Chapter 25 Jack
TWENTY-FIVE
JACK
I’m destroyed. I’m windswept. I’m love drunk.
Is this what it’s like to fall all the way in? To lose your mind over a woman and never want to get it back?
Isla kissed me last night before we ate dinner together. When we were done, she let me hold her waist, slip my thumb into the band of her jeans, and then banished me to my room before disappearing into her own.
Now, I’m both blessed and cursed with an entire workweek to myself to replay it. That is, when I’m not mentally redlining every clause in that contract, trying to find the crack.
Maybe throwing Roland Stein into the river by my old place would scratch the itch, but jailbird orange isn’t my color, and I’m pretty sure that would only complicate the paperwork further.
I know enough about contracts from construction bids to recognize when someone’s hiding a knife in the fine print, but I’m not a lawyer. I don’t know how to turn a bad feeling into leverage.
The preliminary paperwork has already been signed. But at this point, we could still walk away and lose it all. We could leave the money behind. But the grant cycle is ending soon, and who’s to say we could secure something this good again?
Our chances are slim to none. Besides, we need to find out exactly what Roland knows about the orchard, and about Blue Willow itself. That’s why we think the best way forward is to fight for this.
Isla wants to involve Langford, which goes against my longstanding desire to never owe that man anything. He may know how to weaponize a clause better than the rest of us, but that doesn’t make him safe.
Beau’s real advantage is that he’s descended from one of the families that built this town. And in Blue Willow’s book, unfortunately in Isla’s, too, that still carries weight. That’s the only reason I agreed to a meeting with him.
Beau picked Juneberry, which is unfair because it’s one of my favorite places in town. The café sits on the corner of Main with big front windows and an entire wall of plants courtesy of Winnie.
I showed up here early out of habit. Construction has trained me that way. If I’m not the first one on-site, I’m already behind.
I claim a table in the back where the morning light doesn’t blast straight through the glass and spend fifteen minutes reading the contract screenshots on my phone again.
Sampling.
It sounds harmless, doesn’t it? Like a wine tasting, or a jar of jam handed across a market table.
But it’s not harmless at all, because once the tissue leaves Mirabelle, the rights follow it.
Which means if someone takes a graft from one of Isla’s trees, they can grow a hundred more somewhere else.
The orchard stays here. The magic doesn’t.
The bell over the café door rings.
I glance up to find Isla with her hair pulled into a loose knot. She’s wearing jeans, boots, and a faded Mirabelle sweatshirt with the sleeves shoved to her elbows.
She spots me and makes a face. “You look like you’ve been glaring at your phone for hours.”
“I have.”
She slides into the chair across from me. “You’re going to give yourself a stress ulcer.”
“I’m fine.”
She snorts. “Tell that to the vein in your forehead.”
“Rude.” I lock my phone and flip it face down.
Isla leans back and takes a closer look at me. At my shoulders, my jaw, whatever on my face is still giving me away. “Thank you for coming,” she says.
“As opposed to what, not showing up to the meeting that might decide whether they strip-mine your trees for parts? Yeah. It seemed important.”
Her throat moves. She takes a small sip of my coffee and stares at the chalkboard menu behind me. Maybe if she focuses hard enough, a different reality will peel loose.
The bell over the door rings again.
We both turn.
Beau Langford walks in like he owns the place. Which, technically, he doesn’t, but his family’s name is slapped on enough plaques in this town that the difference is mostly ceremonial. I’m sure he’d buy it up the second June showed the slightest signs of wanting out.
He’s in a navy sports coat over a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a watch that definitely cost more than my truck, hair in that perfect off-duty politician style. If it weren’t naturally curly, I’d think he hired someone to style it.
A couple at the counter wave at him. June does a little tilt of her chin that says welcome in. He picks up a black coffee and something wrapped in wax paper, then threads through the tables to ours.
“Mirabelle delegation,” he says as he sits. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Isla says.
“Langford.” That’s the best I can manage.
He unwraps his pastry. It’s one of Alma’s honey croissants. He tears off a corner, sets it aside like he intends to eat it slowly, then pulls a slim leather folder out of his bag and lays it on the table.
“Before we begin,” he says, “you should know I’m missing a very important tee time for this.”
Isla arches a brow. “What a sacrifice.”
“I know. I expect gratitude in plum wine.”
“Careful, Isla,” June calls from behind the counter without looking up. “You’d think a Langford would tip well, but he won’t hesitate to stiff you.”
Isla smiles into her coffee. Beau’s mouth twitches.
He flips the folder open. Inside is a printed copy of the grant contract.
I sit forward, and the chair creaks. I need to remember to fix that later, or the Juneberry will have a matching pair of broken chair legs, and my conscience will have a new tenant.
“All right,” Beau says. “Here’s the quick and dirty, because I’ve learned that in situations like this, the longer the explanation, the more likely someone’s trying to sell you something.”
I give him a bland look. “That why you keep your speeches short at town hall?”
“Exactly. Never give people time to notice you didn’t answer the question.” He taps the first page. “This top section’s standard funding language. Disbursement schedule, reporting requirements, all tedious but manageable. You already knew that.”
“Right,” Isla says. “We send in quarterly reports, photos, proof of use of funds. Easy.”
He nods. “The real fun starts here.”
He turns to the back half of the packet and slides it so it sits between the three of us.
“Biological sampling,” he reads. “Collection of plant material, including but not limited to leaves, twigs, fruit, and graftwood, for purposes of research, preservation, and propagation in controlled environments.”
Isla scrubs her forehead. “We can’t allow that to happen, can we?”
“It wouldn’t be wise.” Beau taps the next sentences.
“Any material collected becomes the property of the grant foundation and its partners. Any plant grown from that material is also their property. Now, we’re not talking about sampling for an archive.
We’re talking about ownership of whatever they grow from your trees. ”
Isla’s fingers tighten around her mug. The tendons stand out along the back of her hand. I want to cover it with mine and smooth everything out. But a kiss in the cottage kitchen doesn’t mean things are simple between us. We have a lot to figure out.
“Can they propagate indefinitely?” she asks. “From whatever they grow, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“Is there a cap on how many samples they can take from Mirabelle itself?”
“No.”
Her throat works. She leans closer to read, then sits back.
“So, they could take cuttings from Elias,” she says, “and in twenty years, there could be an entire grove of my great-grandfather’s tree somewhere in Oregon or Germany or wherever, and I’d have no legal say in any of it.”
Beau nods once.
“Great,” she says. “Fantastic.”
“This language’s deliberate,” Beau says. “It’s not some quirky lawyer flourish. The funders are trying to secure rights, not just give you a check and feel good about saving a quaint local business.”
“We knew that part,” Isla says. “What I don’t know is how much a specific funder actually understands about the magic here in Blue Willow, and at Mirabelle specifically.
I doubt he knows the full scope of it, but if he’s willing to push this hard for propagation rights, then he knows there’s something here worth getting his hands on. ”
“If we’re not backing out of the grant, what’s the game plan?” I ask.
“I want to see whether he’d negotiate,” she says.
“That tells us something either way. If he fights to keep this in, then we know he’s after more than a good-looking preservation project.
But if he’s willing to cut it loose as a condition of funding, then he can’t fully understand what he’d be giving up. ”
“That’s the good news.” Beau reaches into his folder again and pulls out a second, much thinner stack of pages. “My attorney took a first pass last night. She made redlines, suggested language, wrote down a few pertinent questions.”
He slides it toward Isla.
Her eyes flick to me, then back to Beau. “Why would you have her do that?”
“Because you asked me to look at it. I want you to have a shot at keeping what’s yours.”
I look over the packet. The margins are full of handwriting in neat blue ink, with little arrows and question marks and strike-throughs.
On the sampling clause, his attorney’s written: Limit scope to non-propagative material only (fruit, leaves). Prohibit graftwood and budwood. In the next margin: If they insist on propagation rights, restrict to on-site archive under Mirabelle lease. No off-site planting.
“You think they’d go for this?” I ask.
“I think they’ll push back,” Beau says. “They’ll send you a firmly worded email about how grants of this size come with standard requirements. They might try to guilt you. But I think you have some leverage here. The grant’s already gone public.”
“What if they refuse outright?” Isla asks. “And the grant falls through?”
“Then you’re back where you started,” Beau replies, which is a polite way of saying she’ll be broke, overworked, and one bad season away from losing everything anyway.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
He blinks. “I just told you.”
Isla’s foot nudges mine under the table, a silent maybe don’t antagonize the man who brought legal backup, but I don’t withdraw the question.
“You’re right,” he replies after a beat.
“I’m not doing this out of pure altruism.
When I offered to buy Mirabelle, I did it because land like that doesn’t come up often.
It was an investment. A good one.” He lifts a shoulder.
“If it’s not going to be Langford land, I want it to stay in Isla’s hands.
At this point, that outcome works better for me. ”
I frown. “How?”
“Because I live here, Jack. I walk past those trees every morning. I sit in this café and listen to June talk about the way the light hits the rows in October. You think I want to watch Mirabelle get exploited by some outsider with a god complex?”
I huff. “You sure this isn’t some territorial rich-guy thing? If you can’t own it, no one can?”
“It’s neighborhood preservation,” he replies. “Look, you don’t have to trust me. But you can accept what I’m offering, or you can decline and see where that gets you.”
“If your lawyer sends these edits,” Isla says, “and the funders accept, that means once this version is signed and the money’s released, Mirabelle’s locked in, right?”
“Yes,” Beau says. “You’ll have covenants that limit what can be done with the property. It’ll be earmarked as agricultural land under this grant for a long time. Possibly for good. You won’t be able to sell to a developer. Not easily, anyway.”
“So, the orchard’s off the market,” she says. “Permanently, for all practical purposes.”
She looks down at the paper. I know that tilt of her head. She does it when she’s fitting a new piece into a stubborn puzzle.
“Isla,” I say. “That’s a big decision.”
She lifts her gaze to mine. “I know.”
“It’s not just about saying no to future developers. It’s you tying yourself to this land in a way that doesn’t leave many exits if you ever . . . if we ever . . .” I clear my throat. “It’s a lot to sign on to.”
I’m not talking about myself. I’d stay. Gladly, foolishly, for as long as she let me. But I’ve already told her twice that I’m not interested in trapping her, and I meant it. If she ever wants out of this marriage, or out of me, I don’t want the land itself to become part of the cage.
Something shifts in Beau’s expression, then smooths away. “Let my attorney clean this up. We’ll send it back with comments and see how they respond. You’ll have a clearer picture before you get anywhere near the point of no return.”
Isla nods slowly. “You won’t charge us for this?”
He smiles. “Call it my good deed for the quarter. I’ll have a clean markup to you by tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
He inclines his head like she’s done him a favor by saying it.
Then he gathers the extra papers, takes the last bite of his croissant, and stands.
June calls something about sending him the bill, and he answers without turning around.
Then he’s gone, the bell over the door ringing once as it swings shut behind him.