Chapter 10 Isla
TEN
ISLA
That’s the thing about the magic in Blue Willow. It settles its way into the soil for all us townsfolk to enjoy. And it stays hidden from outsiders who might seek to exploit it.
The trees on my land produce rich, golden plums of the mirabelle varietal. They’re sweet and dense and faintly floral, with thin skins. The juice can stain your fingers for hours. The flesh holds warmth long after it’s been picked.
I like to say the sun gets caught inside them.
My trees are special; they need old soil and consistent hands. They respond to care in ways that feel personal. Elias must have known that when he planted the first one. Must have sensed that this place would remember what he gave it.
Sometimes, I press my palm into the bark of his tree and swear I can feel the orchard breathing back. This land is alive, maybe not in the same way the inn on the ridge is—overtly sentient—but alive in the slow, listening way of things that have learned how to persevere.
This particular tree has watched five generations come and go. It’s survived storms and blight and drought and grief. It’s outlived marriages and inheritances and every promise that didn’t quite hold.
And still, every year, it bears fruit. If that isn’t the most perfect, the mostly plentiful kind of magic, then I don’t know what is.
“You’re doing the thing,” Elsie says. “It’s freaking me out.”
I glance down from the canopy. “The thing.”
“The staring,” she clarifies. “Your eyes go a little far away, like you’re in a trance. I thought that was just the Elsie special, but you do it, too.”
I huff a laugh and look at her properly.
Elsie is sprawled on her stomach on the picnic blanket—legs bent at the knees, feet kicking idly in the air. She’s wearing a baggy sweater, and her hair is a mess of curls that keeps slipping out of the clip she tried to corral it with.
In her hand, she’s holding a golden plum as if it’s a small treasure.
“It’s a good tree,” I say. “I can’t help it.”
She bites into the plum, juice shining on her lip, then hums with obvious satisfaction. “This one tastes like honey had a baby with a rainbow.”
“That doesn’t sound remotely appealing.”
“It absolutely does in my brain.”
I take a plum from the shallow basket between us and roll it in my palm. The skin is warm, almost velvety. One squeeze too hard and it’ll split, juice running down my fingers.
Elsie watches me with open curiosity, head tipped slightly, eyes bright in that way that’s become more common lately. It’s different, having her here like this. She’s been much more relaxed and present, taking up space without apologizing for it.
When we were kids, Elsie ran wild with me through these rows just like Simone used to.
Barefoot half the time, pockets stuffed with rocks and beetles and feathers, talking nonstop until she’d abruptly fall silent.
Back then, it was to stare at a bloom or a spiderweb or the exact shade of green a leaf turned when the sun hit it just right.
Then somewhere around her teens, she went silent for different reasons. She started arriving in town with tension in her shoulders. Her eyes always flicked toward the road, already planning her escape. Eventually, she stopped coming here at all.
When she returned to Blue Willow after her grandmother died, she was wound up real tight. She smiled, but it never reached her eyes. For most of the winter, she moved through town as though she were bracing for something to hit her.
Now she’s on my blanket under my favorite tree, inventing bubble-gum metaphors.
It’s good to have her back in the shape of herself.
“Okay,” Elsie says suddenly, wiping her thumb on the hem of her sweater. “Can I ask you a question?”
I narrow my eyes. “Depends. Are you about to be nosy?”
“Yes.” She props herself up on her elbows. “When did it turn from friends to more with Jack? I mean, I’ve seen you play the jealousy game but figured you were both doing that thing where everyone knows except the people involved.”
“We were never really friends,” I say quickly.
I say it fast because the alternative is admitting how much of my life has bent around his presence. He’s the one I call when the orchard throws a fit, when my truck sounds wrong, when my dad needs a hand getting from one place to another.
He’s been steady in all the places I pretend I don’t need steadiness.
Elsie blinks. “You were friends.”
“We were frenemies,” I correct. “At best.”
“You do yell at each other a lot.”
“Exactly.”
“But you also made him soup when he got food poisoning last fall.”
I squint at her. “How do you know about that?”
Wells. It was absolutely Wells. I can practically hear him in my head, pleased with himself as he tosses my dignity into the open air.
Her mouth twitches. “Wells talks.”
“He really does,” I mutter. “Constantly.”
“And you gave Jack extra plum salve when you told Wells your last batch had run out,” she continues. “And Jack’s driven your dad to appointments in the city when you couldn’t.”
“That’s just . . . logistics.”
“Remember two town meetings ago, when Beau tried to run his mouth about Jack’s permits. You shut him down so hard, half the room went silent.”
My brow furrows. “Those are isolated incidents.”
“Mmm. Again, I ask, when did it turn into more?”
I snap the stem off my plum between my fingers and stare at the tiny green nub.
“Let’s not talk about Jack.”
It’s not that I don’t have anything nice to say about him. I recognize that he’s a man who possesses many good qualities. And though he annoys me at times, he’s funny, and he’s smart. He’s good at his job, and he’s a good friend, too.
His real partner will someday make a very lucky bride. That’s something I don’t want to think about too hard.
She frowns. “Why not?”
“I love Jack. I do. But I don’t want to be hyperfocused on the wedding.
I know it will just stress me out.” That’s partly the truth, partly a convenient excuse.
“We can talk about literally anything else. The trees. The weather. The fact that your boyfriend is currently flushing the gutters for the fifteenth time already this spring.”
Her expression softens instantly. It always does when Wells comes up. “He likes to be useful,” she says. “It’s his coping mechanism.”
“So is yours.”
Her smile is warm and entirely too perceptive. She takes another bite of plum, chews thoughtfully, and then looks at me again. It strikes me with sudden clarity—the fact that I’m sitting across from one of my oldest friends with two massive secrets lodged in my chest.
A farce of a marriage built on paperwork.
A secret life that only starts under the stage lights.
Elsie isn’t a town gossip. She’s not the kind of person who uses someone’s soft parts as leverage. She’s the kind of person who sees those soft part and holds them gently. I don’t want to break my own rule twice, but there is something else I can give her.
“Can I tell you a secret that you’re not allowed to freak out about?”
She sits up fully. “I make no promises.”
“This is serious.”
“Okay, I can be serious.” She presses a hand to her chest with exaggerated solemnity. “I will freak out, but only internally. Please continue.”
I work my way through a hard swallow. “I dance at night. In Hartford.”
Her brow lifts. “Dance.”
“Yes.”
She waits.
“On a pole,” I finish.
She tilts her head, and I can see the moment her brain flips through a dozen possible reactions and discards each one. “Wow. That is not where I thought that sentence was going.”
“I’m pretty good at it.”
“I believe you. You’ve always been coordinated.” She wrinkles her nose. “Unlike me, who trips over air.”
“It’s athletic,” I say, defensive without meaning to be. “Hard. It’s not just—”
“I know,” she interrupts. “I’m not judging. I’m just imagining how sore I’d be all the time.”
That startles a laugh out of me. “And it helps with the orchard. With everything.”
“That makes sense.” She purses her lips. “Does Jack know?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s . . . okay with it? Not that he has any real say, but I’ve met enough men to know they don’t always handle this kind of thing well.”
“He knows I need help financially. That’s it.”
“Are you two sharing finances already?” She winces, then adds quickly, “Sorry. That was intrusive.”
“It’s fine.” I wave it off. “We’re working our way there. You know I don’t like to rely on people more than I absolutely have to.”
Her gaze goes distant for a second, then, “I’m proud of you.”
My throat tightens. That’s the problem with Elsie. She says things plainly, and they land where they land. You have no choice but to feel them.
“Don’t,” I mutter, blinking hard.
“I’m serious,” she insists. “Not because you owe anyone a struggle story or because you have to justify anything to me. But because you found something you’re good at, and you’re using it to keep your life afloat. That’s brave.”
I snort. “I don’t feel very brave. Sometimes it really bothers me. Not the dancing or the work itself. It’s the way other people talk about it. The way the patrons at the club look at me sometimes. The way they decide I’m less worthy of respect.”
A flash of something protective hardens her expression. “Then those people can choke.”
I bark out a laugh. “Elsie.”
“What? I’m trying to be supportive,” she says, eyes wide and innocent. “Is it safe, at least? The place? The people around you?”
“Luxe is a high-end club, and it’s as safe as it can be. The place has rules, security, boundaries—they’re strictly enforced.”
“Okay, that’s good.” She nods. “And your dad? Does he know?”
“No. God, no.”
“I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.” She toys with a frayed thread on her sweater. “Is Jack being . . . respectful? About it?”
“I wouldn’t be marrying him if he wasn’t. I mean, he was annoying at first, but not in a cruel way. More in a Jack way. He’s curious.” I sigh. “But we’re not meant to be talking about Jack or the wedding, right?”
“Then what should we talk about?”
“Tell me something about you, Els. Something that doesn’t involve a man.”
Her eyes light up. “I’ve been planning the flavors for the cake. Can we talk about that?”
“I suppose we can. Incidentally.”
“I was thinking vanilla bean. That’s classic and safe, right?”
I relax.
“With a chamomile soak,” she adds, “and a blackberry balsamic drizzle.”
I close my eyes. “Why do you hate joy?”
She bursts out laughing, and I laugh along with her, because the cake will be terrible whichever unhinged flavor profile she chooses, so I might as well accept my fate now. If this were my real wedding, maybe I’d care more about things like that.
Or maybe I wouldn’t. Because I think, in a way, it’s special that my friend wants to put in all this effort for me. It’s nice to have someone who cares, someone who tries.
Our laughter fades slowly, leaving something softer behind it. Telling Elsie about Luxe has made everything feel looser. It’s enough to remind myself that I have some wonderful, solid people in my corner.
People who make all this risk worth it.