She pushed the pile of chopped onion aside, her eyes still stinging. She took a deep breath and willed herself to feel calmer. After a few moments, she did.

Two days later, Abby stood on the front porch, just as she had a little over a week ago, watching Simon’s rental car come down the dirt road. The air was full of the sweet smell of freshly mown grass, reminding her of sunny summer afternoons a lifetime ago, when she and Luke had lain in the backyard, staring up at a cloudless sky, while their mother churned ice cream on the back porch.

Thinking back on it now, it sounded almost ludicrous—like something out of The Waltons, and yet it had happened, many times. Snowy Christmases, sledding on the big hill out back, catching fireflies on the front porch, a childhood’s worth of a Norman Rockwell painting that she hadn’t even appreciated. It had been real, all of it, even if it felt like a fantasy now, sepia-tinted, a montage of poignant moments set to sentimental music.

Simon pulled up in front of the house and came out of the car with an easy smile that reminded Abby of that closeness they’d had the day before yesterday, when they’d lain on a blanket by the lake and he’d kissed her. Forty-eight hours later, it still made her insides give a shivery little dance that she tried to suppress, because things were different now.

He bounded up the stairs with a wide smile, and when he leaned forward to greet her, she froze, not knowing what he meant to do, only for them to bump noses awkwardly and a bit painfully.

“Sorry,” Simon said with a laugh as he rubbed his nose. “I only meant to kiss your cheek.”

Abby muttered something unintelligible, and fussed with Bailey for a few seconds to avoid looking at him. “So are you ready for the grand tour?” she asked a bit too brightly, to cover her embarrassment. She suspected Simon saw right through her.

“Yes, absolutely.” He glanced around in silent enquiry, and Abby answered the question he didn’t ask.

“He’s out today, getting some supplies in Milwaukee.”

“Right.”

“He’s not scary, you know,” she added.

“He is, a little bit, you have to admit.” Simon cocked his head, his gaze sweeping speculatively over her.

“He doesn’t mean to be,” Abby said quietly. She thought of the way her father had shuffled out of the kitchen after their argument, an old man broken by memories. No, he wasn’t scary, not to her. Just sad, which made it so much worse.

“I think you really believe that—”

“That sounds so patronizing,” Abby returned, her voice sharpening, surprising them both, but she still felt raw from the argument. “I know it. Don’t act as if you know my father better than I do, Simon, because, trust me, you don’t.”

Her words seemed to reverberate between them, like the echo of a slap.

Simon blinked once, twice.

“Noted,” he said softly.

Abby flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound quite so aggressive.”

“I know you didn’t.” He smiled. “I’m the one who’s overstepped.”

On that uncertain and somewhat sour note, they started the tour of the farm. Abby breathed in the scent of mown grass again as they headed across the front yard to the main barn, Bailey trotting faithfully beside them.

Now that they were talking, Abby realized there wasn’t all that much to see—the barn, the trees, the sh

op.

“That’s the tree the farm’s named after,” she said, nodding towards the large willow with its fronded, drooping branches in front of the house. “I suppose that’s obvious.”

“It’s lovely.” Simon paused to give the tree in the center of the front yard his full attention. “How old is it?”

“Seventy years or so? I think my grandfather planted it when he first bought the farm.” Willow trees only lived seventy or eighty years total, Abby knew. She didn’t like to think about losing the farm’s emblem, the end of an era, worryingly symbolic.

As they resumed walking towards the barn, she tried to think of a friendly way to tell Simon that she didn’t want him digging into Matthew Lawson or Tom Reese’s pasts anymore. It had been so clear a decision after talking to her father, but now she felt full of uneasy doubts. Was it too bossy, to ask him to stop? It wasn’t as if Matthew Lawson was a relative of hers. Would she be the one overstepping?

She shelved the conversation for later as they stepped into the cool dimness of the barn and she began to show him around—the cider press, the cold atmosphere storage. She handed Simon an apple from the storage and laughed when his eyes widened at how crisp it tasted, despite being a year old.

“We used to have refrigerated storage, but we moved to controlled atmosphere a couple years ago. Keeps the apples very fresh-tasting.”

“And you make cider?” he asked, nodding towards the press and the stacks of fermenting apples.

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