Willa
I didn’t mean to betray my family, my legacy, but apparently that’s exactly what I did.
In fact, I don't even realize I've done it until Patty plucks the Calder Cider travel mug from my hand with the efficiency of a woman who's spent twenty years stealing sips of everyone else's coffee.
“Well, well, well,” she says, sniffing the mug. “What do we have here? Enemy brew?”
Silence hangs between us for exactly half a heartbeat before her eyebrows climb so high they're practically lost beneath her bangs.
I snatch the mug back. "It was... available."
"Mm-hmm."
"And I was running late."
“You’re never running late,” Patty says.
"And it would've been rude not to drink the coffee someone already made."
"Mm-hmm."
"Stop saying that!” I stomp over to the sink, washing the Calder Cider mug out so that I can stash it in my bag until I can return it tomorrow… hopefully with no one else in my family being the wiser.
“I’m not saying anything except mm-hmm!” she replies.
“Exactly.”
Patty grins and goes back to her pie crust she’s rolling out on the counter.
The kitchen smells like cinnamon, butter warming in the oven, and apples waiting to become something worth gathering around.
Morning sunlight spills across the old pine table where generations of Hartleys have eaten breakfast before heading into the orchard.
Outside the window, I can see Grandpa walking the eastern rows, one hand tucked into the pocket of his faded flannel, the other absently brushing the branches as though saying good night to each tree.
Everything about this place has always meant home.
So why does part of me still feel like it's standing in Brooks's kitchen, listening to rain tap against his windows while Jace argues about raccoons?
"You've got that look." Patty's voice pulls me back.
"What look?"
"The one where you're physically here but mentally somewhere else."
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
I open my mouth. Then close it again.
Because somehow saying Calder Cider's distribution strategy out loud feels infinitely more incriminating than simply thinking it. "Work," I settle on instead.
She studies me for another second before mercifully letting it go. "For what it's worth," she says, reaching for the rolling pin, "I'm glad."
I frown. "Glad about what?"
"That you're seeing it."
"Seeing what?"
"The other side of your rivalry. How much they want it, too."
I lean against the counter. "I always knew they worked hard."
"No." Patty shakes her head gently. "You knew they existed. You knew they had employees who worked hard. There's a difference.”
A guilty shiver tumbles down my spine because she's right. I'd spent weeks imagining Brooks as the rival down the road. Simply the competition. The obstacle.
I hadn't imagined him loading delivery trucks before sunrise.
Or spending afternoons politely hearing no from businesses that had carried Hartley cider for decades.
Or building an entire company one conversation at a time while pretending rejection rolled off his shoulders instead of lodging somewhere behind his ribs.
I hadn't imagined the weight of being the brother who had the most vision for the orchard from what I could see. Yes, Evan and Jace were invested, too. But not in the same way Brooks was.
Dad walks in before I can answer, a clipboard tucked beneath one arm and orchard maps folded in his hand. “Hey sweetheart, you made it home for dinner tonight! They’re not working you too hard over there, are they?”
“No, it’s like I messaged you. I just got caught in the storm yesterday and it made more sense to eat dinner there and wait it out.”
He pops a quick kiss onto the top of my head. “Good, good.” His eyes pause on the mug in my hands that I’d just finished washing. Dammit.
I quickly dry it off and slip it into my bag before Grandpa can take notice, too.
But Dad merely nods once, no judgment. Just acceptance. It's one of the things I love most about him. He never rushes people into explaining themselves.
Grandpa wanders in a minute later, cheeks pink from the cool evening air. "Smells like traitorous coffee in here."
I choke on literally nothing as Patty bursts out laughing.
Grandpa winks at me, stealing one of Patty’s apple slices from the bowl.
"I was conducting research,” I say, opening my phone app with the notes I’ve taken. Though suddenly, it feels way more traitorous… to Brooks.
"Research tastes an awful lot like Brooks Calder's roast, I guess,” Grandpa adds.
"I cannot believe all of you have become coffee detectives."
“Aanya ratted you out,” he finally confesses.
I groan, dropping my forehead into one hand. "Of course she did."
"Small town," Grandpa says around another stolen apple slice. "News travels faster than raccoons around here."
"That's... unfortunately true," Patty agrees.
I shake my head, laughing despite myself. "I swear I can't do anything in Orchard Falls without the entire town finding out before sunset."
Dad sets his clipboard on the table and leans against the counter, studying me with that quiet patience he's always had. "So..." he says. "What'd you learn?"
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You said you were conducting research."
Grandpa points at me with what’s left of his apple slice. "Seems only fair we hear the report."
For a second, I consider brushing the whole thing off. Giving them the sanitized version. Inventory systems. Coffee sales. Delivery routes.
Instead, I hear Brooks' voice in my head.
You should see more than the tasting room.
"They're..." I search for the right word. "Different than I expected."
Grandpa snorts. "I would hoped so."
"No, I mean..." I sigh. "They're not trying to become Hartley & Sons."
That earns me three very different reactions.
Grandpa folds his arms.
Patty's eyebrows lift with interest.
Dad simply waits.
"I always assumed..." I continue slowly, "that the goal was to beat us. To replace us. To become the orchard everyone talks about."
"And?" Dad prompts.
"And Brooks said something today that keeps rattling around in my head." I look down at my notes before realizing I don't actually need them. "He said he isn't designing products that compete with ours."
Grandpa scoffs. "That’s ridiculous. Cider competes with cider, end of story." When he goes to reach for another apple slice, Patty swats his hand away.
“There won’t be any left for the pie!” she scolds.
"Not necessarily," I say.
Patty gestures to her pie crust. “If he keeps eating the dang apple slices—”
“No, not that,” I chuckle. “Cider doesn’t necessarily compete with cider,” I clarify.
All three of them look at me.
I hadn't realized how quickly I'd defended Brooks but I’m in too deep to turn around now. "He showed me the products they're developing. The reserve blends. The coffee. The seasonal infusions." I shake my head. "He's intentionally trying to create things Hartley's doesn't already make."
Patty nods slowly and says, "So people buy both."
I point at her. "Exactly."
Grandpa isn't convinced. “This is a small town. There’s only room for one orchard!”
Dad shakes his head. “Lots of towns have more than one coffee shop… ours included.”
“We have three different diners,” Patty interjects. “They all do something slightly different, but they’re technically all diners.”
“And even though we have the bookstore, they just opened up that little mobile bookstore that operates out of a trailer,” I add. “I really don’t think Calder Cider is trying to push us out. I think they’re just trying to find a small corner of the market for themselves.”
"Or that's what he wants you to think." Grandpa’s words sting more than they should.
Dad pours himself a fresh cup of coffee even though it’s after five p.m. "There's an old saying in business…"
Grandpa grunts. “Here we go…”
Dad ignores him. "If your only strategy is beating someone else, eventually you'll lose the moment they change."
The words are poignant and sweet… just like Dad. “Why haven’t you ever told me that one before?”
Dad shrugs. “We’ve never had direct competition here in town. So the question is… what’s your strategy for Hartley & Sons?”
Nerves rattle around in my belly. Is now the time for them to hear my ideas?
Will they truly listen to me? I glance around the kitchen at my family, at each set of eyes fastened onto me, waiting and take a long slow breath before speaking.
“Well… we’re known for nostalgia. Classic flavors.
Legacy recipes that stand the test of time.
The kind of quality people remember from childhood.
And the traditions that keep them coming back.
But we can’t just coast on that. So we should develop new ways to keep nostalgia alive.
Maybe… maybe we could open the orchard up to events.
Build a pavilion, something simple, but tasteful, and have people rent our space for weddings and events.
We could even host our own event for the community…
something vintage and elegant. Like a sock hop or barnstormer’s ball. ”
Patty beams. “That’s so fun!”
Even Grandpa’s eyes light up. “Well now, that could be a helluva good time!”
Their smiling faces encourage me to keep going. “We could partner with the transportation museum and maybe get a few of their vintage cars up here to do rides in.”
“This is a great idea, Willabug,” Dad says and Patty claps her hands gleefully. Then, after a thoughtful pause, Dad adds, "If Brooks' strategy is innovation, I like the idea that Hartley & Son’s strategy is nostalgia. Neither is wrong. They're just…”
“Different,” I finish the thought for him.
“Only one problem,” Grandpa grunts. “Where we gonna build a pavilion if them Calder boys take the easement land with their fancy lawyers?”
The realization settles quietly between us and my smile falls.
“I don’t have an answer for that,” I say.
“Yet,” Dad says, booping his finger to my nose.
"I still feel guilty," I admit.
"For what?" Patty asks.
I look down at my notes app, filled with observations I'd scribbled over the last few days. New planting methods. Customer flow. Display layouts. Ideas I'd never considered before.
"I kept taking notes." Grandpa raises an eyebrow. "I know that's why I'm over there," I continue quickly. "The bet was supposed to be educational."
"But?" Dad asks.
"But it doesn't feel like learning anymore." The words surprise me as much as everyone else. "It feels..." I search for the right comparison. "Like he's opening the doors to his house while I'm secretly measuring the windows."
Silence. Even Grandpa doesn't have a joke for that one.
"I hate that feeling,” I add quietly.
Dad wiggles in closer beside me, glancing down at the notes app still open in my hands before resting one hand lightly on my shoulder. "Willa." I look up. "Learning isn't stealing."
I frown. "Isn't it?"
"No." He smiles gently. "Taking someone else's ideas and pretending they're yours?" He shrugs. "That's stealing. But paying attention to someone who does something well..." His eyes drift toward the orchard beyond the kitchen window. "That's how every orchard owner I've ever respected got better."
Grandpa nods reluctantly. "I hate agreeing with him."
"You usually do,” Patty snorts.
Dad rolls his eyes, then squeezes my shoulder. "If Brooks is smart enough to let you see how he operates..." he says, "then he probably believes his greatest advantage isn't something you can write down in a notebook."
My eyes drift back to my notes. For the first time since I showed up at Calder Cider Monday morning, I don't see a list of their ideas.
I see Brooks. Standing behind a tasting bar.
Loading trucks before sunrise. Smiling at customers.
Building something that looks nothing like Hartley & Sons and everything like the dream he'd inherited.
The guilt doesn't exactly disappear. But it changes shape.
Maybe I hadn't been sent over there to discover Brooks' secrets. Maybe I was discovering something much more dangerous. That the best competitors don't spend all their time looking sideways.
They spend it looking forward.