“Iamexcited about the inn. Just because I don’t talk about it constantly doesn’t mean I’ve given up on the idea.” Hilary drew a deep breath. A knot formed in her chest. That wasn’t entirely truthful.Excitementwouldn’t be the word she’d use. But how could she ever talk to Jorie about her doubts, especially after all this?
Jorie took her through the rest of the house. She couldn’t be faulted for the decorating decisions she’d made. The place was so inviting, a bed-and-breakfast worthy of a magazine spread. Six bedrooms, some named after the apple varieties in the orchard on the property, were the picture of tranquility. The Cortland boasted deep reds and dark woods with a four-poster bed. A flower garden quilt, mint-green walls, and white billowy curtains with pom-pom fringe charmed her in The Granny like she’d imagined. Green was her favorite color after all. It had been Will’s too. She and Jorie spent hours poring over magazines and color samples. Yes, the color schemes in the rooms were the same, but the details were all Jorie. Hilary had merely been along for the ride while Jorie did most of the work. This felt like Jorie’s dream. Jorie and Will’s dream.
Hilary walked into the light-filled room, leaving Jorie leaning against the wall in the hallway. Her footsteps on the wood floor echoed, as there was only a bed and chest of drawers in the room. She ran her hand over the oak chest and sighed. A sudden sense of loneliness gnawed at her stomach. It was as if everyone around her had taken two steps forward and she stood rooted to the spot. Hilary felt paralyzed.
“It feels like I’m apologizing a lot lately,” Jorie said quietly. “I didn’t mean to step on your toes. I want you to be happy here.”
“No, you’re right. I haven’t been as excited as you about it. Maybe it’s been hard for me to visualize up until now.” Hilary turned to Jorie. “It’s beautiful. Really.”
“So, you’re not mad?”
Hilary swallowed. “No. Not mad at all.”
She walked over to the window and looked out across the property. It was a few acres of cottonwoods, maples, and one gnarled oak tree. The footprints of long-ago perennial gardens were scattered on the lawn. Hilary would love to revive them. Beyond the lawn, the orchard stood. They’d counted roughly eighty trees. There was work to do there too. Lots of pruning. Come September, the trees would be laden with pinpoints of red and yellow. So many apples.
The memory of her and Dane during their unexpected meeting that night in the kitchen at the inn swam up from her subconscious. They’d been talking about pie. Her mother’s cranberry apple recipe to be exact. He’d tried talking her into capitalizing more on these apples, maybe making pies to sell commercially, which had never been on her radar. Sure, she loved to bake, but getting licenses and being subjected to inspections terrified Hilary. He’d told her to think about it. Selling food wasn’t as hard as she thought.
Hilary returned to her room that night, thinking about pies. Her mother was a pie master, and Hilary inherited a good smattering of talent too from helping her in the kitchen. There wouldn’t be a shortage of apples with an orchard in the backyard, that was for sure. Hilary convinced herself to start experimenting with her mother’s pie recipes. Somewhere in the attic, amongst the boxes Hilary moved from home before she married Will, was her mother’s pie bible. She hadn’t thought about until that night in the kitchen with Dane. Hilary loved the thing, a messy, stained compilation of handwritten recipes collected over years of culinary experiences. Her great-grandmother had even passed down some of those recipes. Hilary thought about the recipe for lavender apple pie that she’d mentioned to Dane. She smiled. She’d never baked with lavender, but maybe it was time to try.
“Hilary?”
She startled. “Sorry. Just admiring the view of the orchard.” Hilary turned away from the window.
“Okay, good. For a minute, I thought you… never mind,” she said, shrugging. “I’m glad you’re not upset.”
Hilary walked across the room again. She glanced at the flower pattern on the quilt. The petals were a cheery mix of greens, yellows, and pinks. And lavender.
“Why would I be mad? Now I get to concentrate on the marketing plans. And testing recipes.”
Jorie stuck her finger in the air. “About recipes. I have some ideas for—”
“Jorie, please stop.” She wasn’t about to surrender that task to Jorie.
“You’re right. I’ve taken over enough.”
It wasn’t often Jorie uttered those words. In fact, it might be a first, Hilary mused. She’d write it down somewhere. For posterity.
Downstairs, Jorie led her through the rooms that hadn’t been finished. There was still work to do in the front rooms and the library, painting, refinishing the woodwork on the built-in shelves, rehanging doors that had been stashed in the attic.
“What do you say we tackle the rest over the weekend? Tom called dibs on the shelving. You and I will have the painting done in no time if I can get Della to watch Hattie on Saturday and Sunday.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Hilary eyed the paint cans, ready and waiting, in the corner of the library.
Jorie sighed. “It’s finally going to happen.” She grinned, hitching her shoulders up to her ears, then dropping them again.
“Yes, it is,” Hilary said. She headed toward the door now that they’d toured the whole house.
“Tom and I can’t stop talking about it. I so wish Will could see this. He would love that we’re doing this together.”
Together.
Funny, she thought they were in it together too. But the work upstairs and in the kitchen didn’t mesh with Jorie’s claim. Jorie left Hilary out of the plans. What else would happen without Hilary’s knowledge, all in the name of togetherness?
Later that afternoon,Hilary ventured up to the attic while Hattie napped and Jorie ran to the hardware store in town. The space was an unfinished, vaulted behemoth of an area, all exposed beams and arched windows clouded with grime. In the winter, frost expanded into snowflake patterns where the roofing nails poked through the planks overhead. It was peaceful. If money was abundant, she’d insulate it and make it her bedroom, private and cozy.
Hilary shuffled around the boxes stacked three high among dining room chairs no longer in use, Christmas decorations, and a standing Victrola pushed as far back as it could go under the eaves. She diligently arranged her belongings into a neat stack when she’d moved to the farm. Time added a solid layer of dust to the pile, and she coughed as she lifted off the top box. Of course the one she needed was at the bottom.
Brushing off one of the dining chairs, Hilary sat. She lifted the lid from the plastic tub. So many memories. High school yearbooks, newspaper clippings from the year her volleyball team went to state, hand-crocheted coasters, a program from the Chicago musical she attended with her grandmother in eighth grade had been tucked away, waiting for her to reacquaint herself like an old friend. She didn’t realize she was grinning until her cheeks started to ache.
