Chapter 8 Sierra
Sierra
“You’re late.” This is the first thing June Spencer says to me that evening, when I finally meet her.
After a long day setting up the smoothie bar, I was exhausted—and still reeling from my three run-ins with Mason—when Sophie and I arrived at the address June gave Soph this morning. The sign on the driveway said Twisted Tree Orchard and Cider Co.
June never mentioned that she owns an orchard and a cider company.
She told me that she owned a local farm, and a waterfront building at the town pier, and my only research into it centered around the pier building itself and Sunshine Fest.
Major oversight.
Pretty obvious now why June and the Grants don’t like each other: they’re direct competitors. Like, live-next-door-to-each-other-and-run-extremely-similar-businesses direct.
An obnoxiously flirtatious staffer who turned out to be June’s nephew and orchard manager, Lee, finally located June for us after much searching, and now Sophie and I are trying to keep up with the older woman’s strides as she leads us deeper into the property and around her cider tasting house—a different layout than the one owned by Mason’s family but a similar vibe, right down to the abundant use of wood and flora and the “craft farmhouse” feel.
“I invited you here,” June goes on crustily, “because you’re a female entrepreneur with wonderful potential, kind of like a younger me. I wouldn’t have if I knew you’d be late.”
Soph and I exchange a look. Is this me in forty years?
I am grouchy as an old woman.
“Actually, I got here early. You’d mentioned in one of your emails that I could check in as early as this week. I texted you that I was coming yesterday afternoon.”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting you yesterday afternoon.” June mutters something about bathing that I don’t quite hear as we pass the guesthouse where that bachelorette party must be staying. It’s super cute, and I can only imagine our cottage will be similar.
Final-fucking-ly, things are looking somewhat up.
“Excuse me?” I say. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”
“I was forest bathing,” she says, louder. “In the forest. No devices.” As if this makes perfect sense.
I’m now unfortunately picturing the seventy-six-year-old woman in front of me naked in a wooden bathtub in the forest, and pretty sure I have no idea what “forest bathing” actually is.
Before I can decide whether to ask for clarification or not, she says, “Where did you stay last night? There isn’t a vacancy in town.”
“Uh, I was fortunate enough to meet the owner of Sea Haven Bar and Grill,” I manage to say without making a face. “Mason. He and his friends showed me some hospitality. So, it worked out okay.”
June snorts with derision and mutters, “I’m sure they did. Those swinging dicks think they run this town.”
So . . . the hostility goes both ways.
“Uh, speaking of which,” I venture. “There seems to be some kind of confusion. Mason seems to think that he was going to lease Pier Seven for a pop-up of his own this month. Is that true?”
She frowns deeply. “Of course not. You have exclusive use of the space. It’s in your lease agreement.”
“Right. That’s what I thought. Mason just seems really . . . unhappy that we’re here.”
She makes a hmph sound. “I’m sure he is. But whatever claim on Pier Seven any member of the Grant family might think they have—I can assure you, they do not.”
“Okay . . .”
June eyes me sidelong. “You’re a smart young woman with a nice little business. And ideas. And grit. I saw that as soon as I met you last year.”
Really? I thought all she saw was my “curious branding” and “is that the actual menu?” menu.
She seemed to think my entire business model was a gimmick.
I was stunned when she invited me to run my pop-up in her town.
I’d never heard of Sunshine Fest, but once I looked it up, it seemed like a brilliant opportunity to have a summer getaway with Kyle.
Go glamping. Take long walks on the beach. Rekindle our love.
Now, it seems like a terrible joke—that this woman might actually be my biggest supporter right now.
“So,” she concludes, “take it from an old woman who’s learned to mind her own business over the years.
You ladies would do best to focus on your own business while you’re in Orchard Cove.
” She stops abruptly and I almost bump into her.
She fixes me with her pale-gray eyes. “And stay away from Tommy Grant, his grandsons, and their assorted associates.”
I exchange a look with Sophie. “Yeah. That won’t be a problem.”
We continue onward, past some farm buildings and work sheds, Sophie and I hauling our luggage along the gravel path that is just a bit too rocky to use the wheels on our suitcases.
We circle a rambling, gorgeous, old yellow farmhouse, tall and proud, with intricate gardens wound around it. June’s home, I imagine.
Then we come to a stop. The path has led us past the landscaped backyard toward an entanglement of trees, through which I can see a decrepit shack.
“Here we are,” June says.
“Here . . . ?”
“Your lodging. That was part of our deal.” She eyes me with disappointment, like: You should really have read that lease agreement. “I’m providing you with lodging at my cozy cottage.”
“Yes, I know,” I say.
“So, you ladies just let me, or Lee, know if you need anything.” I feel her steely gaze on me, judging. “Are you alright, Sara? You look a bit ill.”
“Uh . . . it’s Sierra.”
Sophie loops an arm through mine. “She enjoyed a little too much of the local cider last night.”
I definitely did. But that’s not why I look like this right now. “Cozy” my ass. The so-called cottage looks more like a glorified outhouse than that dreamy retreat Mason’s brother has next door.
“Well, go get her some water, Sophia,” June says pragmatically, pressing a key on a keychain with a wooden apple on it into Sophie’s hand.
“Sophie,” she corrects her.
I wonder if she flubbed my name and Sophie’s on purpose. June is already striding away. She’s rather spry for a septuagenarian. Wiry and athletic in her gardening smock. I’m still panting from trying to keep up with her.
She turns around just before she’s out of earshot, silvery bob blowing in the breeze. “And don’t worry about the bucket!” she calls. “We’re not expecting any rain.” Then she’s gone around a bend in the path.
Sophie looks as confused/apprehensive as I feel. “Bucket?”
We approach the cottage warily. The weather-beaten wood, desperately in need of repair. The faded old curtains in the dirty windows. The sadly sagging porch. The unwelcoming piles of farm junk on either side of the door.
An old, hand-carved sign mounted over the door, somewhat crooked, says Cozy Cottage.
“Really,” I say flatly.
“It might have once been cozy,” Sophie says optimistically.
“Fifty years ago.”
“Come on. Don’t we love old things?” She works the key in the lock, which at least seems to have been installed this century.
“Sure. Like, retro-old. Vintage vibes. Not falling apart and moldering.”
When we step inside, unfortunately it just gets worse.
The windows, left to gather dirt on the outside glass for years, let in little light. When I find the light switch and turn it on, it doesn’t help much. The cottage is gloomy, barely furnished, and tight.
“Well, there’s the aforementioned bucket.” It’s a steel pail, sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. Above it, obvious water damage stains the ceiling and the drywall has a hole in it.
“At least they’re being proactive?” Sophie says.
“Proactive would be burning this place down.”
“It did look better in the pictures . . .” she admits.
“Yeah. I think those were as old as the cottage. It looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 1970s, and not in a good way.”
“It’s not that bad. It’s just . . . rustic.”
“I know,” I say in horror. “I don’t do rustic, Soph.”
“Me neither, but we’ll figure it out. Do you think there’s internet?”
“Jesus Christ. I didn’t even think to ask. I’m now realizing that I may be much less intelligent than I took myself for.” I blink at her. “Is this my fault? Is the universe punishing me?”
“Don’t be silly.”
I follow her to the bedroom area. It’s not far. There’s no hallway, just a couple of doors off the kitchen/living room. There are two bedrooms, as promised, but they’re so tiny, each fits only a twin bed and a wooden chair.
And there’s one very small bathroom with a tiny shower cubicle, toilet, and a sink with no space for the amount of hair products Soph uses.
“Shit. I’m so sorry I’m crashing your space,” I tell her.
June offered me this cottage as lodging for any staff I brought with me, which meant Sophie was supposed to have it all to herself.
Kyle and I were going to be staying at the Vance Oceanfront resort, half an hour up the highway—one of the most luxurious resorts on the island, and the lodging of his choosing, which he was paying for.
“I’d take us to a hotel, but I really can’t afford it, and no way would I let you pay for even a fraction of it. ”
“It’s fine. I’m totally happy here,” she says. “I got you.” She starts singing the Jack Johnson song.
I groan. “I seriously don’t deserve you. I’m taking the smaller room.” I haul my bags into the bedroom that is somehow even tinier than the other, leaving her to the one in back with the bigger window.
I can make anywhere home with Sophie, right?
Even this dump.
She pops her head in as I drop my duffel bag and suitcase on the bed.
“You’re not actually going to unpack right now,” she says. “It’s Saturday night! Let’s have girl talk and do our nails. You need to chill, babe.” She perches on the corner of the bed as I unzip my suitcase open and lay it flat.
“I know, but you know I can’t sit still when I’m stressed.”
“But I think sometimes you need to. You’ll burn out.”
She watches as I start putting clothes away in the minuscule closet and search the corners for evidence of moths and rodents. Thankfully, I find none.