Page 36 of Almost Rotten

“Coffee?” she asks, moving toward the pot.

“No. I’ve had three cups already.”

Shetsks again as she pours herself a sizable cup. She sips the perfectly black coffee slowly and hums in satisfaction.

I have to hold back a shudder. Edna’s hardcore.

“Have you seen the books?” she asks.

I grimace.

In addition to running the bakery and taking on most of the miscellaneous tasks around the storefront, Edna’s been the bookkeeper for the orchard for more than five decades.

“I haven’t. How bad is it?”

A mischievous smile teases the corners of her lips as she takes another sip of her coffee, keeping me in suspense. Eventually, she lifts one brow and says, “Not bad at all.”

“Not bad at all?” Frowning, I assess her, then the store around us.

“Better than last year. And the year before that.”

Better than two years ago?

My heart flutters. That means…

Hope.

There’s hope.

After loss and as I’m still finding my way through the hardest season of my fucking life, there’s hope.

Sawyer’s face flashes in my mind.

Her pretty freckled skin. Her shiny copper red hair.

Her smile. That fucking smile.

There’s hope and there’s her, and the books are not bad at all this month.

I can’t hold back my grin.

Sawyer isn’t solely responsible for the orchard’s shift in the right direction. I know that. Mercer and his insistence are mainly responsible. If he hadn’t talked me into allowing the orchard to be used as his class’s case study, we wouldn’t be here. The students’ efforts have already made a difference. Being back at full capacity after running a skeleton operation last year doesn’t hurt either.

It’s not all Sawyer’s doing. But damn if she isn’t the symbol and the anchor and the catalyst of it all.

My chest fills with a welcome warmth. “Okay. Good. Yeah. That’s really good.”

Edna snorts.

Wincing, I look away and rub my brow line.

Apparently I can’t even think about Sawyer without tripping over my words or losing my train of thought.

I inhale a deep, cleansing breath and set my shoulders, pulling myself together. “I’m heading to the back to harvest honey.”

With a renewed sense of optimism, I cut through the apple room, whistling for Shiloh as I pass.

I scrape along another frame, flip it quickly, repeat the process, and then insert it into the extractor. It’s the same one we’ve used since the orchard opened in 1908.