Page 82 of Almost Ravaged

I rub forehead, eyes squeezed shut, certain I don’t want to know how this story ends.

“So she did.” Edna lifts her arm and lets it fall with a huff. “The woman, with her two small children, mind you, asked Noah why there wasn’t any information about family photo sessions on the website. Said she’s been having pictures taken here with her kids every year since they were born.”

Not every year, since Meg died before the sessions began last year, but that’s not the point.

My throat tightens, making my next words hoarse. “What did he do?”

Very little flusters Noah. Almost nothing triggers him. But those fucking photo sessions, questions about sign-ups…

Meg was an exceptional photographer. She’d host mini photo shoots through September and October, working ten-hour days each weekend, taking pictures for hundreds of families, then spending her weekdays editing the images. I’ve never asked, but I’m almost certain the money those sessions brought in is what kept the orchard afloat over the last several years.

She offered the service for over a decade, so it’s no surprise that people continue to ask about it.

I suggested we put a statement on the website. I’ve told Noah a dozen times it would be helpful to have the information posted where people most often go to look for it.

He never fucking listens when it comes to Meg.

“He flipped over the kettle corn display.” Edna holds up a finger. “He fired Tracy on the spot.” She holds up another finger. “And then he tried to put his fist through the bakery partition.” She holds up a third, shaking her small, wrinkled hand in my direction.

Jesus H.

Noah.

As frustrated as I am, it kills me that mention of the photo sessions still sends him over the edge so quickly.

I want to go to him. Hold him. Make sure he’s okay. But I fight those urges, quelling my compassion in favor of a more pragmatic approach.

Noah made a mess. I’ll clean it up. He’s done it for me more times than I can count. He spent years doing it when we were teenagers. It’s my privilege and responsibility to repay the favor now.

With a sigh, I peer around Edna’s small frame and assess the damage. The partition that protects the pies is cracked in the middle, spiderweb fissures branching out on all sides. It’s been taped over with blue masking tape and thankfully doesn’t appear to have actually shattered.

“Troy from GlassWorks can probably do an emergency repair tomorrow.”

“I’ll call him in the morning,” she offers.

I bring the heel of my hand to my eye, gathering my thoughts. “If he gives you any pushback or tries to schedule you next week, remind him he owes me a favor.”

She nods stoically.

“The employee––Tracy?” I hedge next.

Edna shakes her head dismissively. “Bella says she was lazy and annoying anyway.”

I blow out a breath, letting my cheeks puff out. Bella thinks everyone is annoying. She’s in her mid-twenties, with a dark sense of humor and even darker sense of style. The goth girl vibes work for her, and everyone who knows her, loves her. Noah trusts her judgment, but it helps that she’s his second cousin, I’m sure. She’s also Edna’s granddaughter. “Being annoying isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”

Edna shrugs. “She left quickly. Didn’t even put up a fight.”

I scowl. I’m not leaving any part of this unresolved, and I won’t let any of this come back to bite Noah in the ass. “Call tomorrow. Tell her she can either have her job back, or she can collect a check for the shifts she would have worked over the next two weeks.”

The older woman tsks in a way that takes me back a couple of decades. She’s chided me many, many times over the years. “She’ll just take the money.”

“Good,” I counter. “Then she’s out of your hair and has technically chosen to leave on her own.”

That earns me a smirk. “Clever boy.”

Grinning, I tap my temple. “Putting those two master’s degrees and my doctorate to work.”

The amusement doesn’t last long. Not when I remember the last issue left to tackle. The woman who inquired about photos absolutely did not deserve the backlash of Noah’s outburst. And her children shouldn’t have had to witness a grown man having a meltdown and taking out his frustration on a tower of kettle corn.