Chapter 18
eighteen
JOAN
As strange as it was to consider, my life settled down into something approaching normal in the new year.
January took shape with the return of Sophia and Darren. Mac and Brady went on a two-week vacation to Iceland and came back with treats for everyone and stories to share.
When I considered the upheaval to my life last fall, it was bizarre to think how quickly I’d adapted to a new normal.
But the farm and I were always in sync. I knew the land and what needed to be done in every season. It was comforting that way.
I found my rhythm with Ian, too. We spent as much time together as we could.
George’s happiness was what mattered to Ian. The little boy was a priority for both of us. I didn’t want anything about his life here in Kirby Falls to change because Ian and I were . . . doing whatever it was we were doing.
It felt inadequate to say we were just sleeping together. And inaccurate to claim we were dating. We’d fallen into a domestic routine of sorts. Running and lunches and dinners when we could manage them. Board games and movie nights with the kid.
George still visited me in the fields in the afternoons. We spent time taking care of Ralph and working with Mercer on whatever the day’s tasks happened to be.
Ian found his way into my bed as scheduling permitted. Sometimes I stayed across the highway in the big house with Ian, sleeping in his bed and letting him make me protein pancakes and really terrible coffee in the morning.
My life may have taken a drastic turn somewhere in the last few weeks, but it felt more like a steady merge onto the highway, two paths becoming something new and different, all while going in the same direction.
The film was set to wrap principal photography in mid-March, less than a month from now.
The cast and essential production crew would then go back to LA to film some of the interior scenes in a studio.
Ian also had obligations. He had a premiere coming up for a film he’d shot last year and a press tour following that.
Real life wasn’t encroaching just yet, but it was on the horizon, like a summer storm charging the air with electricity.
I was trying not to let it affect my mood.
I didn’t want George to think I was grouchy for no reason or mad at him in some way.
Similarly, I didn’t want Ian to read resentment in my tone or silence.
But things were going to change, whether we wanted them to or not.
It was a chilly February morning, and I was checking over the rows of Fuji trees for any sign of disease. It was important to monitor the trees when they were dormant, and it happened to be a big part of my job in the winter.
I’d just climbed back onto the ATV when I felt my phone vibrate with a text.
Candace: You have to watch this.
This ominous message was followed by a link to a popular celebrity news site.
I hesitated with my finger over the screen. I didn’t want to be bombarded with Dorian Masters gossip or something I could never unsee.
My phone buzzed again, this time in my hand.
Candace: It’s good, I swear.
With a deep breath, I tapped the link.
An interviewer appeared on my phone screen after some catchy intro music. I didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything. He was young with dark brown skin and a brilliant smile. He leaned in to the camera like he was sharing a secret, and maybe he was.
Then he introduced an exclusive, on-set interview from rural North Carolina featuring the Dorian Masters.
My heart rate sped up as Ian came into view.
He wore a blue tee shirt and a backward hat.
He looked friendly and casual, not at all inconvenienced by this very obvious promotional event.
Ian grinned widely and told the host how happy he was to invite him into his space.
For the next five minutes, Ian took the viewer on a little tour of his trailer on set, showing where he ate, took phone calls with his team, and napped on occasion.
I knew where the trailer sat, but I’d never been inside. It was on Judd land, and the knowledge was strange, surreal. I squeezed my phone tighter as I focused on Ian.
The space was for Ian to use between takes.
I knew he used it on long filming days. It was where he ate his lunch sometimes when he didn’t have enough time to meet up with George and me on the other side of the farm.
I’d already imagined him sitting at a small table inside a trailer, texting me with one hand while holding a sandwich from craft services in the other.
The chicken salad croissant was his favorite, but sometimes the crew got to them before he did.
It was odd seeing the space in real life, outside of my imagination.
Shaking myself, I concentrated on my screen, bringing it closer to my face.
The trailer was clean but pretty basic inside, more for convenience than any real opulence or comfort.
The camera panned across a long countertop that ran half the length of the interior.
A mirror hung over a portion of the area.
There was a black picture frame face down on the surface, like it might have contained a photo of George and Ian hadn’t wanted it to be caught on film.
As Ian spoke, I noticed the background beyond him.
There was a pile of friendship bracelets—at least half a dozen—beside the mystery photo, and the sight of them made me smile.
I knew things between George and Ian had been improving.
The time over the Christmas holiday had really helped.
There was familiarity and ease between them now that hadn’t been there before.
Above the bracelets, my gaze zeroed in on a newspaper clipping tucked into the edge of the mirror.
It was a black-and-white image from the Kirby Falls Chronicle, and it was of us—Ian and me—in costume, during the Christmas parade.
We were waving from the back of Santa’s float.
I hadn’t even realized Ian knew about the shot of him in the paper.
The same one I had neatly folded and tucked away in my drawer at home.
The camera transitioned, pivoting to a different angle, and there was Ian’s bib from the Turkey Trot, and mine too.
I’d gone to toss it in the garbage following the race, and he’d asked if he could keep it.
He’d joked, saying it was a valuable memento.
I’d laughed and told him he could sell it on OnlyFans with a picture of his feet.
But there it sat, next to the friendship bracelets and beneath the grainy newspaper photo, in Ian’s trailer on set. I realized my heart was beating hard enough to feel in my throat, my nose about three inches from my screen, and I hadn’t heard a single word of the interview.
In the next moment, Ian exited the trailer, leading the cameraman down the stairs and back out into the North Carolina sunshine.
As the image bumped along, I could now clearly see the back of Ian’s shirt.
It was a Judd’s Orchard tee, part of the new merchandise Candace had started selling online before the holidays, baby blue and tight across Ian’s muscular back.
The front of his hat was now equally visible.
My eyes widened. That was my hat. It had the county’s public library logo on it, and there was a white paint splatter on the bill from when we’d painted Ralph’s shelter. Ian had stolen the cap from me that day, claiming his eyes were too delicate for the sunshine. He’d never given it back.
The camera shifted suddenly once more, and I cursed the swing of focus.
Now Ian and the host were walking side by side through the apple fields—through my apple fields.
The landscape was all around them, the light golden, the mountains blue in the distance.
It was my home, and Ian looked so good—so right—in it that I felt my heart ache.
Ian was talking about the area now. How special Western North Carolina was. How he thought he needed a house here.
I couldn’t swallow or blink.
The image transitioned to Ian in profile, smiling as he spoke.
“We’re actually filming at a local farm.
The county is known for apple production—eighth in the US, actually.
Judd’s Family Orchard has been my home for months now, and there’s no place like it.
Grandpappy’s is another local farm filled with amazing people.
Both of these orchards are open to the public, and they’d love to have you.
If you’re ever visiting, tell them Dorian sent you. ”
He winked at the camera. “But, seriously. I love it here. The community has been welcoming, and the owners at Judd’s and Grandpappy’s are both wonderful people. I’ve made friends for life here while filming.”
The sound of the interviewer’s voice cut in. “That’s so great, working with a tight-knit cast.”
For a moment so brief I was certain no one else in the world would have caught it, Ian’s face looked confused, but he recovered quickly, barely pausing as his charm kicked in.
“Definitely,” he replied, nodding enthusiastically.
“My co-stars are so talented. I’m just the lucky guy who gets to work on one of Della Stewart’s projects with them. ”
But I knew—I knew in my heart—that the young man conducting the interview had misunderstood Ian’s meaning. He hadn’t been talking about the crew or his co-stars, people he only saw when required. He’d been talking about making friends for life with my family, my friends . . . me.
The host’s face filled the screen once more, thanking Dorian for the opportunity to see behind the scenes.
I sat in stunned silence as an ad played in preparation for the next segment on a famous actress’s dietary restrictions.