I nodded as I rubbed the ache in the back of my neck. “I’m not really in the mood tonight for poker. Will you let Hunter know I’m heading home?”
With a quick nod, Mitch said, “Aiden, when you do realize you can’t do this on your own, I’m here, brother.”
Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I turned and walked away.
Maybe it had been nothing but a big fucking mistake to come back to Boggy Creek.
Willa
Two weeks later – Early October
“Ben is having the time of his life!” Lacy said as she made her way behind the counter of the small resale shop area in the barn. That was where we served hot apple cider along with apple pie, and whatever other apple desserts my mother and Grace made for that weekend…plus, where we sold all the apples for the people who didn’t want to pick their own.
“Did he go on the hayride again?” I asked as I glanced out of the barn to see Ben sitting on top of Hunter’s shoulders.
Lacy laughed. “Let’s see, I took him twice. Hunter has been four times, and I’m pretty sure Dad and Connor are tied at two times each. Your son is addicted to the hayride.”
I shook my head and laughed. “Well, who doesn’t like going on a hayride in a pumpkin patch?”
“It was a good idea to grow the pumpkin patch, Willa. Even with us cutting the pumpkins and leaving them in the field, having people pick their own added the perfect touch. You really have done some amazing things with the orchard.”
With a shrug, I said, “Well, we make good money with the harvest, but why not bank on the actual celebration of the harvest, right? People love the idea of corn mazes and going out and picking out their own pumpkins. I’m thinking next year we do a long weekend where maybe we bring in some slides and games. Like the Petersons do on their farm. Find out what weekend they’re doing it, and we do it the weekend before or after so we don’t interfere with theirs.”
Lacy grinned. “I’m sure Daddy would be down for that.”
An older woman came in with her teenage daughter and started looking at all the apples.
“You can get them by the pound or bushel if you’d like,” I told them.
“Goodness!” the woman said with wide eyes. “I never knew there were so many different types of apples! How do you know which ones to pick?”
Lacy pointed to me and declared I was the resident apple grower and only I knew all the apples. It was a lie. Lacy knew which apples were best for baking and cooking. Which ones were sweet and which ones were tart. But she always left it up to me to educate people. It had been like that for as long as I could remember.
“Well, you’ve got your sweet apples, your tart apples, your crisp versus mealy apples. Your baking apples and your snacking apples. It depends on what you want to use them for.”
“I had an apple pie from here once. It was amazing. The best apple pie I’ve ever had.”
With a proud grin, I said, “Well, that’s because we use our great-great-grandmother’s recipe. I’m usually the one who makes all the apple pies.”
“Will you tell us what type of apples you use?” the older woman asked.
I made my way over to the bushels of apples. “I will. For a deep-dish apple pie, you’ll need three large Granny Smith apples, and three large Pink Ladies.”
The woman lifted a brow. “Pink Lady apples?”
Placing my hands over my chest, I sighed dramatically. “Oh, Pink Ladies are my favorite. Granny Smiths are tart and crisp. The Pink Lady is tart at first but quickly followed up with a sweet aftertaste. They balance one another perfectly. It was my great-great-grandmother’s secret to mix two different types of apples.”
“What type of apple is good to just snack on?” the younger girl asked.
“Again, I’ll direct you to the Pink Lady—my favorite and all.”
Both women laughed.
“But you can also go with Gala, McIntosh, Braeburn, Honeycrisp, or Fuji, to name a few.” I held up a finger. “For baking though, the stars are Cameo, Granny Smith, Cortland, Pink Lady, and the ever-popular Jazz. You can also use Braeburn, Empire, Fuji, and Golden Delicious.”
One of the women chuckled. “Goodness, I feel like I’m going to be tested. I think we’ll get some Pink Ladies, since you seem to love it.”
I felt a grin break out on my face. “I’ve got another one for you. Kanzi. It’s a cross between a Gala and Braeburn apple. Kanzi is Swahili for ‘hidden treasure’ and trust me, it’s probably my real favorite. But don’t tell the Pink Lady that.”
“Kanzi, Pink Lady, and Granny Smith. And can we buy an apple pie from you as well?” the older woman asked as she winked.