Chapter 18 Isla
EIGHTEEN
ISLA
The sun’s barely up, but the orchard is wide-awake.
Not in some dreamy, mystical sense. In a practical one. Birds argue in the branches while bees work the blossoms. The air still holds a little chill, but there’s already enough warmth in it to remind you that summer’s coming.
I carry a ladder over one shoulder and a pruning saw in the other, pretending the tight pull in my upper back will work itself out.
When you grow up in a place like this, you learn which aches you can live with. Some of them mean you earned the soreness, and some mean you need to stop before you turn one bad twinge into a bigger problem.
I know the difference; I’m choosing to ignore it.
If I call Winnie and ask her to bring over achehoney now, she’ll tell me to take a break. I want to avoid that conversation. So, I set the ladder against one of the older trees and shove it hard to test the angle.
The leaves are still wet from the showers two nights ago. They brush my wrists when I reach in, searching for suckers, crossed growth, anything that’ll become a problem by midsummer.
I move slowly because this kind of work doesn’t forgive rushing.
Snip. Pull. Snip. The sound disappears into the morning.
Mirabelle trees like decisiveness, so I make every cut as cleanly as I can. Hesitation is how you end up hurt. Indecision is how you fall.
I adjust my footing and think, absurdly, of the way Jack keeps knocking me off-balance.
My grip tightens on the saw.
It’s irritating how often my mind lands on him now. I can be ten feet up a ladder, balancing my weight, counting branches, and still my brain offers up the memory of his hand at my jaw in the kitchen.
I cut a branch. The leaves shiver, then go still.
I should be thinking about the irrigation line near the south fence that keeps losing pressure, or the shed we’re supposed to gut this weekend. If I were really being sensible, I’d be worrying about the grant committee and all the ways we could still lose to the other finalists.
Instead, my mind keeps replaying different versions of Jack. The kiss at the courthouse. His laugh at Harbor Light when he tried Elsie’s cake. The single earring he wears when he’s not working and remembers to care about what he looks like.
I climb down and drag the ladder to the next tree. By the time I haul a tarp full of clippings to the compost pile and let it drop, my hands are shaking.
When I crouch by the irrigation trench, the ground is still soft enough to take a footprint. I dig down, expose the line, and find the coupling loose.
Goddammit.
I tighten it until my forearm aches.
Then I stand, wipe my hands on my jeans, and look out over the rows. From a distance, the orchard looks gentle. Pale blossoms. New leaves. Elias’ tree holding its quiet, stubborn promise.
It would be easier to romanticize this place if it didn’t cost me so much.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Winnie
Need more achehoney? I can bring it over for tea today if Jack’s not around. Girl talk. Elsie’s in.
I stare at the text, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse. Winnie has an irritating habit of noticing the things I try not to advertise. The stiffness, the shorter stride, the way I reach for my shoulder before I realize I’m doing it.
Isla
Yeah, okay.
Then, because apparently I still have some self-respect left:
Isla
Bring food. Nothing healthy.
Winnie
<3
By the time I make it inside, I’ve got dirt in my hair and sap on my wrist that won’t quite come off. The back door needs shaving at the frame again, but I’m not about to ask Jack to do it, and I’ll probably make it worse if I take a plane to it myself.
I fill the kettle and stare at the counter while it heats. There’s still a faint crescent stain in the wood from plum wine. Proof of life. Proof of damage.
The kettle whistles, and I move on instinct.
The back door opens before I can pour the water.
Winnie comes in first with a small jar tucked under one arm, blond hair braided back, jacket hanging from one shoulder. Elsie follows with two mugs and a foil-wrapped pan that smells suspiciously like cinnamon.
They both stop when they see me.
Winnie’s gaze sweeps over my clothes, my hands, my face. “You look wrecked.”
“I look like someone who works very hard on her very own land,” I say flatly.
Elsie tips her head. “You look like someone who refuses to sit down because sitting means thinking. I know that game.”
“That’s rude,” I tell her. “And, unfortunately, accurate.”
Winnie kisses my cheek. “Tell me you’ve eaten something besides sugar.”
“I’ve had loads of vegetables,” I lie. “All different sizes and colors.”
She makes a sound that says she knows I’m full of shit. Then she opens one of her jars. “Achehoney for the tea. And because you’re stubborn and your shoulders look one bad movement away from mutiny.”
Elsie leans against the counter while I pour. She watches me over the rim of her mug.
“So,” Winnie says gently, blowing across the top of hers. “How’s married life treating you? Because I swear you were about to murder Jack the week before you told us all you were getting hitched.”
I take a sip of tea, and the ache in my shoulders instantly eases. Thank God for small miracles. I let the warmth settle before I respond.
The truth is messy. Jack sleeps in the guest room. I sleep in mine. The house still feels crowded even when it’s quiet. He’s in my routines now, in my space, in my head. He helps without making me feel incompetent, which should be a comfort and somehow isn’t.
I know my need for independence can be a crutch. After my mom left, after my ex stomped on my heart and my sense of self-worth, it makes me feel safer to know that I can take care of things on my own.
I allowed Jack to help me out with this grant thing, but now I feel like I’ve lost myself a little bit in these last few weeks. Who am I if I’m not the prickly, self-sufficient woman I’ve always prided myself on being?
Also, it doesn’t help that I can’t stop thinking about Jack’s mouth.
“It’s . . . oddly procedural for the time being. We’re both really busy with work, and settling into a new routine is strange.”
Winnie groans. “Wow. Romantic.”
“I mean, it’s good,” I amend. “Living with him is good. He’s really helpful and considerate.”
“You haven’t killed him,” Elsie says, smiling. “That’s big.”
“Low bar,” I say. “Also, don’t tempt me.”
Elsie leans forward. “Please, Isla. I need the full scope of whatever fresh chaos this is. The closest I’ve come to marriage research is reruns of Say Yes to the Dress.”
My tea nearly goes up my nose.
Winnie gives her a look. “Elsie.”
“What?” Elsie says. “I’m asking as someone with firsthand experience in self-sabotage. I want to know how good it can be to choose something that permanent.”
“It’s chill,” I say quickly. “We’re all chill.”
Elsie squints. “So you’re just vibing with your new husband?”
“I’m hanging in there. Getting used to married life.”
Winnie studies me for a beat. She, of all people, has no room to throw stones. She and Reid have been circling each other for so long it qualifies as weather. If I thought she could handle the candor, I’d say so.
“So, it’s not good between you two?” she asks.
“Like I said, it’s really good.” Heat climbs my neck, annoyance tangled up with something softer. “Jack’s very . . . present.”
Elsie grins. “High praise.”
Part of me wants to tell them everything. Another part wants to lock every door in the cottage and pretend I’m made of stone. I like having people to share things with. I also like feeling self-contained, competent, impossible to knock over.
So, I take the cinnamon muffin Winnie slides toward me and chew instead.
Elsie sips her coffee and watches me over the rim of her mug. “Okay. If we’re not talking about marriage, we’re talking about something else.”
Winnie nods. “We can talk about grants.”
I grimace. “Please don’t.”
“The pie I’ve been baking that keeps collapsing in the middle,” Elsie offers. “I was wondering if you two might taste test?’
I groan. “That’s not any better.”
Winnie smiles between us. “Let’s eat,” she says. “We can save the hard stuff for another day.”
She means all of it. The orchard. My marriage. Luxe.
Once I told Elsie about dancing, it felt wrong not to tell Winnie, too. They’re the two people in this town I trust the most, and keeping it from one of them would have felt stranger than telling everyone.
Winnie took it the way Elsie did, without gawking or pity or turning it into something uglier than it is. Neither of them has brought it up again, which feels like a mercy in itself.
By now, they know when to push and when to wait me out.
The kitchen is peaceful after my friends leave.
I rinse the mugs and scrub at a smear of cinnamon sugar on the counter. I wipe the same spot twice. Then a third time, as if I can polish the surface of things until my thoughts stop slipping, too.
It doesn’t work.
I wash, dry, stack. I fold the foil and put it away. I pick up the achehoney jar, twist the lid on tight, and set it in the cabinet, grateful in that sharp, quiet way for friends who show up even when I don’t know how to ask.
And still, some part of me keeps listening for Jack.
His presence in this house has started to feel like a new beam set into an old structure. Helpful and necessary. Moreover, load bearing.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and tell myself to stop being dramatic.
The back door sticks as Jack shoulders it open.
Great. He’s home. I can finally stop being a freak about everything.
His hair is a mess, the grown-out blond looking more sun-bleached at the ends. He’s wearing his work jacket with a flannel underneath, boots scuffed and muddy at the edges.
“You gonna take those off, Rhodes?”
His gaze finds mine immediately. “Hey, freckles,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “Of course I’m gonna take them off. Wouldn’t dream of tracking half the county through your kitchen.”
“Your restraint is inspiring.”