Chapter 2 Taylen
TAYLEN
“The usual?” Joe asks from behind the bar, already reaching for the tap. His flannel shirt has more holes than fabric these days, but nobody would dare suggest he replace it. Some things in Winterberry are sacred.
“Make it the winter ale. Might as well embrace the season.”
Joe slides the glass across the bar. “How’s that new rotation working out? Heard you’re trying something different with the east field.”
Old Jim Turner’s head turns at that, his weathered face creasing with interest. “That sustainable stuff you were talking about at the co-op meeting?”
I take a slow sip of ale, letting the hoppy notes linger on my tongue before answering. “Early days yet, but the soil samples are promising. Thinking of expanding it next season if the numbers hold.”
“Always pushing boundaries, aren’t you?” Joe wipes down the bar, his movements as familiar as the creek that runs through my orchard. “Your brother would’ve—”
“Been proud,” I finish for him, the words automatic now after all these years. The ale suddenly tastes bitter, but I force another swallow. “Yeah, I know.”
A wave of greetings ripples through the tavern as Finn breezes in with that perpetually harried expression of someone juggling too many plates at once.
“You’re late,” I say as he slides onto the stool next to me. “Let me guess. Emergency tinsel shortage? Santa’s elves unionizing?”
Finn ignores my ribbing, which is annoying because it’s the best part of our Friday drinks. “You try coordinating three different church choirs for the tree lighting ceremony. Sister Margaret’s convinced the Methodists are trying to upstage her sopranos. And it’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”
“Ah, yes, the great Christmas Carol Conspiracy of 2023.” I signal Joe for another round. “Truly the crisis of our time.”
“Mock all you want,” Finn says as Joe delivers our drinks.
“But someone has to make sure this town doesn’t descend into holiday chaos.
Did you know the craft fair committee is threatening to withdraw from the Christmas Festival?
Apparently, the quilting circle felt underrepresented in the marketing materials for last year's festival.”
I lean back as we both stand, spotting an empty booth near the window. “And naturally, Vermont’s most eligible event coordinator is the only one who can prevent this catastrophe,” I say as we slide onto the worn leather seats across from each other.
“Damn straight.” Finn takes a long pull from his beer, then immediately grimaces at whatever notification just lit up his phone. “Oh god, now the elementary school principal wants to know if we can get live reindeer for the pageant.”
“Can’t you just stick antlers on some of the Petersons’ goats? Or maybe not. Those things will eat anything, including the set pieces, probably.”
That finally gets a genuine laugh out of him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You know, sometimes I miss when this town’s biggest event was the annual pie contest.”
“Truer words, my friend.”
“Speaking of drama, how’s the new irrigation system working out?”
I recognize the careful shift in his tone, the way he’s testing the waters. Finn never asks about farm operations. Event planning is his calling, not agriculture, and he’s always been grateful to have found his own path away from the family farm. “It’s fine,” I say slowly. “Why?”
“Just curious. You know, since you mentioned at the last agricultural committee meeting that you were looking to expand the sustainable practices program.” He takes another sip of beer, too casual. “Might be good to have some fresh perspectives on that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Fresh perspectives?”
“You know, other farmers who’ve implemented similar systems. People with experience in both traditional and modern methods.” His phone lights up again, casting a shadow across his neutral expression. “Just thinking aloud.”
“Uh-huh.” I drain the last of my ale, letting the silence stretch between us. “And would these hypothetical farmers happen to have any musical experience? Perhaps a tendency toward dramatic entrances and leaving when things get tough?”
Finn winces. “Tay—”
“Save it.” I wave to Joe for another round. “Let’s talk about something that actually matters. Like how you’re planning to prevent the annual gingerbread house competition from turning into a contact sport this year.”
He allows the deflection and our conversation meanders through safer territory, such as the upcoming farmers’ market schedule, and the latest gossip about which of the Morgan twins will get her hands first on the hot new veterinarian.
Finn’s phone continues its steady stream of interruptions, but he manages to keep at least seventy percent of his attention on our conversation.
“You know,” I say, watching him respond to what must be his hundredth message of the night, “they do make this amazing thing called a Do Not Disturb setting these days. Revolutionary technology.”
“Hilarious.” Finn’s fingers fly across the screen. “Some of us can’t just turn off the world when the sun goes down.”
Sadly, I can’t see the screen of Finn’s phone as I watch him type, pause, and type again.
I tap my empty glass against the table. “I’m starting to think you’re seeing someone. The phone, the constant texting, the distracted smile. Should I be planning a shotgun wedding?”
Finn’s head snaps up, his cheeks flushing slightly. “What? No. It’s just…work stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the scarred wooden table. “Because the Christmas parade route really requires that many heart-eye emoji?”
“I don’t use—” He stops, narrowing his eyes at my smirk. “You can’t even see my screen from there.”
“No, but I can see your face.” I gesture to Joe for another round. “You’ve got that look.”
“I so don’t have a look.” His phone buzzes again, and his eyes flick down automatically before he forces them back to me. “Besides, if we’re talking about my love life, let’s talk about yours too. How’s that going?”
“Nonexistent, as you well know.” I accept the fresh beer from Joe with a nod of thanks. “Unless you count my thriving relationship with the east field’s soil composition.”
“That’s sad, Tay. Even for you.” Finn sets his phone face-down on the table. A gesture that would be more meaningful if it didn’t immediately light up again, illuminating the wood beneath it like a distress signal. “What about that guy from the farmers’ market committee?”
“Nah.”
Finn leans back, studying me with that too-knowing look that makes me want to slide under the table. “When was the last time you actually went on a date?”
The question hits a nerve I’d rather leave unpoked. “When was the last time you minded your own business?”
“Never. It’s literally my job to know everyone’s business.” He picks up his phone again, but this time, his expression shifts from distracted to determined. “Actually, I might know someone—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended, drawing glances from nearby tables. I lower my voice. “No setups. No blind dates. No well-meaning interventions in my romantic life.”
“But—”
“The last time you tried to set me up, I spent three hours listening to someone explain their theory about how crop circles are actually alien square dance patterns.”
Finn winces. “Okay, that was a miscalculation. But this is different. He’s—”
“If you say ‘perfect for me,’ I’m going to dump this beer over your phone.”
He holds up his hands in surrender, but something in his expression sets off warning bells in my head. That little twist at the corner of his mouth that means he’s working up to something. I’ve known him long enough to recognize the signs.
“Fine, no setups.” He picks up his phone again, scrolling with exaggerated casualness. “Though speaking of people coming back to town…”
My fingers tighten around my glass. “Since when were we speaking of people coming back to town?” I chance, hoping he’s not about to say what I think he’s about to say.
“I just thought you should hear it from me first.” He’s still not looking at me, his voice carefully neutral. “My brother’s coming back. For good this time, apparently.”
The words hit like a sudden frost. I force my hand to relax before I shatter the glass, but I can feel the tension spreading through my body like ice across a pond. The last person I wanted to think about today was Sebastian Hall, but here we are.
“Inevitable, I suppose.” My voice comes out steady, practiced. I’ve had years to perfect this particular lie. “The prodigal son returns to save the family farm. How very Lifetime movie of the week.”
Finn’s watching me now, reading every micro-expression I’m failing to hide. “He’s been keeping up with farming practices, you know. Following all the latest developments. He’s not coming back blind. Besides, the farm doesn’t need saving. It needs managing.”
A laugh escapes me. “Right. Between world tours and Grammy parties, I’m sure he found plenty of time to study herd health and breeding lines.”
“You know,” he starts, and I already want to stop him, “Bastian’s been doing more than just keeping up. He’s practically managing the farm part-time.”
I can’t help the derisive snort that escapes me. “Part-time management? Is that what we’re calling flying in for two weeks between stadium shows?”
“He’s been more involved than you think.
” Finn’s voice takes on that diplomatic tone I’ve heard more than once at town meetings.
“Did you know he’s been working with agricultural scientists to develop new sustainable farming methods?
I don’t know much about it because farming isn’t my thing, but the grass quality has improved.
Apparently, good grass means happy cows and happy cows mean happy milk. ”
“Now that’s a new concept right there.” I snort and gesture to the bar around us. “You see these people? They’re not theories or test cases or PR opportunities. They’re our neighbors. Our community. They’re not a project or something you can abandon when the next opportunity arises.”
Finn gives me one of his knowing looks, the kind that makes me want to throw something at him. “Are we still talking about farming?”
“Don’t.” The warning in my voice is clear, but Finn’s never been good at backing down.
“I’m just saying, maybe if you gave him a chance—”
“To what? Show me how much better he can do my job?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ve spent fifteen years building something here, Finn. Something real. Something that works. I don’t need Bastian or his ‘interesting ideas’ to tell me how to do it better.”
“No one’s saying you do.” Finn’s voice softens, and somehow that’s worse than his arguments. “But collaboration isn’t the same as competition.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’ll have to watch him waltz back in like he never left, like he didn’t—” I stop myself, the words sticking in my throat.
The silence that follows is heavy with everything I’m not saying.
Finn watches me with too much understanding, and I have to look away from the sympathy in his eyes.
On the wall behind him, there’s a faded photograph of two teenage boys sitting on a tractor, guitars in their laps, matching grins on their faces.
I force my gaze back to my beer before the memories can take root.
“He’s going to need help,” Finn says finally, his voice gentle in a way that makes my teeth ache. “Whether he admits it or not.”
“Then he should hire help. That’s what normal farmers do when they need extra hands.”
“Tay—”
“I mean it, Finn.” I meet his eyes again, letting him see the steel beneath my surface. “Whatever grand plans Bastian has for revolutionizing farming in our little corner of Vermont, he can implement them without my input. I’ve got my own land to worry about.”
Finn’s phone lights up again, and this time when he glances at it, his expression shifts. It appears our time together is coming to an end.
“Just…try to keep an open mind?” he asks, though it’s more a plea than a question. “For the community’s sake, if nothing else.”
I don’t answer, but my silence says enough. Finn sighs and picks up his phone again. I sip my drink while he pays attention to the world outside these walls.
I swear he’s hooking up with someone, but no matter how hard I’ve tried to figure out who, the man is like a closed vault.
He pockets his phone and turns to me, his expression apologetic.
“Go do your thing,” I say. “I should head home anyway. Got an early morning tomorrow.”
He pauses halfway through standing, his expression softening into something I don’t want to examine too closely. “One day you’re going to tell me about this beef you have with my brother.”
“Today is not that day.”
My best friend lets out a resigned sigh before leaving me for a better offer. I’d probably do the same if sex with anyone was on the table.
I put my hand in my pocket to pull out my wallet when my fingers brush against the old guitar pick I still carry out of habit, smooth from years of worry.
“Last call.” Joe’s voice breaks through my reverie.
I tuck the pick back into my pocket and put enough money on the bar to cover the tab. “Thanks, Joe.”
He nods. I walk away, steadier than I probably should be after… How many beers? I’ve lost count, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got work tomorrow, fields to tend, and the return of the man I’ve been in love with since forever to not think about.