12. Teddy
TEDDY
Mid-October enveloped the valley in a beautiful tapestry of russet and gold, brushing the upper ridge of hemlocks with morning frost and leaving the air crisp enough to cut through woven cotton.
Teddy waited near the cider barn, holding a wooden crate filled with freshly labeled containers of spiced apple butter.
The morning rush near the farm stand counter had tapered into a steady trickle of fall tourists to the pumpkin patch, but the customary energy that usually carried her through the midday shift remained hollow and heavy beneath her ribs.
For three straight days, the driveway near the main barn had remained empty of the dark blue clinic truck.
The missing presence of Kent formed a vast expanse of quiet that seemed to consume Teddy.
He hadn't dropped by on the pretext of checking the injured goat, he hadn't left scribbled clinical notes on the workbench, and he hadn't lingered near the farm stand after finishing his early morning rounds checking their small enclosure of animals.
The complete absence of his steady voice left an unexpected, hollow pressure under her ribs that no quantity of farm chores could ease.
Teddy set the wooden crate onto the pine border of the display bench and smoothed down the linen table runner.
She told herself that this silence was precisely what she'd wanted. For the last few weeks she’d insisted that her stay in Harvest Hollow was temporary, that her focus belonged entirely to Maine and continuing to build her restoration business there.
She could do everything on her own, just like she always had.
She had no need for anyone offering to carry her burdens.
But every time she heard the rumble of a truck, or the iron latch on the gate clicked open, her lungs tightened with a sharp, involuntary hope before her eyes registered a local customer or a passing delivery driver.
Across the lawn near the mobile station of the local animal clinic, the atmosphere was markedly different.
Cecilia Brooks had volunteered to coordinate the autumn pet wellness station for the second consecutive weekend, positioning her folding table directly adjacent to the outdoor exam pavilion.
Through the open cedar louvers of the barn overhang, Teddy observed while Cecilia adjusted a stack of clinic pamphlets, her fitted navy cardigan polished and immaculate despite the autumn chill.
Whenever Kent was nearby carrying his stainless steel clipboard or diagnostic case, Cecilia found an immediate reason to shift into his path.
She offered him an insulated flask of hot cider, or found excuses to touch his arm and laugh at his even responses.
Teddy even overheard her suggesting dinner again.
Much to Teddy’s annoyance, the woman didn’t give up.
Her romantic interest wasn't disguised or subtle; she made her intentions obvious to everyone standing within twenty yards of the lawn.
Kent remained entirely courteous, professional, and composed.
Teddy observed as he received the flask with a polite nod, answered the inquiries from Cecilia briefly, and then systematically returned his attention to his work.
He didn't incline toward the laughter from Cecilia, his amber gaze didn't soften into the intensity he reserved for private moments, and he offered no romantic encouragement whatsoever.
In fact, he would subtly move out of her reach.
Teddy should be pleased about that. But she was still hurt over the fact that he hardly spoke to her anymore.
He didn't mention the invitations from Cecilia, nor did he use them as a weapon to provoke a reaction or force a confrontation. The only reason she even knew about it was because she couldn’t seem to take her focus off Kent, no matter how hard she tried.
Kent maintained his boundaries with unyielding discipline. He treated Cecilia with professional respect and worst of all, treated Teddy with absolute, respectful space, leaving the quiet canyon between them right where Teddy had insisted on building it.
Teddy turned her attention to the shelves at the farm stand and tried to distract herself by aligning a row of jar lids until the gingham labels matched with mathematical precision.
But no matter how much she tried to push Kent from her thoughts, he was always there, front and center.
A cold, sharp ache settled deep within her chest, far more uncomfortable than the anger she'd carried after their argument.
When Kent had challenged her, she'd been able to retreat behind her familiar shield of self reliance, reassuring herself that she protected her family and her future.
Presently situated in the shadow of the farm stand while the surrounding valley moved around her, she couldn't hide behind that shield. Teddy knew that it wasn’t Cecilia, or her mother’s secrets, or any outside force keeping her and Kent apart.
The silence between them was an architectural structure of her own design, engineered brick by brick out of her unyielding resistance to let anyone close enough to matter.
"You're turning those jars so hard the glass is going to crack," Dahlia observed, coming toward the farm stand with an order ledger cradled against her arm.
Teddy released her hold on the glass jar. "I'm making sure the labels face forward for the afternoon crowd. The tour buses from Greenfield arrive at one o'clock."
Dahlia rested her side against a display table, her dark eyes scanning the face of Teddy with shrewd perception. She looked past the neat rows of apple butter toward the clinic lawn, where Kent was currently inspecting the ears of a dog while Cecilia held the leather leash.
"He stopped coming by so often," Dahlia noted, her voice even and free of judgment. "And I noticed he checked on the goat yesterday without even stopping by to let us know he’d come."
"He's busy with the clinic schedule," Teddy replied, keeping her voice flat as she lifted an empty crate from the floor. "And he knows where the farm stand is if he needs anything."
"Yes," Dahlia agreed, her eyes remaining set on the guarded profile of her sister. "But he also knows that every time he crosses this drive recently, you find an excuse to inspect the rafters or retreat to the cider barn."
Teddy closed her hand around the wooden grips of the crate, her chin lifting in defense as her gaze locked with her sister's level eyes. "I’m too busy to stop and chat. I've got tasks to complete before November. The harvest isn’t finished, and the inventory isn't complete."
"November is still a couple of weeks away," Dahlia reminded her softly, her features easing with genuine concern. "And you're already acting as if you've already left."
When Teddy didn’t respond, Dahlia sighed and moved toward the cash register, leaving Teddy alone.
She turned her head toward the sunlit lawn once more, watching as Kent finished his examination, offered the pet owner a polite farewell, and moved back to his charts without looking in her direction.
The realization hurt: she'd engineered a fortress so secure that no one could reach her, and in this moment she remained trapped inside the very isolation she'd demanded.
She was a fool, but how do you fix something you broke? Maybe it was already too late.
Teddy folded her navy wool sweater into a precise, compact rectangle before placing it inside her canvas duffel bag.
She laid her spare denim trousers over the sweater, smoothing the heavy cotton until the seams aligned with mathematical exactness.
A methodical rhythm governed her movements, offering a temporary shield against the turbulent thoughts disrupting her sleep since her last conversation with the handsome veterinarian.
The harvest peak had passed. The heavy weekend crowds had thinned, leaving only local patrons and some afternoon visitors.
She reasoned that her presence on the farm was no longer essential.
The farm stand operated smoothly, the cider press schedules were organized, and the ledgers were current.
Remaining through to the end of November appeared unnecessary when her professional obligations in Maine required her attention.
She zipped the duffel bag, the metallic teeth closing with a sharp, final click. She carried the bag down the narrow staircase, where the scent of baked apples and cinnamon lingered in the air.
The farmhouse kitchen was warm, filled with the copper light of the late-day sunlight streaming through the high windows.
Her three sisters sat at the heavy oak table where the family matriarch had once managed farm accounts and written daily chore lists.
A teapot rested on a trivet between them, steam rising in coils into the cool air.
Dahlia sat in the spot her mother used to, her leather binder open beside a cup of black tea. Junie rested her chin in her hand, gazing into her mug, while Prue sat beside the window casing, her fingers tracing along the rim of a clay bowl.
Teddy set her canvas duffel bag across the pine flooring near the pantry door. The thud of the heavy canvas echoed against the wainscoting, drawing three pairs of eyes toward her.
Dahlia raised her eyes from her binder, her dark gaze anchoring on the bag before rising to meet Teddy’s face. She didn't utter a dramatic gasp or an angry exclamation. Her expression remained calm, yet her posture locked into an unbending stance that demanded immediate attention.
"You've packed your bags," Dahlia stated. "The festival weekend just ended, and you're already leaving."