14. Junie
JUNIE
The cold air of the pre-dawn kitchen was quiet.
Junie stood before the heavy flour bins, her hands covered in white dust as she rolled out another sheet of pastry dough.
A single overhead lamp cast a bright circle of light over the scarred oak table, leaving the corners of the room in deep shadow.
Outside, the autumn wind rustled through the dark orchard, a sound that had kept her company since she had risen at four.
She had spent the last two hours in a blur of motion.
She had baked six dozen apple hand pies, prepared four trays of cinnamon buns, and was now starting on the tart shells for the afternoon rush.
Her arms ached from the repetitive rolling, and her knuckles were stiff from the cold air, but she welcomed the physical discomfort.
It was a useful pain, a distraction that allowed her to block out the hollow ache that had settled in her chest since Micah had departed from the farmhouse office.
Whenever she paused, the memory of his final words returned to haunt her.
She could still hear the serious rumble of his voice, still feel the devastating weight of the choice he had made.
She had mixed feelings. He had filed the discrepancy report that placed Seventeen Hollow Road in legal jeopardy, and even though he had appended a temporary agreement to protect the farm, the trust they had built was broken.
She didn’t know if that was something that could be fixed, even though she knew he believed he was doing it to protect her in a legal way.
So she had taken the safe route and returned to her oldest defense.
She had drowned herself in endless work, believing that if she labored hard enough, she could keep the rising storm at bay.
She didn't need a partner, and she didn't need anyone to share her burdens.
She would secure the farm through her own sweat, just as she had helped her mother manage it for two decades.
A soft sound at the doorway made her flinch. Dahlia stood at the threshold, wearing a thick wool cardigan over her flannel shirt, her expression creased with concern.
"You're baking enough to supply the entire county," her sister noted, keeping her tone soft as she moved closer to the table. "The stand doesn't open for another couple of hours. You should be resting."
"The weekend crowds are growing," Junie replied, keeping her gaze fixed on the round cutter as she pressed it into the dough. "The hand pies sold out by noon yesterday, and we need to double the inventory if we're going to cover the weekly expenses. I've got everything under control."
"I know this is your season, and that you were the one who stayed when we all left, but you don't have to carry the entire harvest on your own," Dahlia insisted, her fingers resting flat against the edge of the wooden table.
"You helped me when it was my season. Let us help you too.
Others are already packing the cider crates, and the deliveries are being coordinated.
Let me handle the ovens today so you can take a break. "
"I don't need a break," Junie insisted, her voice carrying a sharp edge that made her sister pause. She lifted a tray of unbaked tarts, her grip tightening against the cold metal rim. "The farm stand's reputation is built on consistency. I’ve always done the baking. If something goes wrong and we slip now, we’ll lose the seasonal support and probably the vendors too. I’ll manage the baking. "
Dahlia looked at her for a silent moment, her jaw tightening slightly with a familiar concern, but she didn't argue. She knew Junie well enough to know that her sister could be unyielding when she was determined, and she didn’t like to show any vulnerability.
With a sigh, Dahlia turned and left the kitchen, the soft click of the door closing behind her.
Junie let out a slow breath, rolling her aching shoulders before she transferred the tray to the hot oven.
The heat flared against her skin, but it did nothing to melt the coldness that remained inside her chest. She grabbed a fresh bowl of peeled Honeycrisps and began slicing them with precise movements, her paring knife clicking against the wooden board in a relentless rhythm.
An hour later, Carrie entered the room, carrying a stack of empty delivery ledgers. She stopped near the counter, noting the towering piles of baked goods cooling on the wire racks.
"The shipping invoices are complete," her daughter announced, sounding slightly hesitant before she continued. "But the packaging supplier called about the crate order. He said there's a discrepancy with the shipment that arrived yesterday."
Junie paused, her knife hovering over an apple. "The shipment is already in the barn. I verified the delivery myself."
"He said we duplicate-ordered," Carrie explained, her eyes reflecting an earnest worry. "The system shows two identical orders were processed under our account. We've twice the cardboard we need, and the invoice has already been charged to our credit line."
A sudden wave of dizziness washed over Junie, making the bright kitchen light flicker for a brief second.
She rested her hand flat against the flour-dusted counter to steady herself, her fingers curling tight against the wood.
It was a costly mistake, an error that would wipe out their weekly margin just as they were trying to stabilize their accounts.
She had been so exhausted, her mind so clouded by the breakup, if such a short relationship could even be called a relationship, that she had approved the digital invoices without verifying the totals.
"I’ll resolve it," Junie insisted, her voice tight as she forced herself to stand straight. "I’ll call the distributor and arrange a return and a credit to the account. It is a minor detail."
"It isn't a minor detail," Carrie countered, her chin rising as she met her mother's defensive gaze.
"You're working yourself to the point of collapse.
You haven't slept since Micah left, you won’t talk about it with anyone, and now you're making mistakes we can't afford. You need to let us help you."
"I've managed this farm for twenty-four years," Junie countered, her pride rising to shield her from the painful truth of her daughter's worries.
"I did what was necessary when there was nobody else to help your grandmother, and I’m capable of managing it now.
The deliveries are secure, the farm stand is fully stocked, and I will handle the supplier. Go help with the cider crates."
Carrie looked as if she wanted to say more, her eyes shining with deep concern, but she bit her lip and turned away.
Junie was left alone in the kitchen, the rapid tick of the wall clock sounding like a countdown.
She looked at her flour-covered hands, her heart hammering against her ribs with a suffocating panic.
She had to be the anchor. She grabbed her woolen shawl, ready to face the crowded market, pretending that everything was perfect when inside she felt like she might break.
The afternoon sun warmed the farm stand that smelled of caramelized sugar, warm dough, and sweet cider.
Outside, the parking lot was packed with cars, the constant slam of car doors and the excited chatter of fall tourists creating a relentless buzz around the farm as visitors selected pumpkins, fed the goats, or visited the farm stand.
There was a line of customers holding baskets of Honeycrisps and bottles of maple syrup or cider.
Junie stood behind the heavy wooden counter at the cash register, her fingers tapping the keys in a mechanical rhythm she had practiced for two decades.
Her head was pounding, a dull ache throbbing behind her eyes from days of sleepless nights.
She hadn't slept since her confrontation with Micah, and the exhausting labor she had forced upon herself since that day had left her body feeling completely hollow.
Every register beep and every customer question sounded distant, as if she were listening to them from beneath a deep pool of water.
She felt the heavy linen of her work apron sticking to her damp collar, but she refused to leave her post or ask her family to relieve her at the counter.
"That will be twenty-three dollars," she said, keeping her tone pleasant though her throat felt dry. She took the crisp bills from an elderly customer, her hand trembling slightly as she slid them into the register drawer and counted out the change.
"You look incredibly pale," the customer noted, resting her hand briefly on the wooden counter with a look of neighborly concern. "The heat is dreadful today. Unseasonably warm for fall. You should have one of the other girls take over for a bit."
"I’m completely fine," Junie replied, keeping her voice steady through sheer force of will. "The harvest rush is always busy, but we have everything under control."
She forced a soft smile, though the effort made the tightness in her chest expand.
As the customer departed, Junie reached for a heavy crate of McIntosh apples to restock the display bin behind her.
The rough wood scraped against her palms, but she welcomed the sharp bite of pain.
It was a physical anchor, a way to keep her mind from drifting back to the office, back to the draft report that had shattered her fragile hope of a new partnership.
She didn't want to think about Micah's unyielding gaze, or the recommendation he had appended to the county filing.
She didn't want to admit that even in her anger, she deeply missed his solid, calm presence.
She only wanted to work until her body refused to carry the weight.