Chapter 2
two
brADY
“You don’t actually believe that Mac had something to do with the vandalism on your property, do you?”
I stared in bewilderment at my best friend. “Abby, I have literally been explaining exactly why MacKenzie Clark is the culprit. Were you not listening to me?”
Abby sighed. “Yes, I was listening for the first twenty minutes. But honestly, I’ve been pretty checked out for the last five. You can’t really believe Mac would sneak over to the orchard in the middle of the night and paintball the side of the Apple House for you to find the following morning.”
“Yes!” I practically shouted, and several heads turned in our direction.
I’d texted my friend earlier to see if he wanted to grab a beer after work. With the day I’d had, I needed it. Plus, I’d wanted his advice, even if he was clearly misguided and too trusting.
We were sitting in the brand-new dining room of Abby’s latest restaurant while a cleaning crew put the finishing touches on the space. Flyers was a casual wing-and-burger-type place, and the grand opening was tomorrow. Abby had invited me here to have a beer since he was busy prepping for the celebration and finalizing menu items. He was feeding me dinner, so I guessed I couldn’t complain too much .
Earlier this morning, my siblings and I had stumbled across the vandalism to Judd’s Orchard’s main building. The mostly open-air Apple House welcomed tourists and patrons on days the farm was open to the public. It also housed our pre-picked produce, sales counter, apple-washing station, one small administrative office, and the equipment for pressing.
Now, though, the outside of the faded white building was speckled with red, yellow, and blue paint splotches.
“She left a calling card,” I reminded him and pulled out my phone to show him the pattern I’d detected.
Abby held up a hand to fend off the device I held up to his face. “I’ve seen the picture, and I’m sorry, man. I just don’t see a letter M in all that splattered mess.”
“She would definitely do something like this,” I argued. “You know she hates me.”
Abby narrowed his eyes and reached for his beer. “You know my feelings on this.”
I groaned and let my head fall back to stare at the ceiling ductwork. “And your theory has been noted and disregarded.”
He laughed—a sound that was part scoff and part audible eye roll. “You’re too close to the situation. You always have been.”
I returned my head to an upright position and met his amused gaze. “We are not in love with each other. Mac hates me, and I find her incredibly annoying.”
“Ah,” he countered, “I didn’t hear you say you hated her back.”
Abby had been harping on this since middle school. Typically, I let it roll off my back because the idea was so ludicrous, but then he did shit like trying to force-proximity us.
My mind drifted to the bonfire the other night when he’d seen Mac approaching and basically shoved me into her like an immature preteen.
Being close to her was like touching a hot stove. The heat, the awareness, the high likelihood of personal injury.
Much to Abby’s dismay, his latest attempt had ended with me annoying the hell out of Mac on the drive to my apartment, and not with declarations of love. But I’d had fun torturing her, so I hadn’t scolded him about it like I should have.
I examined the three remaining chicken wings on my plate and grabbed the cherry jalapeno one. “I don’t hate anyone.”
And that was the truth. Neighbors, acquaintances, tourists at the orchard. I could—and did—get along with nearly everyone I met. There were a couple of notable exceptions, but for the most part, I was an affable, lovable goofball.
While I didn’t hate Mac, I did love to get a rise out of her. It was part of our game. Hell, it was part of our existence at this point. But where I resorted to friendly teasing and humorous antics, she tended toward outright violence and deliberate attacks.
In middle school, she’d snuck self-tanner into my body lotion in my gym bag. There had been the time she’d let the air out of my tires senior year as well as the Elmer’s glue incident—don’t ask. Then a few years back, she’d drawn a penis on my face when I passed out at Jolly Adams’s divorce party. In permanent marker.
If I thought back to when we were kids, I could—maybe—see Abby’s perspective. There had probably been a time when I had a crush on the dark-haired spitfire who lived across the street. But I’d done what any prepubescent boy would have. I’d sought her attention in the most effective way possible. I’d teased and tormented and made myself memorable. Growing up, I didn’t know how to manage my complicated feelings any more than I knew how to handle my hyperactivity or focus on classwork.
And then later—when Mac and I had been in high school—I’d had a moment of wishful thinking, a desire to change things between us. Mentally, I waved that thought away. None of it mattered now.
I wasn’t going to admit any of that to Abby anyway.
“But to damage your family’s property seems a bit extreme, even in this unhinged game of one-upmanship y’all have going on.” Abby’s words brought my wavering attention back to the conversation and my righteous indignation.
“Well, who else could it be?” I demanded.
He shoved a rosemary French fry in his mouth and shrugged. “I don’t know, Brady. Maybe that’s why you should let the sheriff’s office do their job. ”
“Pfft. They don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”
Inwardly—and outwardly—I’d vowed to handle this myself. Mac had gone too far this time. I’d had to help my sister Candace paint the Apple House to cover up the damage.
I turned my neck, noting the stiffness there and in my shoulders from working the paint roller all afternoon.
Abby opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. “And I expected you to be on my side. Mercer and Joan and Candace aren’t taking me seriously,” I complained, noting how none of my siblings or co-workers thought Mac was to blame either.
My friend winced. “Just keep an open mind is all I’m saying. You’ve never been very ... rational where Mac is concerned.” I made a rough sound of indignation, and Abby raised his hands in surrender. “It could very well be a dumb teenager with nothing better to do.”
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and you’re all going to eat your words. Also, why does everyone want to blame hypothetical teenagers when there is a violent offender with motive right across the highway?”
“Well,” Abby speculated, “we were teenagers once, and we did stupid shit.”
I thought about it for half a second and then nodded. “Alright. Fine. You got me there.”
“Just don’t go off half-cocked and throw around a bunch of accusations.”
I shifted in my seat, thinking about the portrait I’d commissioned just this afternoon.
Abby’s gaze narrowed. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” I said, sounding more defensive than I liked. I lowered my voice. “I didn’t do anything.” Yet went carefully left unsaid.
Because one thing was for sure: I wasn’t letting this go. And when I proved Mac was behind this diabolical deed, I was fully prepared to retaliate.
Early October at the orchard meant things were hectic. We were busy with tourists Thursday through Sunday, and then busy in the fields the rest of the time trying to get as much ripe fruit off the trees as we could before the first frost hit. I pitched in where I was needed. Sometimes, that meant throwing on a picking bag and joining my elder sister, Joan, and the orchard’s only non-relative co-worker, Mark Mercer. Other times, I worked in the Apple House, selling to customers or washing, grading, and pressing apples. Today, I was manning the sales counter with Candace.
She was back in Kirby Falls for the first time in years. Candy said she was just taking some time off before changing jobs and wanted to help Mom and Dad with the orchard, but I could tell something else was going on with her. My little sister was being squirrely, but I’d let her tell me in her own time.
You couldn’t force the truth out of someone, especially when they weren’t ready to hear it themselves.
“What’s happening with your face?” Candy asked.
I finished putting the cash in the register from the last sale and glanced over at her. “What are you talking about, Candy Cane?”
She pointed to her own upper lip. “That thing. Right there.”
“Oh, I’m growing a mustache.” I popped a handful of orange Tic Tacs from the container I kept beneath the counter.
She blinked hazel eyes that looked just like our mother’s. “It’s not really coming in even.”
I knew that, but I was sticking with it. I’d always been so baby-faced that I hadn’t been able to grow a beard when it was the trendy thing. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, I was going for a mustache. Besides, it looked distinguished. Or it would once it started growing.
“Well,” I said, determined to ignore her teasing, “Tom Selleck wasn’t built in a day, baby sister. Give it time.”
Candy cringed. “Yeah, but I still have to see your face until it looks normal. And who knows how long that’ll take.”
“Very funny, butthead,” I said and pulled her in for a headlock .
Candace was three years younger than me. We’d fought like cats and dogs growing up, but I’d missed her when she’d been living in New York for the better part of the last decade. She was a good sister, and we were close.
Now, she squirmed and shrieked with my elbow gripping her head, and I felt a sense of diabolical sibling satisfaction along with gratitude that Candy had finally come home. I eventually released her when a kid ran up to pay for a turn on the farm’s giant bounce pillow.
Once the youngster scurried off with his wristband, Candy punched me in the shoulder.
Then she finished smoothing her hair and said, “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the prices for the u-pick buckets. Why were the numbers on the signage marked out and replaced?”
I fidgeted with the zipper on my vest before admitting, “I saw Grandpappy’s advertising their prices and thought we should stay competitive.”
Her gaze narrowed. “So you lowered them by one penny so it would be cheaper than the farm across the street?”
“Yeah, Candy, I did. They’re our rivals. Can’t win the war if you’re not thinking about the next battle.”
Candy shook her head. “You and Mac are the only ones who consider us competitors.”
While it was true that our farms were very different, you couldn’t ignore the fact that most leafers picked only one orchard to visit when they came to town. Sure, some folks wanted the flash and bells and whistles of Grandpappy’s, with their giant General Store and their corn maze and their hayrides. You could even pay to target shoot with an apple cannon, for crying out loud.
But some people had discerning taste and preferred a smaller family operation that welcomed and educated. Judd’s was just better than Grandpappy’s, and that’s all there was to it.
“Don’t even speak her name,” I warned. “That delinquent.”
“You’re ridiculous. Have you heard anything from the sheriff? ”
It had been three weeks since Mac—presumably—vandalized our Apple House, and the sheriff’s office hadn’t done a damn thing about it.
“No, but I still call them daily for an update on the investigation.”
Candy patted me on the shoulder. “Good luck with that, Brady. Hopefully, it was a one-off, and we won’t even need all those automatic lights and security cameras you installed.”
I nodded, but I was ready. If my calculations were correct, there’d be a development in the investigation shortly. Sometimes, you had to draw out your enemy, and I’d made a pretty big move earlier in the day. I had a feeling something would be happening very soon.
I got my answer a few hours later.
It was closing time and I’d just latched the chain across the gravel entrance to the orchard when I spotted Mac barreling down the path from Grandpappy’s, driving a baby-blue side-by-side.
I couldn’t resist my smirk as she crossed the highway and pulled to stop three inches from my shins.
Mac climbed out of the vehicle with a furious expression and marched up to me, holding a white paper in her hand. She extended her arm—pretty far because I was so much taller than her—and held up the printout in front of my face.
“What the hell, Brady? Do you know how many people have texted me and, if that wasn’t bad enough, called me on the damn phone to ask if I was the one who vandalized the Apple House? I did not paintball your family’s property! Did you seriously post this ridiculous mug shot in the Kirby Falls Facebook group accusing me of vandalism?”
Yes. I had done that.
My buddy Jase’s little sister was a freshman at Kirby Falls High School and a very talented artist. She’d whipped up this drawing of Mac, and I’d posted it in the town’s Facebook group, asking if anyone had seen any suspicious individuals fitting the description purchasing paintball rounds .
I peered around the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet to meet Mac’s blazing gray gaze. “I actually think it’s a flattering likeness.”
“I am going to murder you,” she snarled.
I patted my pockets for effect. “Damn. I should have recorded this conversation. That sounded like a threat the sheriff would be interested in.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you already have a letter stashed among your things that says if anything happens to you, MacKenzie Clark is the likely suspect.”
I grinned. “That was a good one.”
“And really”—she flipped the page around so she could read it—“this description is grossly inaccurate. I do not have a ‘prominent forehead,’ and I’m five six not four eleven, and you know it.”
“Huh,” I mused, stroking my chin. “I could have sworn you were shorter than that.”
Mac growled, and I tallied another point in my column.
But then her attention dropped to my mouth, and my hand abruptly fell away. She took a step closer, and I straightened to my full height.
“What—what are you doing?” I asked as she leaned closer, a searching look on her face.
She ignored me. “What’s on your face?”
Her finger extended out and up like she was going to poke me, and I raised a hand to ward her off.
“Hands to yourself, Big Mac.”
“No, seriously.” She squinted. “There’s something above your lip.”
I crossed my arms and gave her my best unaffected stare.
“Oh my God,” she wheezed. “Are you trying to grow a mustache?”
“No,” I denied automatically. Damn it.
She grinned, her blood-red lips stretching wide to reveal straight white teeth .
I swallowed, momentarily distracted by the bright splash of color she nearly always wore.
“You really are.” She was flat-out laughing now, and I’d had enough.
“Well now, why would I try to grow a mustache when it could never hope to compete with yours,” I said, deadpan.
She gasped and covered her mouth with the hand not holding the mug shot. “I do not.”
It was my turn to grin. “It’s even there in your portrait.” That had been an extra special request.
Mac’s attention snapped to the paper in her grasp. Angry heat flared, and color bloomed in her pale cheeks.
I raised a hand to my ear and cocked my head.
Her brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Just listening for a fire alarm for that wicked burn.”
She rolled her eyes.
With a final angry huff, she pushed the paper onto my chest and backed away. I placed a hand over my heart to keep the printout from fluttering to the ground.
Glaring from behind the windshield of the side-by-side, she said, “You’re going to regret this, Brady Judd.”
It wasn’t even an effort to keep the smile on my face while she peeled out and headed back over to Grandpappy’s. I assumed she was off to sacrifice puppies or write in her diary about how much she hated me. You know, whatever she did for fun.
The mug shot and the post had done exactly what I’d hoped—drawn Mac’s ire. And I’d solidified it with this little encounter—one I’d foreseen from a mile away. God, she was predictable. Now I just needed her to act out in retaliation. Maybe she’d hit the Apple House again. I doubted Mac had the wherewithal to think up a new plan of attack. And if she did decide to bring her paintball gun to the farm, I’d be ready for her. Then my family and everyone would know I wasn’t the ridiculous one for thinking Mac was capable of taking things too far .
I looked down at the paper I still held. It really was a nice drawing. Jase’s sister was talented as hell. She’d even captured the way Mac’s eyes looked like gray storm clouds. And the sort of elegant way her neck curved into her?—
A loud blast and an answering explosion had me ducking for cover. There wasn’t much cover to be had in the middle of the gravel driveway, and soon enough, I felt a sticky liquid raining down from overhead.
“What the hell?” I murmured. My gaze shot up toward the Judd’s Orchard billboard poised above the entrance to the farm just in time to hear another boom and witness the corresponding apple splinter on impact.
“Damn it, Mac!” I hollered, but there was no way she could hear me from this far away, and not over the sound of the apple cannon she was firing.
I awkwardly crab-walked over the chain blocking the entrance and retreated onto our property. While crouching under the trees on the side of the path, I watched as another apple came from the direction of Grandpappy’s. This one exploded against the faded billboard right between my eyes—well, the eyes of my younger self advertising wholesome family fun.
Six more propelled attacks struck the image of my youthful face as bits and pieces of obliterated apples fell to the ground and fruit juice burst in time with each impact. Finally, the barrage stopped. I figured she was out of ammo, or one of her saner family members had intervened.
I made my way back to the orchard’s parking lot and to my car. Briefly, I wondered if Mac and I had taken things too far. But then I thought, Nah , and started the engine of my truck.
Later that night, when my brain was too active for sleep, I made my way into my kitchen and started working on a batch of coffee cake mini loaves. Baking was something I’d done with my momma growing up. It gave me something to do with my hands when I was too busy or agitated. The rote actions of following a recipe helped give me focus and took the pressure off my mind.
I was scrolling through step four of the recipe when a notification popped up at the top of my screen. I placed the spatula on the edge of the mixing bowl and navigated over to the Chatter app. A vineyard near the farm had tagged Grandpappy’s in a post, and Mac had mentioned Judd’s in her reply .
@TheLonelyMountainWinery: That you taking shots after hours, @GrandpappysApples?
The reply featured an attached image of a row of four apple cannons with the following text:
@GrandpappysApples: Well, they weren’t Jell-O shots, but they were just as satisfying. Right, @JuddsFamilyOrchard?
My snort of laughter rang out in the stillness of my apartment. Instinctively, my gaze sought Mac’s mug shot. I’d affixed the printout to the front of my refrigerator with a magnet.
God, she was a menace.
But I was still smiling when I retrieved my spatula and got back to mixing.