Epilogue
THE NEXT FALL
Erica
I breathe in the crisp air, happy it’s not as hot in Nashville as Apple Cart. Ryan pulls up on a tractor and lowers a round bale of hay.
We’re preparing his family pumpkin patch for opening day. I made a website and updated their Facebook page, then helped his mom come up with fun ways to showcase all the attractions spread out across the property.
Ryan’s job is to help set up round hay bales and paint them like pumpkins. Each pumpkin bale will mark a different activity at the farm. I also designed stamp cards for the guests. Anyone who visits all activities and turns in a fully stamped card gets a free ice cream on the way out.
The ice cream was Ryan’s idea. He invited a soft-serve food truck we found one night downtown. One of the many unique and fun places I’ve discovered since moving to Nashville.
I haven’t even lived here a full year, but this is a place I could see myself calling home.
My apartment is an easy walking distance from many restaurants, shops, and events. It’s also close to Ryan’s apartment and his office. I pass music stores and coffee shops on my morning jogs, rather than Paul peeing off the porch.
Sometimes I miss not living a few miles from my family, but I don’t miss the humdrum of a small town. It wasn’t for me. This is.
I glance at Ryan, and my heart skips a beat.
We have so much fun in the city, but also here at his family’s farm. It’s the perfect mix of city and country.
He climbs down from the tractor and smiles. I stop sorting pumpkins by sizes and return his smile.
“I painted all the hay bales on the back part of the property for the animal locations and ropes course area,” he says.
“Great, that was fast.”
“You want to ride out with me and see if they look okay?”
“Yeah.” I step around the pile of pumpkins and take his hand. He helps me up the tractor steps and pulls the passenger seat down.
We ride past several activities and attractions before I see any painted bales. I almost miss the first, since it isn’t painted like a pumpkin.
Bright orange paint is spread across the center and spells the word “Will.” Before I can question it, we pass another bale with the word “You.” It isn’t until the third bale that I realize what’s happening.
“Marry.”
The word is big and bold, followed by one more bale with the word “Me.”
Now I’m too in shock to question why the hay doesn’t look like a pumpkin. My stomach and head spin, but in different directions. I can hardly believe this is real.
We’ve talked about the future plenty and how I would like to stay in Nashville. Still, no conversation could’ve prepared me for this moment.
He parks the tractor beside the last bale of hay. A colorful tablecloth with a picnic is set up on a nearby table. My pulse picks up when I turn to him.
“Is this—are you?”
Ryan takes my hand and opens a compartment on the tractor. He pulls out a tiny black box and pops the lid.
A beautiful rose-gold ring with a large oval stone shines in the sunlight.
“Yes,” I whisper. My voice can barely work as I’m still processing that this is real.
I lift my eyes to his and nod my head slowly. He nods, too, and smiles, then we kiss.
My lips involuntarily curve into a smile, interrupting our kiss. I laugh against his face, causing him to laugh too.
He pulls back and holds up the ring. “May I?”
I allow him to lift my left hand and slide the ring on my finger. It’s gorgeous, but not as gorgeously thoughtful as the proposal.
“How and when did you do this?”
“This morning. The hard part was having everyone else working around here help me keep you away from the hay until now.”
I laugh. “And the lunch?”
“Mom made one of her signature dishes.”
“This scene should be in a magazine.” I stare out the tractor cab at the sun glistening through the shade trees around the table.
“If anything here belongs in a magazine, it’s you.”
“Stop.” I roll my eyes.
“Seriously.”
I grin at him, then open the tractor door.
He follows me toward the table, then hugs me close. I rest my head against his chest as I take in the beauty around us and look forward to a beautiful future together.
“This would be an amazing spot for a wedding,” I say.
Ryan leans back and wrinkles his forehead. “What about Apple Cart? At the orchard?”
I smile. “The people of Apple Cart County do love a wedding.”
“And we all know how I’d hate to disappoint them.” He laughs.
“As long as Paul isn’t the best man.”
Ryan laughs harder. “No way.” He kisses me gently, then brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “He can be the flower girl.”
Keep reading for a special recipe featured in Baking Spirits Bright . . .