Page 8 of Sweater Weather (Sapphire Falls Orchard #1)

EIGHT

Tilly

B ells has only been here a week, and already she’s making a mess of everything.

It’s like she’s not only accident-prone but has a tendency to touch and “fix” things that aren’t even broken.

It’s a constant fight with myself not to get involved.

I mostly keep to myself, tending to the animals, looking over the orchard as a whole, and fixing any issues people might have.

Although we’re open to the public, we get fewer than twenty people a day. And every day, Bells goes around with her little clipboard, noting things down. I can only imagine what it says. I’m sure things aren’t up to par for her.

The only good thing is she’s traded in her heels for an actual pair of boots and those ridiculous pencil skirts for leggings.

The only bad part is how freaking good her ass looks in them—like two ripe apples that catch my eye every time she’s around me.

It’s freaking torture, which is why I’m actively avoiding her at this point.

If I see her coming, I excuse myself to literally anywhere else on the orchard.

Hattie and Lina say I’m being childish, but I’m not going to be the one surprised when this nice act ends and she sells the place.

“Hey, Tilly? Can we have a moment to chat?” Bells sneaks up behind me while I’m giving the horses their breakfast.

“Uh, sure.” I finish with the last one and slide off my gloves before looking at her.

Her auburn curls are tied up in a tight ponytail, and while she’s wearing makeup, it’s not as much as the first few times I met her.

I can actually see more of her face now.

She’s wearing those tight-ass leggings and a jacket zipped up to reveal only a hint of cleavage.

She has her usual clipboard and a sparkly pen in hand.

“So, there are some things I’d love to go over with you. I’ve been taking inventory of everything in the last two weeks, and I have some ideas. Of course, I feel you’d know exactly what’s possible to actually do—or if it’s already been tried.” She smiles.

“Okay.”

“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee at Lina’s and chat about it? It’s an extensive list.”

“No thanks. I have more to do after this,” I lie.

“All right, well, I was thinking of ways to bring in more traffic, and I was thinking about reaching out to my contacts in the city and seeing if they’d have any idea about getting a deal with Metro-North. Maybe a discounted ticket when you buy tickets to the orchard kind of deal.”

“You want to bring in city folk?” I scoff. That’s not our consumer base at all. We thrive on people from neighboring small towns, not city people who wear heels and makeup and complain about the smells of nature.

“Yes, I think it could be a good way to increase sales and traffic,” she says.

“Our consumer base has always been other small-town people. People with kids and pets and such. Why would we shift that to bring in people from the city?” I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I can’t help it. I have beef with the city the way New Yorkers have beef with New Jersey.

“First off, I’m from the city, so please don’t say it like there’s something wrong with that. But second, I know that might be what you usually did, but it couldn’t hurt to switch things up,” she explains.

“Sure.” I leave it at that. I’m not in the mood to argue with her.

“I also thought that it might make sense to have an influencer day. Allow them to come up, experience the place for free, make content, and post it to drive traffic up here as well.”

“You want to give away free tickets and an entire day of sales to make money? That doesn’t make any sense.” I shake my head.

“It would be a way to get people with a strong follower base to do the marketing for free. Why doesn’t that make sense?”

She’s getting defensive, but I don’t care. This is a stupid idea.

“How the hell are New Yorkers and influencers even our base? No one up here has social media, so they wouldn’t see all this so-called content anyway.” I scoff.

“But the people with families and pets who you claim are your base might have it. And when searching for things to do in the summer and fall, seeing this place as an option would drive traffic to paid days,” she explains. Her jaw is clenched, and I can tell she’s trying hard not to fight with me.

I have to admit—it’s kind of hot to see her teetering on the edge of anger like this.

“You think parents have the time to sit and scroll on social media? Why don’t you ask Hattie how often she updates her Instagram? We should be focusing on keeping what we have steady and not worrying about bringing on any new people.” I shake my head.

“You really think single parents don’t know how to Google?

A few posts about this orchard going viral is the difference between a Google search showing this place as the first choice and not being on the list,” she says with a bite.

“And another thing, the families and consumers you have now aren’t cutting it.

If you haven’t noticed, this is the busiest day we’ve had all week and there are fewer than thirty people here. ”

Now I’m the one who’s pissed. Is she implying I’m bad at my job? “It’s not like this is a mall or some New York pop up—it’s a freaking apple orchard. One your aunt has run successfully for almost twenty-five years. Are you really going to shit on her legacy weeks after her death?”

Bells looks shocked, mouth agape as she takes in what I’ve said. “I’m in no way shitting on anyone’s legacy. She was my family. I’m trying to make sure we survive the next season!”

“Yeah? If you were her family, then where have you been for the last ten years?” I scoff.

Bells doesn’t hold back her anger anymore. Lowering her clipboard, she looks at me and says, “Fuck you,” before storming off.

I kick the empty bucket next to me, and it topples over with a loud clang.

Fuck! Why did I let her get such a rise out of me?

I could only imagine my conversation with Hattie later when I tell her about this.

I’m going to be fired before she can sell the place, and I’ll be begging Hattie to let me sleep on her couch.

She just got me so pissed when she walked in here acting like she knew how to run this place better.

I knew it was a low blow the moment I said it.

I shouldn’t have brought up her aunt, but now I’d have to apologize, which is the last thing I feel like doing.

I don’t know which way Bells went, so I decide to lay low and hang out in the stables.

The horses are able to roam free, their breakfast is there, but they like to lie in the sun and run around after being in all night.

They usually graze on their food throughout the day.

But I decide to saddle up my horse for a ride.

I watched Millie’s birth right after moving here.

She’s a good rider now, and I love taking her out of the pen to the outskirts of the orchard.

The other horses are too wild for me to try that, but Millie knows not to try anything.

We always stop and get some fresh apples on the way back.

I slide my saddle onto Millie’s back, hitch on her harness, and climb up.

The only thing I need right now is to relax and not think for a while.

Things have been hard since Benny died. I often find myself looking for her or going to knock on her door to tell her something.

We communicated all the time without thinking twice about it; it’s weird to have to rewire that part of my brain.

Because immediately I want to go tell her what a bitch Bells is being and how she shouldn’t even be here. But that’s the exact reason she’s here.

Millie starts riding, and I lead her out the only entrance I can unlock without getting off her.

I unhook the lock, and we head toward the open fields.

She’s fast, but not too fast where I feel sick.

If anything, I feel the relaxation I was craving.

The wind blows in my hair, the sun is on my face, and I let her take control of direction.

There’s no one out here, so it’s safe for us to run in circles or run whatever way she wants.

The apple trees look so beautiful this way.

It’s late May now, and they’re in full bloom.

All the flowers—mostly white and pink—cascade over each tree.

It won’t be long before the orchard transforms into a fall scene.

Every year, it happens quickly. One moment it’s spring, and the next I’m wheeling in pumpkins from the patch and smelling Lina baking pumpkin pies.

Each year we had a joint Thanksgiving, all of us and whatever staff didn’t have plans gathering at Benny’s house.

She cooked for hours— a huge turkey, about half a dozen sides, and at least a dozen desserts.

The day started before sunrise, and no one went home until after dark.

We all took turns with the cooking, cleaning, and sharing.

My stomach lurches thinking about what kind of Thanksgiving we might have this fall.

I have a feeling I’ll be eating one of those microwavable turkey dinners in whatever shitty apartment I’m living in.

Maybe Hattie and I will get together, but no one knows how to cook the way Benny did.

Lina can bake, but when it comes to anything savory, she’s less than good.

Tears slip down my cheeks without warning.

I’m not someone who likes to cry in public, but I’ve had my fair share of tears behind closed doors.

The other day, I bawled when I came across a note Benny had left me.

All it said was “Could you bring some milk over?” but seeing her handwriting again made something inside me break.

Grief is like a toddler—a weird thing you can’t control, apt to set you off at random times, but also reminding you that what you feel is real.

For me, it reminds me how short life can be, and I’m not going to spend any more of it worrying about things I can’t change.

Benny always looked forward, insisting on not looking back or trying to fix things with her awful family.

I guess it’s a good thing I have my savings.

I always thought I’d use the money to buy the place from Benny, but now I’ll probably have to use it to buy a house or something nearby.

Finding a job will be difficult, considering I never went to college and this is the only job I’ve ever had. Giving any references might be tough.

But I push those thoughts aside. I can’t think about that right now. Right now, I need to relax enough to get back to work. Maybe if I show Bells how helpful and needed I am around here, she’ll overlook my smart mouth and let me stay.

Here’s to hoping, anyway.