Fall is Brewing

Willa

Autumn doesn’t arrive in Orchard Falls quietly.

It crashes in like it owns the place.

The air smells like apples and damp leaves and campfire, like someone turned the saturation up on the entire town overnight.

The mountains surrounding us have started their slow, dramatic costume change—greens bleeding into golds, rusts, and deep reds that make tourists pull over on the side of the road, phone cameras in hand, like they’ve just spotted a celebrity.

Which, in Orchard Falls, they kind of have.

I stand at the edge of our orchard with a clipboard tucked under my arm, boots already dusted with dirt and apple pulp, and watch the morning sun cut through the rows of trees like it’s blessing them personally.

Dew clings to the grass. The occasional apple thuds softly to the ground as our small crew works their way down the rows, laughter drifting between the trunks.

This is the season.

My season.

And also the season that might finally break me.

“Careful with those,” I call out, even though I know better. I always do this—hovering, fretting, mother-henning a process that’s been done the same way for decades.

Eli lifts an apple in response, perfectly red and unblemished. “Relax, boss. We’re treating them better than most people treat their children.”

I snort despite myself. “As you should.”

Because these apples matter.

Everything here matters.

Hartley & Sons Orchard has been in my family for three generations.

My great grandfather planted the first trees by hand, stubborn and optimistic and apparently immune to blisters.

My grandfather expanded it, turning the original idea into the legacy it now is in town.

And my father modernized it just enough to keep us competitive without losing the soul of the place.

And now it’s mine—every creaking barn door, every cider tank, every expectation soaked into the soil.

Some people inherit jewelry or furniture.

I inherit pressure.

There was quite the debate in my family over the name—Hartley & Sons.

I’m no one’s son. But as my father pointed out, that’s besides the point.

If it was up to him, we’d simply rename the place Hartley Orchard.

“It was damn stupid and presumptuous of your great grandfather to name it that, anyway! As if he’d only ever have sons in this lineage.

” Dad had bristled in the past while Grandpa simply waved a hand at him.

“It was just a figure of speech my daddy used!” he’d argue. “You know I believe in my WillaBug here being able to run the place, gender be damned.”

Even still… I have a lot to live up to. And it’s my first year taking over entirely. Sure, Dad and Grandpa are still around, but I have the keys to the place officially now. Figuratively and literally since Dad is ready to retire and start traveling the world with my stepmom, Patty.

I turn away from the crew and head toward the main barn, the sound of my boots changing from grass to packed dirt to worn wooden planks.

Inside, the air is cooler and sweet with fermentation.

Rows of stainless-steel tanks line the wall, quietly doing their magic.

Bubbles rise lazily inside the glass gauges, like the cider is breathing.

I rest my hand against one of the tanks, feeling the faint hum beneath my palm.

Two weeks.

Two weeks until the Orchard Falls Cider Competition.

Two weeks until everyone in Orchard Falls—and every tourist within a fifty-mile radius—gets a taste of whether Hartley & Sons still deserves its reputation.

For years, winning had been a given. We competed against dozens of orchards all over New England for the Orchard Falls Autumn Festival.

We took home ribbons like clockwork—Best Cider Overall, Most Traditional, Best Spiced.

My dad used to joke that they should just engrave our name ahead of time and save themselves the effort.

We took home so many ribbons… except for the People’s Choice.

Our town loves us… and yet, we haven’t won the blind ‘People’s Choice’ taste test in years.

Then last year happened. They happened.

I grab my clipboard and scan the latest numbers, even though I’ve already memorized them. Sugar levels are right where I want them. Fermentation is steady. Everything is technically perfect.

Which somehow makes the knot in my chest worse. Because perfect doesn’t guarantee a win anymore.

Not since Calder Cider and Tasting Room rolled into town with their reclaimed wood signs and slick branding and muscular, bearded hipster brew masters and “small-batch experimental flavors.”

Not since they opened last year and immediately started drawing lines around themselves like they were the future and the rest of us were charming relics.

I roll my eyes just thinking about them.

Calder Cider and Tasting Room. Even the name sounds smug.

They’re new. Shiny. Trendy. The kind of place that offers cider flights with tasting notes and has an Instagram account that somehow makes apples look sexy. People gush about their barrel-aged blends and seasonal infusions like they invented fermentation instead of Googling it.

And the worst part? They’re good.

I hate that they’re good.

I step back outside, blinking against the sunlight, and in the distance spot the banner stretched across Main Street just beyond the orchard gates.

ORCHARD FALLS CIDER COMPETITION – 16 DAYS

The sign has been there for a week already, but seeing the number drop into the teens sends a fresh spike of adrenaline through me.

Sixteen days to prove we’re still the best.

Sixteen days to protect a legacy that feels heavier with every passing year.

I didn’t just grow up here in Orchard Falls.

I grew up in this orchard—climbing trees, sneaking sips of hard cider when I thought no one was looking, falling asleep to my dad talking through next season’s plans at the kitchen table.

This place isn’t a business to me. It’s a living, breathing thing. It’s family.

And losing isn’t just embarrassing.

It’s personal.

Last year, when Calder Cider snagged second place in their first competition when they’d been open barely a month, the whispers started immediately.

The old guard is slipping.

Time for something new.

Guess Hartley & Sons Orchard isn’t untouchable anymore.

I smiled politely through all of it, because that’s what you do in a small town that thrives on charm and tourism. But every comment digs in deep, like a splinter I can’t quite get out.

I won’t let this year end the same way.

I won’t let some newcomer rewrite our story.

“Hey,” my stepmom’s voice calls from behind me. “You’re doing that thing again.”

I turn to find her standing at the edge of the barn, arms crossed, expression soft but knowing. She’s lived with orchard owners long enough to recognize stress spirals when she sees them.

“What thing?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she means.

“The staring-at-the-sign-like-it’s-personally-threatening-you thing.”

I huff a laugh. “It kind of is.”

She steps closer, following my gaze to the banner. “You don’t need to win to prove anything,” she says gently.

I love Patty dearly… but she’s wrong about this.

Patty might be my stepmom, but she’s been a part of my life since I was eleven years old.

She’s the closest thing to a real mother I have.

And she’s been waiting seventeen years for me to take over the business so that my dad could retire from working on cider.

He’s complained about it every day since I was born, talking about dreams of literally anything else.

Owning a restaurant, a coffee shop, traveling… anything but apples.

And as sweet as my stepmom is for reassuring me, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s wrong.

Because winning means stability. It means distributors stick around.

It means influencers keep posting and talking about us.

It means tourists keep coming back here first. It means the orchard my great grandfather planted doesn’t slowly become a nostalgic footnote.

It means I’m doing this right.

It means she and my dad can truly leave and not be concerned every minute that they’re gone that their only child is screwing up the family’s legacy.

Patty sighs but doesn’t argue. She knows better. “Just don’t forget to breathe,” she says instead. “Fall is supposed to be your favorite season.”

I glance back at the orchard—the apples, the trees, the tanks humming steadily behind me.

It is my favorite season. That’s why it matters so much.

The breeze kicks up, sending a flurry of leaves skittering across the ground. Somewhere in town, a door chime rings, and I can already picture the shops setting out pumpkins and scarves, the cafés rolling out their fall menus, Orchard Falls slipping fully into its favorite version of itself.

And in two weeks, everything could change.

I square my shoulders and head back toward the barn.

Sixteen days.

No pressure or anything.