Chapter 6 #3
He nods.
Then he glances at me.
There is no friendliness there, but also no challenge.
Just assessment.
“Congratulations,” he tells Nora.
“On the request. Not yet on the job.”
“Correct.”
He walks toward the production office.
Nora watches him go.
“That was weird.”
“Which part?”
“The part where he said something emotionally competent.”
“People contain multitudes.”
“Do not quote literature at me before doughnuts.”
“I don’t think that counts as literature anymore.”
She looks at me.
“You wanted to hate him.”
I consider lying.
There would be no point.
“Yes.”
“Still do?”
“I don’t know him.”
“Responsible answer.”
“It annoys me too.”
She studies me for another second.
“Thank you for not turning that into a duel.”
“I left my pallet jack at home.”
That gets the smile back.
At the farmstand, Mae is arranging jars of apple butter beneath a chalkboard that now reads THE MAPLE ACCEPTS CASH, CONFESSIONS, AND MOST MAJOR REGRETS.
Nora stops.
“Aunt Mae.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then don’t use my full title.”
“You don’t have a title.”
Mae sees me and points toward the coffee urn.
“Eight dollars.”
“For coffee?”
“For hers.”
Nora puts both hands on the counter.
“My coffee is two fifty.”
“Romance surcharge.”
“That is illegal.”
“Call the attorney general.”
I take out my wallet.
Nora grabs my wrist.
“Do not encourage her.”
Mae looks at our hands.
Nora releases me.
Mae smiles.
“Tree’s fast this year.”
“The tree did not get me a proposal request.”
“No one said it did.”
“Your face said it.”
“My face is nearly seventy. Stop assigning it legal positions.”
I put five dollars on the counter.
“Two coffees.”
Mae gives me a disappointed look.
“You’re getting harder to rob.”
“I’m learning local customs.”
Nora takes two paper cups while I buy the doughnuts from Tessa at the actual listed price.
We carry everything to a picnic table near the edge of the lawn.
The Monday orchard moves around us at half weekend speed.
A staff member stacks baskets.
Someone tests a string of lanterns under the market eaves even though daylight makes them look pointless.
Wind passes through the maples and scatters three dry leaves over the grass.
Nora opens her laptop.
“You are not helping with the proposal.”
“I know.”
“You can sit there.”
“Generous.”
“You can also tell me if I accidentally propose holding a leadership retreat inside a volcano.”
“I think Vermont zoning will protect you.”
“Good.”
She opens Definitely Not a Business Plan.
I try not to look.
I fail.
The document has a logo.
“Nora.”
“What?”
“You have a logo.”
She slams the laptop half closed.
“It is a placeholder.”
“It has typography.”
“Shut up.”
“What is the studio called?”
“No.”
“You showed me the folder.”
“Accidentally.”
“What is it called?”
She narrows her eyes.
Then she rotates the laptop.
At the top of the page, in clean dark lettering, are the words BELL & WEATHER EVENTS.
I read it twice.
“Bell and Weather.”
“Too cute?”
“No.”
“Too local?”
“No.”
“Too wedding planner?”
“No.”
“You’re being suspiciously supportive.”
“You asked what I think.”
“I did not.”
“You showed me.”
“That is not consent to opinions.”
“Then I retract all of them.”
She laughs and opens the laptop fully again.
“Bellweather is one word, obviously. Bell and Weather makes it mine without pretending the orchard and I are the same business.”
“It’s good.”
She looks at me.
This time she lets the compliment stay.
“Thanks.”
We sit there for twenty minutes.
I answer three emails.
She starts building a proposal.
Neither of us talks much.
It should feel mundane.
Instead it feels intimate in a way the town-green kiss did not.
Nora occasionally mutters numbers under her breath.
I pretend not to notice when she deletes and retypes her project-management fee three times.
At nine twenty, she closes the laptop.
“I have to work.”
“So do I.”
“Look at us, destroying romance through employment.”
“I’ll recover.”
She stands.
I stand too.
There are people in sight now.
Staff.
Two customers at the farmstand.
Priya crossing from the production office.
Public enough that a gesture between us could count as performance.
Private enough that I want one anyway.
“Nora.”
“Hm?”
“Can I kiss you?”
She looks around deliberately.
“Because we’re being watched?”
“No.”
Her eyes come back to mine.
“Good answer.”
She steps closer.
“Yes.”
I kiss her once.
Not the kind from last night.
No hands under coats. No loss of higher reasoning.
Just her mouth warm against mine, cinnamon sugar still at the corner of it, one hand resting lightly on my chest.
It lasts three seconds.
Maybe four.
It changes the entire morning.
When she steps back, her eyes are bright.
“Eleven o’clock,” she says.
“Walkthrough.”
“Try not to buy anything.”
“No promises.”
“Grant.”
“Fine. No contextually relevant buildings.”
She points at me and walks away.
I watch her go toward the market office, stopping halfway to answer her radio and redirect a delivery truck before it can reach the wrong entrance.
My phone buzzes.
A text this time.
Unknown number.
I know who it is before I open it.
There are very few people whose numbers I have deleted but can still recognize by the first three digits.
Celeste.
Hope Vermont’s treating you well. I’m nearby Thursday. Maybe we can finally talk like adults.
A second message appears before I decide whether to answer.
Would be nice to meet Nora too.
Every good thing about the morning goes cold at once.
Across the lawn, Nora turns toward me as if she can feel the shift from fifty yards away.
She lifts one eyebrow.
Question.
Choice.
I look at Celeste’s message again.
For years, my instinct has been to close doors before anyone else reaches them.
Control the access.
Control the version.
Control the damage.
Nora told me not to borrow Thursday’s problem.
So I do something much harder than solving it.
I put the phone in my pocket.
Then I walk toward her and tell her exactly what happened.