I could sit up here with him until dark, but after a few minutes, he shifts uncomfortably. Peering down, he says, “I don’t know how much longer this branch will hold me.”
Before he can leave, I reach for his hand. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
Instead of telling him that I’ll miss him when I’m gone, I say, “Can I ask a favor?”
“If you give me a kiss,” he says, leaning close.
As I ever so slowly move my lips toward his, I chant softly, “Sam and Diane, sitting in a tree…” until we’re K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
Later that afternoon, after a torrid makeout session in the crabapple tree, and after Sam helps out at Bedd Fellows Farm’s strawberry picking, we get to the favor: a soil and water evaluation of the Kaaterskill orchard. But as Sam turns into the drive, I can’t stop the gasp that escapes past my lips.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, slamming on the brakes.
Taking a shaky breath, I point at the real estate sign. “It’s already under contract. The realtor said I had another few days to make an offer, but I guess the sellers changed their minds.”
He just stares at me. “Were you actually planning to buy it?”
Swallowing past the emotion clogging my throat, I shrug. “It’s not exactly realistic, but I was thinking about it.”
“Do you still want me to do the tests?”
I’ve been chasing my tail over the idea of buying it for the past twenty-four hours, wondering if I can afford it, since I’ve sunk my entire trust fund into the nonprofit. Could the seed library purchase it? Or is that being too selfish? But maybe the orchard could serve as the center’s home base for education and experimentation.
But now, that all seems to be moot.
“We can still run the tests,” Sam says, breaking into my thoughts. “You never know what’ll happen. Maybe the buyer will back out.”
Gomer’s whining to get out of the truck, so I nod. “A realtor showed me around earlier in the week,” I explain as Sam pulls equipment from the back. “She said it’d be fine if I stopped by to check out the orchard on my own.”
Half an hour later, Sam has what he needs, but we spend a bit more time wandering up and down the rows, munching on apples that I hope won’t go to waste because of the real estate deal. When we hear a raucous, nasal cry overhead, Sam pulls out his phone and identifies the bird.
“It’s a white-breasted nuthatch.” He reads from the app, as I peer through the branches trying to catch sight of it. “White belly, gray and black on the back. About the size of a sparrow. Good to have in orchards, apparently, because they’ll eat up pests for you.”
This reminds me of the bird feeders my grandmother kept outside her kitchen window, and without meaning to, I find myself telling him story after story of my summers here. Of making applesauce, climbing trees, learning to prune.
“I just loved being outside, getting dirty…” I pull an apple from the tree and sniff deeply. “Everything about this place.”
Sam sets a hand on the gnarled branch of a Braeburn tree. “It’s a beautiful orchard. Could probably use some upgrades, but the trees seem to be in great shape, especially considering how hot it was this summer. But I’ll run the tests and get you the results. You know, just in case.”
“Just in case,” I echo. And as we walk back to the truck hand in hand, dammit if I don’t have a vision of the two of us doing this thirty years from now.
CHAPTER 19SAM
Sunday morning, it’s all hands on deck at the farm. I’m not sure if it’s the petting zoo Alex has set up, the strawberry ice cream he’s selling, or the pop-up craft market Lia and Molly organized, but Bedd Fellows Farms is suddenly the place to be for tourists soaking up the last bit of summer in the Catskills and locals looking for a fun family outing.
Diane spends the first hour interviewing the woman selling honey. Instead of keeping bees on her own property, this apiculturist has boxes all over the county set up on farms that appreciate the work her pollinators do for them. After that, Diane jumps in to scoop ice cream. Meanwhile, I’m driving the hay wagon, pulled by a neighbor’s draft horse, so that we can deliver guests to the rows with berries ripe for picking—more fun for them, but it also keeps families from tromping all over the fragile younger plants.
It’s a nice break from the week I’ve had. Between helping out at the strawberry picking and the visit to the orchard, I haven’t been able to catch a moment alone with my sister, but she did leave a bag of books and pamphlets about neurodiversity in my truck with a sticky note that just said, “Knowledge is power.”
She’s probably right, but it’s still a lot to process. Instead of worrying about any of the changes upending my carefully planned life, all I have to focus on today is guiding the gentle mare up and down the lane and pointing pickers in the right direction. With Gomer riding on the bench of the wagon next to me, making kids laugh with his goofy dog smile, I can’t imagine a better way to spend a late summer day.
Well, I could imagine one better way, but I did wake Diane with my mouth in all her favorite places, so I can’t complain. I’m trying not to think about the fact that this time is coming to an end. My new apartment is available tomorrow, so I won’t need to pretend to be sleeping on the couch anymore. Diane hasn’t said when she’s leaving Fork Lick, but she has mentioned that she’d like to finish up a series she started in the spring on vineyards in the Finger Lakes, so I imagine she’ll be heading there soon.
“Sam Bedd? Is that you?”
Turning toward the familiar voice, I almost fall off the wagon when I recognize my freshman year roommate. “Josh Harmon? What the fu—” At the sight of the two little kids at his side, I choke back the four-letter word. “What the fork are you doing here? I thought you lived in the city.”
“Our mom died, so we live with our grandma and grandpa now,” the little girl next to him announces before Josh can say a word. “Daddy lives there too.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” I say to her before mouthing, “Really sorry,” to my friend.
Josh gives me a what-are-you-going-to-do shrug before saying, “Mabel is… processing.”
“Is that your dog?” the little girl called Mabel asks.
“He is. His name’s Gomer.” Grateful that she’s so easily distracted, I ask him to hop off the wagon. “Do you want to say hi?”
“He’s big,” she says, eyes wide.
“He is, but he especially loves little girls.” I have no idea if this is true, but Gomer loves everyone, so I figure the fib is okay.
“What about boys?” she asks. “My brother’s a boy.”
