20. Tess
Tess
“ Y our place is…a pumpkin patch?”
I twist in my seat to face Jacinthe when she cuts the engine of the truck. We’re in a roped-off field being used as a parking lot for a place labeled Verger Tremblay on the hand-painted sign out by the road.
Dusk is already setting in, painting the sky with streaks of purple. There are only a handful of other cars in the lot. We’re somewhere between La Cloche and Saint-Jovite, but I lost track of our location once we turned off the main highway.
“ Ben ouais , it is,” Jacinthe says as she unclips her seatbelt. “It is also an apple farm, but it’s too late in the season for that.”
I try not to smile as I refrain from telling her the correct term is ‘apple orchard.’
“Are we…picking pumpkins?” I ask.
She shakes her head and looks at me like I’m crazy.
“ Non . We are getting a drink.”
She hops out of the truck, and I follow after her, hoping this will all start making sense soon. We walk along a well-trodden path through the field and a thin line of trees before my curiosity is satisfied.
A scene straight out of a Hallmark movie is waiting for us.
Strings of patio lights are stretched over a clearing with weathered old barrels and rustic stools set out as tables.
There’s a log cabin with smoke curling out of the chimney and a sign that simply reads BAR posted over one of the windows, where a plank of wood has been tacked onto the side of the house like a makeshift rail for ordering.
A huge antique tractor coated in flaking red paint is set up as an autumnal display, with big baskets of pink and orange mums resting on its hood, along with a slightly creepy scarecrow perched in the seat.
A tinny-sounding French song is playing out of a speaker hooked under the edge of the cabin’s roof.
There are only a couple occupied tables, where the patrons are drinking what look like pints of cider.
“What is this place?”
My voice is hushed, like the whole spectacle in front of me might flutter away on fairy wings if I talk too loud.
“It’s Le Verger Tremblay,” Jacinthe answers.
Despite trying to stay quiet, I still snort.
“I know that,” I tell her. “It was on the sign, but like, what is it? A pumpkin patch and a bar?”
She nods. “ Exactement . Now you’re getting it. The Tremblays run it every fall. Well, the West Tremblays. The East Tremblays don’t have anything to do with it anymore.”
I chuckle when she doesn’t get into any more detail than that. It’s a La Cloche-ism I’ve noticed more and more the longer I’ve been here: if you’re a resident, everyone in town assumes you already know everybody else’s business.
It’s been flattering, albeit extremely confusing, to realize I’m being taken into the small town fold like that.
“So why here?” I ask. “I mean, it’s lovely, don’t get me wrong, but we’re kind of in the middle of nowhere.”
She lifts a finger and winks at me.
That shouldn’t be enough to make my stomach do a back flip, but it does.
“ Exactement ,” she repeats. “I knew it would be empty this time of day, and besides, no one from La Cloche would be stupid enough to buy pumpkins this close to Halloween. Only the shitty small ones will be left.”
“Ah. So this is about secrecy.”
I sound offended, but really, my mind is just racing with the realization that this is exactly the path I’ve chosen to walk down: hiding in covert locations and looking over our shoulders while we try to avoid everyone we know.
I haven’t told a soul about what happened on Saturday. My mom could tell something was up during one of our regular chats last night, but I couldn’t even give her a parent-proof version of my predicament.
I can’t even call it a predicament. It’s just a reckless, chaotic, wildly na?ve series of choices I keep making simply because my brain now turns into a scrambled, horny, and defenseless pile of mush whenever Jacinthe Gauthier-Laframboise looks my way.
“I did not mean to upset you,” Jacinthe says, her face turning stricken. “I just thought?—”
“No, no, I’m not upset,” I tell her. “This is great. You picked a good spot. I just, uh, think I could really use one of those ciders.”
I nod over at the nearest group of drinkers.
“Of course,” she says, still looking doubtful. “I will get them. You find us a table.”
I head straight for the barrel farthest from all of the occupied tables and settle myself on one of the stools. I can smell the smoke from the chimney in the air. My thoughts drift back to Thanksgiving night and the way Jacinthe’s dark eyes looked catching the flicker of the bonfire.
That must be when this all started, but the more tangled the threads between us become, the more I’m starting to wonder if maybe I was already long past the point of no return.
If I’d known what was coming for me from the start, maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe I could have put my walls up and blocked her out, but how was I supposed to know the woman covered in horse shit and running screaming after a donkey was going to end up being the best kisser I’ve ever met?
By the time Jacinthe marches over with our pints balanced in her hands, I’m still sifting through the past couple months, searching for the moment when I could have turned back.
She sets the drinks down on top of the barrel before hopping up into her stool. She’s short enough that it’s a bit of a leap, and her struggle to wiggle into the seat is so adorable it steals my breath for a second.
“These look great,” I tell her once I can speak. “Thanks.”
“It’s the Tremblay special,” she says, taking hold of her glass. “They make it themselves, from the apples here. It’s not on the menu because, you know, laws and stuff, but I know them well enough to score.”
She winks again, and I wonder if I’m going to have to ask her to stop doing that.
There’s no way to think straight when she’s winking at me, and we’re supposed to be here to talk things out like calm and rational adults.
I take a sip and immediately pull the glass away from my mouth to squint at the golden liquid.
“Damn!” I say. “That’s good. They really make this?”
Jacinthe gives me a satisfied smirk. “One of the best ciders in the province. You are lucky.”
The smirking is as dangerous as the winking. Despite being spectacular enough to warrant savoring, I begin gulping the cider down like it’s water, just to give myself something to do besides gawk at Jacinthe.
“We should talk,” I say, a little breathless when I finally slam the half-empty glass down.
Jacinthe gives the pint a wide-eyed look.
“We should,” she agrees.
I open and close my mouth a few times. The cider can’t be that powerful, but I already feel like I’m losing my motor skills.
Maybe that’s just because I haven’t let myself be this close to her since Saturday, at the barn.
Even when doing chores together, I’ve kept us several meters apart.
I couldn’t risk a repeat encounter with her knee until we’d had a chance to talk, but now the talking is feeling a lot less necessary than dragging her down to the pumpkin patch and giving her a taste of what she gave me.
I tighten my grip on my glass and order myself to calm the hell down, but before I get the chance, a trill of laughter steals my attention.
I look over my shoulder and see two women are coming up the path that must lead to the pumpkin picking area. Their arms are laden with a few small and squashed-looking pumpkins, and they keep giggling and bumping into each other’s shoulders like they’re on a first date.
My heart warms at the sight of queer love in the wild and then immediately freezes over when I realize I recognize them.
“ Esti de chriss de tabarnak ,” Jacinthe hisses, followed by a second string of curse words too quick for me to catch.
“I thought you said there’s no way anyone from La Cloche would be here?” I demand.
Jacinthe groans. “I said no one from La Cloche would be stupid enough to be here, but maybe my best friend is an idiot.”
We don’t move from our seats, and for a moment, I think we’re going to get lucky enough to escape Natalie and Brooke’s notice.
Natalie’s fluffy mane of brown hair is as voluminous as ever. She’s wearing the typical La Cloche lesbian uniform of boots, blue jeans, and a flannel sticking out under her jacket. Brooke is her usual sophisticated self in a pair of sleek black leggings and a pea coat.
“Stay very still,” Jacinthe mutters, her lips barely moving. “Ah, shit. They’re getting a drink.”
I scan the trees behind Jacinthe and try to determine if there’s a chance we could make a break for it.
Then comes a delighted squeal of greeting.
“Jacinthe!” Brooke calls out. “What are you doing here?”
Jacinthe’s face goes pale. I turn around and find Brooke striding towards us, arms still laden with the tiny pumpkins.
“Oh! Hi, Tess!” she adds. “Wow. Natalie said this place would be empty. We didn’t even know if it would be open this late. You’re the last people I would have expected to see.”
“Same to you, Brooke,” Jacinthe quips.
I can hear the strain in her voice, but Brooke doesn’t seem to notice.
“Mind if we join you?”
She takes a few steps closer before faltering, a doubtful look crossing her face.
“Or would you rather be alone?” Her gaze darts between the two of us. “You look, uh, cozy over there.”
Jacinthe slides right off her stool, dropping onto her feet and taking a step back from the barrel like even sitting at the same table as me would be scandal-worthy.
“No. Nope. Not cozy,” she barks. “Just having a drink.”
Brooke only slightly raises her eyebrows, but I still feel my face heating up.
“Sit,” Jacinthe orders. “You should join. I will help Natalie with the drinks. No way are they going to give Tremblay cider to an anglo like her.”
She marches off, arms swinging like she’s heading into battle. Brooke and I are left staring at each other.
“Uh, let me help you with those,” I say, gesturing at the pumpkins.