Epilogue
Willa
"We're going to be late."
"We're not."
I glance at my watch. "We're absolutely going to be late."
Brooks keeps one hand on the steering wheel and the other drumming absently against the gearshift as his truck bounces over the gravel drive toward Cartley Coffee.
Outside the windshield, Orchard Falls glows beneath thousands of tiny white lights strung between apple trees and storefronts.
Our first ever Barnstormer's Ball is just about to begin in the festival area we built just beyond the hill.
Big-band music drifts across the evening air every time Brooks rolls through another open stretch of road.
On the road ahead of us, the Rolls Royce from the transportation museum takes a couple for a little ride around the property.
"I can't believe Dad texted you five minutes before we're supposed to leave," I mutter, smoothing the skirt of my swing dress for what has to be the twentieth time. "What kind of emergency could the coffee roaster possibly have that can’t wait until tomorrow?"
"He just said it wasn't heating. If it doesn’t roast the beans, we’ll have nothing to sell tomorrow.”
"Which is impossible because you literally serviced it yesterday."
"I know."
"So why are we driving over there?"
He glances sideways, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Because your father texted."
I sigh dramatically. "I knew making him manager of Cartley Coffee was a mistake,” I tease.
Brooks chuckles because we both know it wasn’t a mistake. My dad was made to run a coffee shop. He hated working in the orchard, but damn, that man was meant to be out talking with customers over the latest roast.
"I think he mostly enjoys reminding me I’m still technically his landlord. Forcing me to get out there at all hours.”
"He's impossible,” I groan.
"So I've noticed."
I steal a look at Brooks. Even after a year and a half, and living together for six months, the sight of my boyfriend dressed up in a tux manages to knock the breath from my lungs. Hell, the sight of him knocks the air from my lungs even when he’s in nothing but a flannel and jeans.
But tonight? Wow. His tuxedo fits like it was tailored specifically for him, crisp black lapels framing broad shoulders that somehow seem even broader than they did when he spent his days in flannel and work boots.
He'd traded his usual baseball cap for neatly combed hair that refuses to stay entirely tamed, one stubborn lock already falling across his forehead.
The bow tie I'd tied for him twenty minutes ago sits ever so slightly crooked.
It shouldn't be attractive, but it really, really is.
He catches me staring. "What?"
I smile innocently. "Nothing."
"Willa,” he teases.
"You clean up surprisingly well, Calder.”
He laughs softly. "Surprisingly?"
"I've mostly seen you covered in cider pulp.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “I was hoping you'd forgotten about that."
"Oh, I'll never forget the day you accidentally exploded a fermentation tank."
His eyebrows lift and he lets out an offended scoff, one hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. "I'd hardly call that an explosion."
I twist in my seat just enough to look at him, lifting an eyebrow. "The ceiling disagrees."
"We cleaned it."
"It smelled like apples in your tasting room for three weeks."
He glances over at me, amusement dancing in those impossible blue eyes. "It always smells like apples."
"It smelled extra appley and you know it."
He laughs, the sound low and warm enough to make me smile wider. Then he reaches across the console and catches my hand, his thumb brushing lazily across my knuckles. Our hands fit together so naturally now that I barely remember when they didn't.
He squeezes my hand before lifting it to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles without ever taking his eyes off the road. "I love you."
The words settle over me as easily as breathing now, no less powerful simply because I've heard them a thousand times.
I pretend to think about it, tapping my finger lightly against my chin. "Hmm."
His eyes flick toward me for half a second. "Hmm?"
"I was just weighing the pros and cons."
"Oh, really?”
"On the one hand..." I gesture vaguely toward him. "You're handsome."
"A promising start."
"On the other hand... you occasionally redecorate buildings with hard cider."
He laughs. "I've only done that once."
"So far."
He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. "I was hoping you'd say it back."
"I was making you sweat."
His brow arches. "You've gotten remarkably comfortable doing that."
"It's one of my favorite hobbies." I lean across the center console just enough to kiss his cheek. "I love you, too."
He laughs again just as the familiar silhouette of Cartley Coffee comes into view.
Even after several months of being open, the sight of it steals a little of the air from my lungs.
The cedar siding has weathered into a warm honey color beneath the Orchard Fall’s sun, and the wide front porch glows beneath strings of café lights that crisscross overhead like tiny stars waiting for dusk.
Beyond the shop, the festival lawn stretches between Hartley & Sons and Calder Cider, the pavilion standing proudly at its center.
There was a time when this patch of land had been nothing more than a strip of grass separating two rival orchards.
Now it was where people hosted events. Weddings. Where they danced. Where they toasted anniversaries and celebrated babies and held Christmas markets beneath blankets of twinkling lights.
Sometimes I still catch myself walking through the doors just to remind myself that we actually built it.
That this impossible little dream between two orchards somehow exists because two stubborn people finally stopped trying to win against each other and started building together.
Except...
Tonight something feels wrong.
I frown, leaning forward in my seat. "The lights are on..."
Brooks follows my gaze, his smile fading almost imperceptibly. “Your dad must have left them on for us,” he says.
Closed like it is, the café looks less like the heart of Orchard Falls and more like an abandoned photograph.
Brooks cuts the engine and reaches for the keys. "I'm sure everything's fine," he says, though he sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as me.
I smooth an imaginary wrinkle from my dress before climbing out of the truck.
My heels click softly across the gravel as we hurry toward the porch together, the cool spring air lifting the hem of my swing dress.
Brooks fishes the shop keys from his pocket while I peek through the front window, pressing my hands against the glass.
He unlocks the door and holds it open for me.
The familiar scent of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and fresh wood wraps around me the second I step inside. Normally it feels like a hug.
Tonight it feels like a question. The café is cloaked in still, bright light. The pastry case is full. The chairs are tucked neatly beneath every table. Not a single coffee cup sits abandoned. Not a single crumb out of place. And yet, something feels… off.
"Hello?" I call, my voice carrying farther than it ever should inside these walls.
He closes the door behind us with a quiet click as I look up at the warm pendant lights overhead, bathing the café in soft amber light.
Everything looks...
Perfect.
The espresso machine gleams. Fresh flowers sit in their little mason jar beside the register. The coffee roaster stands exactly where Brooks left it yesterday, polished until it reflects the lights overhead.
I turn toward him, confusion knitting my brows together. "What exactly did Dad say—"
The words die in my throat.
Brooks isn't standing beside me anymore.
He's several feet away, in the middle of the café, one knee resting on the worn pine floor we'd picked out together last spring. The same floor we'd argued over for nearly an hour because I wanted something warmer and he'd insisted the reclaimed boards would wear better over time.
Of course he was right.
He looks impossibly handsome in his tuxedo, two hands clutching a small velvet box that somehow manages to make my entire world tilt on its axis.
I don't move.
I don't think I remember how.
He smiles, and even from across the room I can see the tiny crease that appears beside his left eye whenever he's trying very hard not to be nervous.
“I lied to you about the roaster being broken… but I had a good reason.”
His voice is steady, but I know him well enough to hear the emotion tucked carefully beneath every word.
"I built Calder Cider because I wanted to make something my parents would've been proud of. And even though I know I succeeded, there was still something missing I couldn’t quite put my finger on. "
His eyes drift briefly around the café.
"Then I met you and we built this. Not just a café, but a life together."
I follow his gaze to the warm cedar walls, the coffee bar, the windows overlooking the stretch of land that no longer belonged to one orchard or the other, but somehow to both.
"Our first real argument was over whether the front porch should wrap around the side,” he says.
"And I was right that it should," I whisper automatically.
"You were right.” A smile tugs at his mouth.
I shrug one shoulder casually. “I usually am.”
His brow arches, challenging my statement. “Except about these reclaimed wood floors.”
“Except for those,” I laugh.
He takes my hand in his. “This place, this land, is so much more than just an orchard. It's rainstorms beneath a canopy of apples. Quiet coffees while a fire crackles. Crisp cider in sweating pint glasses. And little thieving raccoon families."
I laugh through the tears. "So many raccoons now." Two of Scrumpy's babies have had their own babies.
His voice grows quieter. "The truth is... none of this ever felt like home until you were standing beside me."
He opens the velvet box. The diamond catches the café lights, throwing tiny stars across the walls.
"Willa Hartley…” His thumb brushes over the edge of the ring, and for the first time since I've known him, Brooks Calder looks completely, wonderfully uncertain.
"I don't want to build another dream without you standing in the middle of it. " He swallows. "Will you marry me?"
I don't think.
I don't weigh the pros and cons.
I don't worry about rival orchards or family names or what comes next.
I just see him: the little boy who stole my heart long before either of us knew what that meant. The man who taught me that legacy isn't something you protect by standing still. It's something you grow.
I fall onto my knees in front of him and cradle his jaw. “Yes,” I sob. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
His eyes close for the briefest second, relief washing across his face so completely that it steals my breath. "I was terrified," he admits.
"You should've known my answer.” I smile, tears slipping freely down my cheeks. "I've been choosing you for a long time now."
He slides the ring onto my finger. Then he stands, helping me to my feet and cups my face, kissing me with all the certainty we'd spent a year and a half building together.
Behind us, someone sniffles. Then another. Then Jace's unmistakable whisper cuts through the silence. "I told you she'd say yes."
“No one thought she wouldn’t, you idiot,” June’s voice mutters.
Before I can turn toward the whispers and sniffles, the lights over the coffee bar snap on one by one.
"Surprise!" Dad. Patty. Grandpa already wiping at his eyes. June. Lena. Marcy. Evan. And Jace, grinning so hard he looks like his face might split in half. All dressed up for the Barnstormer’s ball, ready to party… and apparently celebrate us, too.
The café erupts into cheers. Brooks just rests his forehead against mine and laughs. "I guess they couldn't stay quiet forever."
“I can’t believe they lasted that long!” I say, truthfully.
Eventually, the cheering settles into laughter. Someone opens a bottle of cider.
Someone else insists on taking pictures before my mascara completely waves the white flag and gives up.
Grandpa claims he isn't crying anymore despite the handkerchief still clenched in his fist, while Patty hugs me for what has to be the fifth time and Dad quietly shakes Brooks's hand before pulling him into one of those rare, fierce embraces that says everything words never quite can.
Through the café window, I catch a flash of familiar gray fur.
Scrumpy sits on the porch with all three of her now-grown babies crowded around her, their noses pressed curiously against the glass as though they'd been invited to the celebration all along.
“Look who joined,” I nudge Brooks and point to the window. “I think she approves.”
Her nose twitches and her little paw presses against the window.
"Good,” Brooks says as he kisses the top of my head. "I'd hate to disappoint the neighborhood."
“Either that or she’s waiting for our day olds.” I chuckle.
“Probably both.”
For another moment she simply watches us. Then, apparently deciding everything is exactly as it should be, she disappears back into the orchard.
I smile.
Some endings don't really feel like endings. They feel like the place everything was always trying to grow toward.
Outside, the big band starts another song. The Barnstormer's Ball is waiting.
…So is the rest of our life.
Thank you for reading Fall is Brewing!