”
“Let me take photos before you cut them.”
“Of course.” She moves back, but stays in front of the men.
They’ve been known to crowd food like buzzards over roadkill.
“Too bad your friend isn’t here to taste test,” Mama says.
“What friend?” Brooke’s voice calls from the doorway.
I turn to Brooke, her son, and her fiancé all staring at me.
And here we go. Half the family is in this room, giving me a questioning eye and a gossiping ear.
“Nobody. A guy came to tour the orchard while he’s in town, and Mama and Aunt Margaret met him.”
“A guy?” Brooke makes it sound way juicier than it should.
“Yes, as in not a female.”
“And he’s cute, and y’all’s age,” Aunt Margaret adds.
I wipe a hand down my face.
“What’s his name?” Nate asks.
“Ryan Lewis,” Mama answers.
“None of y’all know him. He’s here for a few days, then leaving.” I toss my hands in the air.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my jeans pocket. It’s Ryan. I texted him earlier with the details of the light tour.
I can pick you up at the orchard at dark if it will save you a trip to town.
I stare at the screen. I did tell him I’d be here most of the day, and it is convenient. Brooke looks over my shoulder. She’s short enough that I can shield the phone before she gets a peek.
“Why is my family so nosy?”
“Why are you smiling at your phone?” she asks.
My face heats up. I didn’t realize I was smiling. The cure for that is the instant mood killer in knowing I’m stuck with these goons for a little longer until Ryan shows up.
Maybe if we hurry and eat the pies, they’ll all leave before he comes.
Mama makes a big deal out of letting the pies cool as Aunt Margaret takes her time cutting them into precise pieces. All the while, they describe the differences in detail.
I take plenty of pictures of everyone, especially with food in their mouths as retaliation.
The pies are dwindling fast, and I’m ninety percent sold on the original apple cinnamon when the bell rings—as in the bell that notifies us someone is up front. We all exchange glances, since it’s uncommon for people to come unannounced after the bakery is closed.
“I’ll get it,” Timothy announces.
Brooke’s son rushes to the front before any of us can tell him otherwise. He’s pretty mature for his age, so it should be fine.
I peek out the window, but can’t see much since it’s almost dark. Ryan should’ve been here by now if we’re going to take the tour with the group.
As if right on cue, Timothy returns with Ryan behind him. Mama and Aunt Margaret rush to him like tweens spotting Taylor Swift. I moan as they crowd on either side of him and chat away.
“I guess this is the guy .” Brooke smirks.
“Yep.”
“He’s cute.” She raises her brows at me.
“I know two who would agree with you.” I frown at our moms.
She giggles. “What about you?”
“Are you ready, Erica?” Ryan asks.
“Yes.” Please get me out of here!
I stuff my camera in my oversized purse and hurry toward the door. I don’t stop, walking right through the opening to the front of the bakery.
“Nice to see y’all again,” Ryan calls.
He catches up to me, and we exit together.
I squint my eyes at a big white bus parked out front. “Moonshine County Juvenile Detention Center.” I turn to Ryan with a questioning glare.
He laughs. “It’s the Apple Cart County Baptist Church. They bought a new bus and said they haven’t had time to change out the signage.”
“Clearly.” I laugh.
The bus door opens as we approach. Morgan Archer smiles when she sees us. She’s one of those people I can take in small doses, mainly because she’s such good friends with Brooke.
Ryan touches the small of my back as I climb the steep steps in front of us. My stomach buckles as a warmth shoots up my back. I don’t like feeling like this.
Actually, I do like it, a lot. But that’s the precise reason I don’t like it.
We reach the landing and Morgan winks at me. I give her a look that warns her not to say anything. In true Morgan fashion, she does.
“Welcome. When Ryan told us who would be accompanying him tonight, the congregation decided we’d pick you up and save him the trouble.”
“How neighborly of y’all.” I narrow my eyes and her smile widens.
Then I turn to about twenty other smiling faces, as a whole crop of random Apple Cartians stare at me and Ryan—whose hand is again resting on my back.