Chapter 18
The windows of the Calloway farmhouse cast a warm glow in the early-evening light, and lanterns flickered along the path toward the wraparound porch.
The scent of applewood smoke tinged the air, and crickets sang their ode to dusk from the grasses and shrubs.
“I love September,” Rebecca said happily as she walked alongside Cort toward the house.
He glanced at her, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“You always have,” he said. “Even back in high school, you used to tell me there was something about September.”
She felt surprised warmth. “I told you that?”
“You told me once it was the season where everyone started paying attention.”
Her steps slowed a little. As she looked sideways at him, she felt that familiar uncertainty settling in. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
Now he looked down at her and his smile deepened. “And I agreed with you,” he said. “I always tell everyone my favorite month is July, but secretly, I think it’s really September.”
They had arrived at the farmhouse door, which Marion Calloway opened before they could knock.
She had been passing by the diner early, just as Rebecca and Cort were pulling up after returning from their afternoon of antiquing, checking to see if Rebecca still planned to come to dinner that evening.
When she saw Cort, she invited him, too—and when he said yes, Rebecca had been happy to know their pleasant day wasn’t about to come to an end.
“Perfect timing,” Marion said, drawing first Rebecca, then Cort, into a warm hug. “So good to see you both. Cort, we got so used to having you around when you were doing our attic bedroom renovation project, we’ve missed you!”
The house was filled with the sounds and scents of family dinner: James’s laughter from the kitchen, then Sabrina’s. The savory smells of onions and herbs simmering on the stove, the smoky scent of brisket.
“Smells amazing in here,” Cort said.
“Come on into the kitchen, Cort,” James called out. “I’m just carving the brisket, and it tastes better when pilfered from the platter.”
Cort laughed and went ahead, while Rebecca stood in place, still taking it all in. Then Marion was behind her, saying softly, “You’re exactly like your mother.”
She turned, surprised. “In what way?”
“Evie always did that, too. She never entered a room too quickly, especially at parties. But it wasn’t shyness that held her back. It was like she just wanted to take it all in first, memorize how it looked and felt before she stepped into it.”
“That’s exactly what I was feeling,” Rebecca said with a smile. “I don’t think I could have put it into words like that.” She paused. “I know you and my mom were close, even though you were a grade ahead.”
A smile. “We were. She was always more mature than everyone else.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to say something more, but then realized there was no way to ask, How close was she with your husband?
Who would say something like that? It would be the perfect way to ruin everything.
This place, these people, they were so important to her.
What if there was a buried secret that could ruin all that? She couldn’t risk it.
Marion was still watching her closely. “Are you all right, dear?”
Rebecca forced her smile to return, but now it was only on the surface. “I’m great,” she said. “I missed nights like this, so much.”
“It’s always like you never left, though. Always,” Marion said, squeezing her arm. “Now, come on through. I’ve got some baked Brie with apples for us to enjoy before the main event.”
Then Sabrina was calling out, “Rebecca? Is that you? About time you showed up. Dad’s been hovering over that smoker all day like it might run off on him. I just kept making more appetizers and sides. Things have gotten a little out of control. You and Cort need to get in here and start eating.”
It was true. The kitchen island was laden with food—not just the aforementioned baked Brie, but a colorful platter of crudités with an herbed yogurt dip, apple cheddar bundles, roasted and spiced pumpkin seeds, and a skillet of creamy beer cheese.
“This looks like dinner already,” Rebecca said with a laugh. James turned, raising his carving knife in greeting.
“James, put that down!” Marion said, laughing. “A carving knife is not a way to welcome guests; it’s not Halloween yet!”
James chuckled and set the knife on a sideboard, his face lighting up. “Becky! I’m thrilled you’re here. It’s so good to see you. Cort has been telling me what a taskmaster you are.”
Cort laughed. “I have not,” he said. “I was telling him I was the one who suggested you spend an entire day rooting through piles of reclaimed lumber.”
“Which was so much more fun than it sounds,” Rebecca said, popping an apple cheddar bundle into her mouth. “Kingman’s is amazing. I don’t even need anything else, and I want to go back.”
“How’s the renovation coming along, Cort?” James asked.
“Really well, Mr. Calloway. It’s all very simple. Despite what certain townspeople would have you believe.”
“I keep telling him to call me James,” James said to Rebecca with a wink. “Makes me feel ancient when the kids I used to coach still call me mister.”
“You coached Cort?” Rebecca asked, surprised.
“Little League, summer of ’08,” James confirmed. “Cort had the best batting average on the team. Could have played baseball if football hadn’t stolen him away.”
“Different lifetime,” Cort said with a smile.
“Can I get you two something to drink?” Marion asked, already moving to the bar fridge.
“Actually, Cort, I have something special for you to try. I used some of those jalapenos you gave me from your garden to brew a new jalapeno-apple hard cider!” James paused. “If it takes off, I’ll call it Calloway’s Jal-apple-no.”
“Possible emphasis on the no,” Sabrina said with a good-natured warning smile. “It’s very spicy. And the name could use some work.”
“I can handle it, James,” Cort said, while James beamed. “Happy to do such important work for the community.”
“Good man, good man. Rebecca, would you like to try one, too?”
“Do you have anything maybe…not as spicy?” Rebecca ventured.
“Red wine for Rebecca!” Sabrina called out.
At dinner, Rebecca found herself seated between Cort and Sabrina, with Marion at the head of the table and James at the foot.
The dinner table was even more laden with food than the appetizer table had been.
There was the promised brisket with various sauces—honey mustard, homemade barbecue, a rich gravy—and Sabrina’s crispy roasted potatoes, herb-doused roasted vegetables, corn bread still warm from the oven, and a colorful salad featuring sliced apples, walnuts, and cranberries.
“Before we eat,” James said, raising his glass of apple wine, “a toast. To good friends, family both old and new, and to autumn’s harvest. May we always appreciate its bounty.”
“To autumn’s harvest,” everyone echoed, glasses clinking around the table. Cort touched her glass gently with his own and caught her eye, and as she smiled back at him, she felt the light sense of joy she had experienced on the way to the Calloways’ begin to return.
—
The table was littered with empty plates and balled-up napkins when James rose and said he had a surprise.
He soon returned, balancing a stack of leatherbound photo albums. “Turning our attic into a bedroom meant we had to relocate a lot of boxes. Marion and I were going through them together but thought you young people might also enjoy them. Half of these photos are of you lot, and there are so many good memories in here.”
Rebecca opened the album she had been handed to find photographs from Bramley Hollow’s Autumn Festivals over the years.
Apple bobbing, pie judging, hayrides, and harvest dances.
She smiled at a snapshot of herself and Sabrina as teenagers, proudly displaying the blue ribbons pinned to their sweaters.
“Junior baking competition,” Sabrina supplied. “We used Lenore’s caramel apple tart recipe, remember?”
“ ‘We’ is generous,” Rebecca said. “You were the natural, and I was just along for the ride.”
Rebecca turned another page, and Sabrina squealed.
“The Apple Blossom Choir! I remember this year. We sang ‘Helplessness Blues’ by the Fleet Foxes. That was your idea, wasn’t it, Rebecca?
And it was perfect. I can still remember all the words.
” And she sang a few bars in her pretty voice.
At the final, poignant bars of the song, Rebecca felt Cort’s eyes on hers.
She smiled back at him, then found herself unable to look away for a long moment.
Beside her, Sabrina cleared her throat softly, and Rebecca turned another page—and froze.
It was an image of her in the green satin dress she had worn to the spring dance, senior year.
She stared at the photo of herself standing by the Calloways’ staircase, dark hair swept into loose curls, hope bright in her eyes. Hope she now knew had been misplaced.
She snapped the album closed, but not before Cort caught a glimpse. “Hey,” he said, a small frown on his face, his voice low. “I don’t remember you being at that dance.”
“I didn’t stay long,” Rebecca said, her voice tight. “Wasn’t feeling well.”
Sabrina glanced up, meeting Rebecca’s gaze across the table. There was a quick, silent exchange of understanding. “Yeah. Stomach flu. She missed the whole thing. Not even sure how we got her out the door.”
Cort nodded, though he didn’t seem entirely convinced.
Meanwhile, Rebecca’s face was getting hot, and this time she knew she couldn’t fight it.
When Marion suggested putting a pie in the oven to warm, Rebecca insisted on doing it and rushed into the kitchen.
But the kitchen was too warm for her now-flaming cheeks, and her racing heart made her feel almost panicked.
She put the pie in the oven, then turned and walked toward the side porch door. She opened it and stepped outside.
The early-evening air held the particular briskness of autumn at night: cool but not cold, as fresh and bracing as the first bite of a Honeycrisp apple.
The air smelled of fallen leaves, distant woodsmoke.
The scent of ripening apples was in the air, too.
The sun was almost completely set now, painting the sky in watercolor streaks of pink, gold, and lavender.
Rebecca stood, taking in the valley at dusk, breathing in deep, trying to calm herself down.
Behind her, the screen door swung open. She turned. It was Cort, his eyes full of concern—and something else. “Becca, can we talk?”