Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Two months later
“Come on, Holly,” Missy pleaded, tugging Holly into the living room with one hand while balancing a bowl of popcorn in the other. Winter was pouring cider into crystal glasses on the coffee table, and across the room on a shelf, Prickles was curled in a bed of soft rags. Someone had lit a candle, and even though it was August, the scents of fall clung to the air.
“I’m not interested,” Holly said, freeing her arm. She’d watched the first two episodes of Grimm Reality ’s deep dive into the ghost at Wicked Good Apples, and it had been more painful than she’d expected. Two months had passed since she’d seen Connor. He hadn’t once texted her, hadn’t once called. The only reminder that he’d ever been there were the ruts in the grass where his and Charlotte’s trailers had been.
She had to admit he’d done a spectacular job producing the episodes, each one ending on a cliffhanger that garnered viewers for the next week. Wicked Good Apples wasn’t open for the season yet, but Holly already knew it was going to make a massive difference in their sales. Missy had had the brilliant idea to open an online shop with Wicked Good Apples and ghost merchandise, and it had been such an instantaneous success that they were looking to hire on help.
Stacy had called and offered her more money, which Holly had sweetly declined. But then she’d texted Stacy after with a silly witch meme, and Stacy had responded back with a meme about an ugly wicked witch, warts on her nose and all. She and Stacy probably weren’t ever going to be best friends—especially considering they physically couldn’t stand to be near each other—but after the incident with Councilman Miller, Holly had a new respect for the role Witches played, for the balance they brought to Wickeds and vice versa. She might’ve still been a tiny bit jealous of Stacy’s unrelenting perfectionism, but she didn’t hate her. And in finding that friendly balance with Stacy, she felt closer to her mother than she had in years.
The Celestes hadn’t heard a word from Jeremy or Amy, but according to town gossip they were in preproduction for their new television series. No one knew what the series was about—it was all being kept hush-hush—but Jeremy and Amy’s social media pages promised it would be explosive.
Holly hoped Wicked Good Apples would make enough cash from this season to keep them going for a while, because once Jeremy’s show aired, she didn’t know what would happen. She suspected they might have to move, that the harassment and interest would be too much for them to stay here.
“No, you can’t miss the last one. Come on,” Missy insisted, grabbing her again and marching her toward the couch, where Winter was sitting with Aunt Rose.
Holly squeezed between them just as the opening credits for the final episode began. The song was catchy, the visuals jarring, and the hosts—Connor and Erikson—were ruggedly handsome, as usual.
How was it possible that it could physically pain her to see him? How was it possible that after two months she still hadn’t fallen out of love with him? Whenever she painted in the hayloft, she thought of his silent acceptance of her studio of horrors. Whenever she was in the old apple orchard, she remembered their first night together under the moon. Whenever she held Prickles, she pictured how he’d thrown his body over hers to protect her from the exploding picture window.
She wanted to share every new joke she heard with him; she wanted him to taste each new batch of cider; she wanted to cry on his shoulder when everything felt bleak and overwhelming. It was the worst kind of longing, because they hadn’t separated because of some silly argument. Yes, she’d been angry and disappointed with him when he’d left, but the roadblock that separated them was insurmountable. She loved her apple farm and he loved his show.
She loved him, and he loved … his show.
Idiot. Holly Celeste was an idiot.
The episode began, and Holly found herself drawn into the conclusion of the Councilman Miller hauntings, but even as Connor wrapped up that storyline, he introduced another. He stood at the edge of her apple orchard and spoke into the camera, the wind tousling his hair and pressing his jacket against his side. There, he told the audience there might be something supernatural at Wicked Good Apples that had nothing to do with ghosts.
The show went to commercial and Holly shared an alarmed look with Missy. What the hell?
After a tense commercial break where not a single one of them managed to choke down popcorn, the show picked up again. Holly watched, her heart in her throat, as Connor spun his hunt for the supernatural into the resolution of the ghost haunting. He raised all the points he had when he’d first arrived in their kitchen: rain during droughts, dry ground after storms, lack of apple diseases. He introduced the odd occurrences as solid reasons to suspect the Celeste women might be supernatural themselves.
There was another commercial break, and Holly wasn’t sure she could stand to finish the episode. What had he done?
Missy downed her apple cider and shuddered. “I thought this was apple wine, Winter.”
Winter ignored her. “Do you trust him, Holly?”
Holly thought about the question. Did she think Connor would betray her and her family, even though he had moved on and would likely never see her again? No, she didn’t. It simply wasn’t in his character. “Yes.”
Winter nodded in satisfaction. “Then let’s see what he has to say.”
The show returned after far too many commercials. Connor reenacted the ghost exorcism with dramatic voiceovers, completely leaving out any accusations of witchcraft. Once the Councilman Miller story had wrapped up, he bounced back to his newest storyline: the other paranormal happenings at Wicked Good Apples.
“I came to Wicked Good Apples for more than a ghost,” he said, the breeze tousling his hair as he stood among the rows of Macintosh trees. He had a few days’ worth of beard growth, and combined with his jeans and rough work boots, it made him appear more outdoorsy than usual. “Before I chose this location, an anonymous contact sent me an intriguing photograph.”
The photo of Aunt Daisy, black mist pouring from her palms over a barrel of apples, flashed on the screen. Holly gripped Missy’s hand so hard her knuckles turned white. Connor, what are you doing?
“I decided to film there and dig around to find out if the photo was real or not. I wanted to prove that the paranormal existed beyond specters and Bigfoot. The photo, combined with the odd occurrences mentioned before, led me to believe I might finally do that at Wicked Good Apples.”
He rubbed his chin and flashed a sheepish, boyish expression before directing the camera to what lay at his feet. “Do you see those blue tubes running across the ground?” The camera panned the watering system they’d installed a few years back, the blue lines winding through the tall grasses of the Macintosh orchard like snakes. “ That is how the Celestes kept their orchard watered during the drought.”
Not quite. The drought had been before the installation of the watering system, but no one would know that.
The camera flashed to Connor standing in a new location on their farm, one foot halfway in a ditch, the other knee bent. He’d taken off his jacket and the white polo was crisp against his tanned skin. “Drainage system,” he said, gesturing along the ditch. Another scene, but this time Connor’s back was to the pumpkin patch. He waved to the fields and forest that separated the farm from other dwellings, and explained that Wicked Good Apples was remote enough to have missed the apple disease. An interview with an expert arboriculturist was spliced in next, and a gentleman with an elflike gray beard testified that it was possible, even likely, that remote locations like Wicked Good Apples could avoid vegetative diseases completely.
With ruthless precision, Connor dismantled every single point of evidence he’d made earlier in the program for the existence of the supernatural on their apple farm.
At last, Connor stood in a laboratory with a forensic photographer, who leaned over a metal lab table with the photograph lying at the center. The man had bloodshot eyes and a bulbous nose, and he snorted with laughter when Connor asked him if the photograph could be real.
“It’s clearly photoshopped,” the “expert” said, shaking his head. “AI these days could trick anyone. Don’t feel down on yourself.”
In the final few minutes of the episode Connor stood in front of the camera again, the rolling Celeste orchards his backdrop, and talked to the audience in the friendly and authoritative way he had that made him the most lovable ghost expert in the country.
“After a thorough investigation at Wicked Good Apples, I can assure you there is nothing supernatural here … other than an angry councilman who we can only hope has finally moved on to another plane. I’ve been doing this a long time, long enough that I can admit when a hunch is wrong. This is just an ordinary apple farm.” He gestured to the sun-gilded apple trees behind him. “If anyone tells you otherwise, they’re yanking your chain.”
Holly gasped and covered her mouth with both hands.
“Now that’s a boss move!” Missy hooted.
“Yeah.” Winter gave Holly a rare smile. “Your man just killed Jeremy’s show in ten minutes flat.”
Connor leaned closer to the camera and curved his lips into that sexy, trademark grin of his. “If you still want to experience something out of this world, you should try Wicked Good Apples’ cider.” A tray appeared in front of him with a glass of cider balanced on it.
Connor lifted the glass and raised it in toast to the audience. “Before we end, I want to thank all of you for tuning in to watch Grimm Reality these past ten years. You’ve made this show a success, not us. All we ever wanted was to expose the supernatural, and you’ve come along with us every step of the way. We hope you continue on that ride as Charlotte joins the team. You might recognize her as my former assistant.” Charlotte popped into the picture, her grin wide and her hair threaded with lime-green highlights. “She’s been with Grimm Reality since its inception. She’s been to every haunting, every exorcism, and every unsolved mystery, and she’ll be here for another hundred more.” He clinked his glass with Charlotte’s and then with Erikson’s, who’d appeared at his other side holding his own glass. “To my last episode on Grimm Reality and to Charlotte’s first as new cohost.”
They drank deeply before the end credits began to roll.
Holly couldn’t tear her eyes from the credits. Her heart was thundering in her chest. Had she just heard that right? Was Connor seriously retiring from his show? Why? He loved that show!
“Well, I didn’t see that coming,” Missy said. She waggled her eyebrows at Winter. “Did you?”
Winter was already edging toward the door. “More popcorn?” she asked. Holly glanced at the coffee table. Their bowls were still full. “Um, Holly, your boots are under the chair in the hallway,” she added in a rush before slipping away.
“Wha—”
Holly’s phone dinged with a text message. She stared suspiciously after Winter but grabbed her cell and opened the message.
Connor: Meet me in the old orchard at eleven?
It was 10:59.
Holly’s heart gave a slow twist and she stood. “I need to …”
Missy grinned. “Yeah, I bet you do.”
Holly sprinted into the hallway and fumbled for her boots—which she never would have found under the chair—and jammed her feet into them before bursting outside.
The August sky was still light enough that stars were only just beginning to twinkle on the purple horizon. The warm air caressed her bare arms as she jogged through the newer apple orchards. Fireflies blinked as they drifted over the tall grass, and apples bobbed on the branches as she slipped by.
When she reached the old apple orchard, Connor was already waiting for her, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face. She ran toward him and threw her arms around his neck.
“Hey, Wicked,” he said.