Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
ISLA
Three days later, I call my manager at Luxe.
The kitchen window is cracked open, and the whole morning sounds new. There are birds in the hedge and bees nosing around the plum crates.
Maris picks up on the fourth ring. “This is Luxe.”
“Hi, it’s Isla Winslow. I mean, Starla.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sorry. It’s Isla.”
There’s a pause while she scrolls through her mental schedule. “Hey,” she says. “Everything all right?”
“I know I still have a few shifts left, but—”
“You’re on for tomorrow and two shifts this weekend. Then that’s it, right? Your notice is up.”
“About that.” I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can straighten a stack of labels. “I can’t come in to work again.”
She sighs. “I can’t exactly snap my fingers and conjure somebody into your slot, honey. We built the calendar around you finishing out.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I glance out the window at the rows of trees. They’re starting to fuzz green at the tips. “Things changed with the orchard. I need to be here.”
“There’re plenty of dancers with day jobs,” she says. “You’ve always done both.”
Luxe was manageable, but now I’ve rewired the danger signals in my head. Roland in booth ten. Roland leaning on the upstairs rail. Roland at the bar, jacket folded over the chair, eyes on the stage while I stripped myself bare.
“One of your regulars, Roland Stein. I, uh, I think he’s been spying on me.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, carefully, “Roland tips very well.”
“He does.” The back of my neck prickles. “But I have reason to believe he’s been keeping tabs on me for access to the orchard. And it’s a little unnerving knowing he might corner me there.”
“I can get security on it. Put him on the watch list.”
“Like you said, he tips well, and I’m already on my way out the door. It’d be bad business to lose a big spender over someone who’s leaving anyway. I really am sorry I can’t give you more time. I just . . . I can’t come back in.”
She goes quiet, and for a second, I think I’ve hung her out to dry in some unforgivable way. Then she says, “You were good here. Showed up on time. Did the work. I hope the orchard’s worth it.”
“It is,” I say, without having to convince myself. “Thank you. For . . . everything. Tell the girls I said goodbye.”
“Good luck, Isla.”
The line clicks dead. I set the phone down and shove a stray curl into the elastic at the back of my neck. I’d have more time to sit here and feel weird about all of it if it weren’t market day.
Blue Willow does farmer’s markets the way it does everything else, wholeheartedly and until the season gives out. Late spring starts them, and they keep going in one form or another until the first hard frost.
I tape the last labels, double-check the inventory list, and haul the crates to the door. Jams first. Wines second. The new laminated sign that says MIRABELLE ORCHARD, with a sketch of a plum branch that took me and Winnie three tries.
My arms are full when my phone buzzes on the counter.
Jack
Need help loading?
I picture his hands on my crates, his mouth against my throat by the river yesterday, the way my whole body went loose and bright at once.
Heat crawls up my chest. I swallow it back.
Isla
I’ve got it. Go be in charge of wood and nails.
Three dots. Then:
Bossy. I like it.
I snort, tuck the phone in my back pocket, and nudge the door open with my hip.
The sun is already higher than it’s been in weeks. Dew clings to the grass along the drive. The orchard stretches out in tidy rows, buds tight but ready. It’s a late May morning balanced on the edge of summer.
“Big day,” I tell the trees, which is objectively ridiculous and still feels right.
By the time I pull onto the green, it doesn’t look like Main anymore.
Booths line both sides of the road, some with neat white tents, some with card tables covered in mismatched linens. Bunting stretches between lampposts, pastel triangles dancing in the breeze. Someone’s put wildflower bouquets in the old whiskey barrels on the corners.
Winnie’s truck is parked outside Juneberry, tailgate down, bed full of galvanized buckets and color. She waves with the hand that isn’t wrapped around a spray of tulips.
“Goldie,” Winnie says as I park behind her. “What did we say about putting things in our mouths that don’t have ingredient labels?”
Goldie, four years old and full of conviction, scowls. “It looked like candy.”
“It smelled like compost,” Winnie says.
Goldie catches sight of me and lights up. “Isla, Mama says I can come help with plums.”
“Hi, plum assistant.” I heft a crate of jam out of the car. “I have strict standards. You’ll need to eat at least three samples and give detailed feedback.”
“I can do that,” she says, absolutely confident.
Winnie comes around the truck, cheeks pink from the morning. Her blond hair is knotted on top of her head in a battle bun, and she has dirt on her forearm, plus a daisy tucked into the strap of her overalls.
“You look different,” she says, eyes sweeping my face.
“Do I?”
“You look like you slept,” she says. “And like you have unresolved thoughts.”
“And the latter is different how?”
She grins, then sobers. “You okay?”
“I quit my second job for real this morning,” I say, blowing out a soft breath. “I told them I’m not finishing my notice.”
We haven’t talked much about Luxe since I first told her, but she knows it wasn’t all bad. She knows I liked the dancing itself, the athleticism of it, the feeling of being sharp and fully in my body.
She frowns. “How’d that go?”
“Manager was only mildly disappointed. I’ll live.”
“You sure you’ll be okay without that income?” she asks low, so Goldie won’t hear.
“Jack’s willing to help, but I just don’t want to combine finances yet, and the numbers are still tight. Once the fresh plums come in, I’m gonna have to pay the seasonal crew to keep up with harvest. The summer is always the busiest.”
“We’ll sell a lot today,” she says. “It looks busy already.”
We fall into the easy rhythm of setup. Table legs snap open. Tablecloths go down, weighed at the corners with tape and mini sandbags. I line up my jars by flavor and color, rows of ruby strawberry, deep plum, golden peach. The wine bottles go behind, labels facing out.
Winnie arranges her buckets, too—tall branches at the back, ruffled tulips and ranunculus in front, a crate of honey jars glinting in the middle.
Goldie is in charge of scattering a handful of petals on the table. She takes the job extremely seriously. “Is this enough spring?” she asks.
“It’s a very respectable amount,” I reply.
By the time the church bells ring nine, Main Street is humming with tourists, locals, and kids with fistfuls of tickets. Someone across the way is setting up a portable speaker and doing test strums on a guitar.
June comes out of the café carrying a tray of sample cups. “Coffee for my favorite vendors,” she says, setting a cup near my elbow and one on Winnie’s flower bucket.
I chuckle. “You say that to everyone.”
She squeezes my shoulder and moves on.
The first wave hits fast. A family from out of town with matching fleece vests. A retired couple who come to every market and always buy two jars of plum jelly “for emergencies.” A teenager with a camera who asks if she can take a photo of the labels because they’re “aesthetic.”
I slide into the version of myself who can talk about sugar content and pectin levels while making change with one hand. This is the market version of Isla. The one who knows these jars and bottles are proof that Mirabelle does something useful.
A woman in a navy coat picks up a jar, squints at the writing, and looks up. “Winslow, right?”
“That’s me,” I say.
She smiles. “I read about the grant in the paper. Congratulations. It’s wonderful they’re investing in places like this.”
“Thank you. We’re grateful for the opportunity.” Though I could do without the added layer of publicity. The high expectations have ramped up my nerves to another level. I pause for half a beat, then reach for a sample spoon. “Want to try the plum jam?”
She makes a delighted noise and then buys three jars.
Later, Wells walks by with a crate of candles for a Blue Willow Inn display under a shared tent. Jack appears once, early, carrying a spare crate and two lemonades.
He sets one in front of me without fanfare. “You good?”
“Doing well, actually.”
His mouth curves. “You need anything, just text me.”
By noon, Winnie has sold half her tulips and moved on to matchmaking the others. “You’re a ranunculus person,” she’s saying to a man who looks alarmed by the responsibility. “Trust me.”
The afternoon crowd leans more tourist than local, which is good for sales, less good for my ability to pace my answers. I repeat the same three grant-safe phrases until they turn into a script.
The sun starts to lower as a light breeze picks up.
I’m sliding a jar into a paper bag for a woman in a wide-brimmed hat when an off-key whistle drifts up from somewhere farther down the block. I look up without thinking, and my stomach turns.
Roland Stein is here. In Blue Willow. On Main Street.
He looks wrong against all of it, too sleek and expensive for a place with chalk drawings on the sidewalk and folding tables stacked with almond cookies. He belongs to city sidewalks and high-end clubs.
Conference rooms with bad coffee, maybe, not to a town where people still stop in the middle of the street to ask after your grandmother. And yet here he is, taking his sweet time.
He pauses at Alma’s bread as if he has every right to linger there, says something polite to someone I can’t hear, glances at June’s chalkboard menu.
His gaze moves the way it always does, passing over faces as though he’s sorting and assessing them, filing things away for later. Then it lands on me. And he starts walking toward my booth.
My fingers tighten on the paper bag. I pass it to the woman with what I hope is a normal smile. She moves away, oblivious to the way my pulse has started to pound in my ears.
The townsfolk don’t know I’ve been moonlighting as a dancer. If Roland makes a scene and spills all my secrets, I’m going to gut him, grant be damned.
“Starla,” Roland says. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
I grit my teeth. “Different lighting. Fewer sequins.”
“You wear both looks well.”
I pick up a jar and set it on the table in front of me. “This is our classic plum jam if you’d like a sample. It’s not easily replicated.”
He looks past me, toward the little cluster of wine bottles. “You’re doing well, I see.”
“We’re trying.” My tongue feels thick. “What brings you to Blue Willow today?”
“I like to know where my money is going,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I’ve heard good things about the town. Picturesque. Community-oriented. Resistant to change.”
“You make intrusion sound very polished.”
He tsks. “I thought it wise to see the place in person.”
“You could’ve scheduled a site visit through the program,” I say. “There’s a process.”
“There’s also such a thing as initiative,” he says. “Speaking of, I saw the latest draft of your contract.” He gestures with two fingers, as if flipping imaginary pages. “Lively margins. Some very creative suggestions for redlining.”
“Anything you want to sort out, you can go through our lawyer. That’s what she’s there for.”
He tilts his head. “You used to be more . . . accommodating in conversation.”
My stomach flips. “Different context.”
“I have a fondness for direct dialogue. Lawyers make everything sound like a threat, even when it isn’t. If we sit down, just the two of us, I’m sure we can find language that feels less alarming.”
“I’m not meeting with you alone.”
He lifts a brow. “Because of your husband?”
“Because I have representation, and because I’m not ignorant. Any clarity you’re offering can be put in an email and sent to our lawyer.”
“Where is that small-town charm I was promised?” he asks lightly. “I was told the kind people of Blue Willow bake pies for their enemies.”
“We’re sold out of those today.”
“I like Mirabelle. I like what it represents—heritage, storytelling, a pretty narrative about roots. I’d hate to see the orchard miss out on support because of a misunderstanding. Propagation isn’t theft; it’s the way of the future.”
“How’d we get on your radar, anyway?” I lower my voice, ignoring his blatant fabrication. “Did you just happen to notice the dancer with an orchard and go digging, or did your analysts flag us as an outlier first?”
“Good grief, Starla. A few lines about sampling and data are hardly cause for this level of alarm. We’re talking about small-scale propagation to ensure viability long-term. That’s it.”
“My land isn’t a lab project.”
He smooths an imaginary wrinkle from his sleeve. “Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for sentiment. Enjoy the rest of your market. The plum jam looks lovely.”
He leaves, and the pressure instantly drops.
I stand there, fingers resting on the edge of the table, pulse thudding against my skin. The noise of the market rushes back in. Someone laughs. A child whines about being sticky. The guitar starts up again.
Winnie touches my elbow. “He’s from the grant committee?”
“One of the funders, unfortunately,” I mutter. “He’s a creep.”
“Do you want me to accidentally snip his tires?”
A startled laugh bubbles out of me. “Tempting, but no. Christ, I really don’t want to stand here and replay that conversation on a loop.”
I glance over to find Jack standing at the far end of the block, helping Bobby wrestle a tent pole back into place. His muscular arms are bare, shoulders set. He looks up, and our eyes meet.
I reach for my phone.
Isla
We need to talk.