The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  I knocked as a warning, then let us in. “Welcome home!” I said, heading straight for Granny, seated at her kitchen table. I wrapped her in my arms and kissed the side of her head.

  She squeezed me back. Her bobbed brown hair was tucked behind one ear, and she smelled of apples and spun sugar, as if she’d already been baking.

  “I missed you,” I whispered, not realizing until that moment how much it was true.

  “Me too, sweetie,” she said. “There really is no place like home.”

  Owen stood and extended his hand in greeting to Hank, then me, before retaking his seat across from Granny. “Penny was just telling me about the Roadkill Cookoff.”

  Hank took the seat beside Owen. “Folks say the entire event is fantastic. I want to hear everything.” He tipped his head casually to the vase of white roses on the table and box of chocolates at its base, then flicked his smiling eyes to mine.

  Owen was fighting an uphill battle to win Granny’s affection. She wasn’t ready to give her heart to another man. She might never be, but I had to give the guy credit. He was dedicated, and wholly devoted to his cause. He’d been Granny’s high school crush, but life had come between them for about fifty years. Granny seemed to feel guilty for the time she spent with Owen, but I thought Grampy would approve, and four years was long enough to be alone. Especially when Owen thought Granny hung the moon.

  She looked closer to my age than Owen’s and had often been mistaken for my mother, which was closer to the truth than the guessers could have imagined. Granny was a dead ringer for Mary Steenburgen while Owen, on the other hand, had aged more . . . appropriately. I supposed he’d never been very tall, but now he also had a round bald head and glasses.

  Granny tugged me into the seat beside hers. “What can I get you?”

  I grinned. “Nothing yet.” I’d spent countless hours of my life at Granny’s kitchen table, eating meals or snacks, doing homework, and talking about my day. I’d peeled potatoes, sliced apples, shucked corn, and snapped string beans. I’d worked out my troubles and let Granny nurse my broken hearts.

  The kitchen itself was great too. All original, save the occasionally updated electricity and appliance. Granny painted the walls and cabinetry from time to time for upkeep’s sake, and she’d added dozens of framed photos to the walls, shelves, and counters. Mostly of me.

  Granny hefted a bag from the floor near her feet. “As I was telling Owen, I missed you guys, but the cookoff was a hoot. I tried things I never thought I would. Like teriyaki marinated bear and turtle gumbo. Neither was for me, but I tried them! There were at least enough people to fill Disneyland. I’ve never seen the likes. Did you know the Travel Channel, the Discovery Channel, and the Food Network have all been there? That Roadkill Cookoff is a big deal. I felt like a celebrity just for being allowed to sell my chili. I told everyone who stopped to sample that I used locally raised turkey instead of wild, but it was still a hit.”

  Owen beamed. “I wish I could’ve been there to see you working your magic that first day. What a thrill that must’ve been.”

  “It was,” she said, looking a little soft and wistful. “I felt forty-five all over again. Doing things I never thought I would. Traveling. Trying new things. It’s nice.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, turning my attention to Owen. “You said you missed the first day. Does that mean you went to the festival?”

  Granny’s cheeks darkened, and I knew I was right. “Owen went to cover the event for his local paper. When he saw me there, he stayed through to the end.”

  Hank smiled. “Is that right?”

  “Don’t,” Granny said, shutting him down with a shake of her index finger. “It’s time to see your gifts.” She dug into the bag and liberated a pile of keepsakes. “This is for you.” She passed a commemorative T-shirt to Hank. White with black trim at the collar and cuffs. An official Roadkill Cookoff logo covered the front. “And this,” she said, producing a ball cap with a matching decal. “For all your help getting me registered online. They sure don’t make that easy.”

  Hank pulled the shirt on over his own, then worked the cap onto his head. “I love it.”

  “You look ridiculous,” I said.

  Granny handed me a pair of hairy brown slippers with stuffed black pointed toenails. “Bigfoot slippers,” she said. “The American Sasquatch Society was there, and I know how you love your jammies. Now you have fun slippers too.”

  I put them on my hands and made them dance on the table. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve also got some jerky,” she said, pulling small vacuum-sealed bags from her tote. “Bear, elk, vulture, snake.”

  “Snake?” I leaned away. “Got anything sweet in there?”

  “I’ve got beaver pie,” she said.

  Hank barked a laugh.

  I wrinkled my nose. “No, thank you.”

  “Try it,” she said. “I think it’s chocolate peanut butter.”

  I pressed my lips together, already turned off by the name. There wasn’t any coming back from “beaver pie.”

  The oven dinged, and Granny scraped her chair backward, making room to get up from the table. “That’s me,” she said, humming as she went.

  Owen folded his hands in front of him. “Penny promised me a hot apple turnover when we got back,” he said, looking quite proud of himself.

  My stomach growled at his words.

  Granny pulled big mitts onto her hands like gloves. “Winnie? Hank?” she asked, looking over her shoulder as she lowered the oven door.

  We accepted the offer with enthusiasm, and her smile grew.

  Granny went to work drizzling icing over the warm pastries and plating them for us while I watched Owen watching her. He really liked her, and I couldn’t blame him. In fact, his sheer, unabashed appreciation of her made me like him all the more.

  He caught me looking and blushed.

  “Did you enjoy the cookoff, Owen?” I asked. “Try anything new?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’ve been to the event before, so it was a bit of the same, though I thought Penny was robbed of her win. Her turkey chili was the best I’ve ever had.”

  Granny turned back to the table, ferrying turnovers to each of our seats. “Two of the Stitch Witches had husbands on the judging committee. I never stood a chance.”

  Owen shifted. “It was definitely an unfair decision,” he said. “Your granny deserved that grand prize.”

  I had no doubt. “Are you staying in Blossom Valley to cover next week’s reenactment?”

  “I’d like to,” he said. “Right now I’m on assignment to address rumors of a Blossom Valley specter, but the timing is excellent for covering both.”

  “A ghost?” I asked. “Hasn’t Halloween passed?”

  He nodded, using a fork to cut his turnover down the center and allow the pieces to cool. “Yes.” He exchanged a speculative look with Granny.

  “We’re sure it’s nothing,” she said, focusing intensely on her turnover as she returned to her seat.

  “Okay,” I said, dragging the word out unnecessarily. Of course it was nothing to worry about. Ghosts weren’t real. I frowned at Granny’s strange reaction. I’d never taken her to be a believer, but as a whole, our town was superstitious to the extreme. Locals generally believed in any and all unexplained phenomena, including but not limited to “mountain magic,” witchcraft, bad luck, bad omens, boogeymen, and just about anything they were told. Possibly even Bigfoot, considering my slippers had come from a chapter of the American Sasquatch Society. Even as a cynic, I played my cards carefully by never opening an umbrella indoors, stepping on graves, breaking mirrors, and a number of other little things that might sway the universe against me.

  “Folks let their imaginations get carried away during all those late-night bonfires last month,” Owen said. “That’s all it is. Too many ghost stories. Too much spiked cider. Soon every shadow appears a little more ominous, and the gnarled tree limbs and barren branches begin to look like witches’ hands
.” He bent his wrists and fingers until both hands seemed like misshapen hooks. “Add a little wind for motion and the things our imaginations can make of the shadows is limitless.”

  I swallowed a lump of instant fear as I pulled the phone from my purse and texted Colton a rundown on the ghost story. If there was any chance that Samuel Keller was behind those shadows, I’d sleep better if Colton stayed on top of it.

  Granny gave me a quizzical look as I tapped my screen.

  I offered a small smile. We’d have to talk later. I didn’t want to give voice to the horrific speculations going around in my head until Colton could confirm them.

  Granny seemed to understand my unspoken request for time. She dragged her attention away from me and smiled warmly at Hank instead. “What about you, Hank? What’s new in your world?”

  “Thank you for asking,” he said slowly, shooting me a look. “No one else has.”

  I shoved a forkful of turnover between my lips to busy my tongue. I had bigger problems than upsetting Hank. I checked my phone for a response from Colton.

  Nothing.

  “Actually,” Hank said, “I’ve been given a very important job at work.”

  I concentrated on chewing to avoid a groan. Hank was a public relations official for Extra Mobile, the big oil company in the next county. I wasn’t a fan of any big oil company, so I made a practice of not asking about his work. Still, it seemed like I was going to hear about it anyway. I couldn’t help wondering if he would be leveling yet another forest or buying more little old women out of their retirement homes in the name of fracking and commerce.

  “I want to get folks excited about hunting again,” Hank said. “Gun season starts this week for deer, and West Virginia as a whole is experiencing a downturn in registered hunters. That’s a serious problem because wildlife and conservation organizations depend on sportsmanship fees and taxes to thrive.”

  “Interesting,” Owen said, perking up. “I’ve heard about this.”

  Hank nodded, shoving another bite of turnover into his mouth. He chewed quickly and swallowed. “The state government plans to tax gas and oil companies to make up for the lost revenue.”

  I imagined bouncing a palm off my forehead. “So, that’s why you’re stalking deer stands from satellite imagery,” I said. “You want more people registering to hunt because the income will benefit your company and you by default.”

  He widened his eyes. “Well, yeah. My company employs thousands of people, which means it directly impacts tens of thousands of lives.”

  I wanted to tell him he was being dramatic, but I knew what he’d said was true. The reduced number of hunting licenses had impacted Dot at the national park. Her boss had consistently reduced the number of free programs for the last three years in a row. I’d never considered whether or how the state might try to rediscover the lost revenue.

  It was a little sad to know hunting was a dying sport. Hunting was a beloved tradition in Blossom Valley and an important part of our local identity and culture. Folks still hunted for bragging rights here, for the sense of community among sportsmen, and for the meat.

  “Increasing taxes on oil companies isn’t the answer,” Hank said. “Increasing taxes means increasing a company’s overhead and reducing profits. That will lead to job cutting, which will lead to higher unemployment rates and more families in need of cash and food.”

  Owen nodded, his bushy gray brows drawn together. “Interesting. A sure sign of the times. What do you think can be done about it?”

  Hank smiled. “I plan to pass out flyers at the reenactment,” he said. “Plus anywhere there are lots of men. No offense intended,” he said, shooting a mischievous grin in my direction, “but statistically men make up the largest portion of registered hunters.”

  I ignored the statistically supported misogyny. “And what exactly will your flyers say? ‘Please hunt because my mega-bucks company wants to keep its money’?”

  “Funny,” he said. He fished his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen a few times, then handed the device to me. “I’m thinking about printing this.”

  An image of a bearded man with a tight black T-shirt stretched over a clearly fit physique stared back at me. The man had a rifle on his back, a hunting license in his grip, and the words “Real men hunt” printed across his torso. An attractive blond woman in the background looked seriously impressed with him.

  I handed the phone back to Hank. “Did you make this flyer?”

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “As an ad for a gym or beards? Yes.” As an ad to promote hunting? No. “I’m not sure it portrays the sport accurately,” I said.

  “Ads aren’t about accuracy,” Hank said. “They’re about creating an illusion and evoking an emotion.”

  “It evoked an emotion from me,” I said, pushing to my feet.

  I checked my phone once more. It was time to open the cider shop, and Colton hadn’t responded to my text yet.

  I couldn’t be sure, but I had a bad feeling there was grounds to worry.

  Chapter Nine

  I lost myself in the beauty of the walk to the cider shop, putting thoughts of fugitives and specters behind me. I basked in the remarkable colors of the leaves. The beloved scents of fresh-cut grass and a distant bonfire on the breeze. I loved that specific scent, and it traveled for miles on the wind.

  I unlocked the historic barn doors, then swung them wide on a deep inhalation of breath. I would never get tired of opening these doors and finding my cider shop inside. I flipped the lights on as I made my way to the counter and began my opening routine. I surveyed the menu, still scripted on the mirror hung behind the bar, then compared that to my inventory of ciders and sweets. Satisfied I had enough of everything to last the day, I moved the cash drawer from the safe to the register and counted it down. Next, I wiped tables and swept the floor, feeling grateful for my shop, the historic barn, Granny, and my home.

  I returned to my place behind the counter as my first handful of customers arrived. “Come on in, y’all,” I said, waving them forward. “What can I get ya?”

  I poured ciders and served sweets with a smile, thankful for every order. At this time last year, my life had been on the cusp of an enormous change. Granny had just confided the extent of the orchard’s financial problems to me, and I’d begun to concoct a plan. Our first annual Christmas at the Orchard. It was then that I’d first asked the bank for money to turn the barn into a cider shop. It was the beginning of extensive, life-altering changes, and a year later, it still felt surreal.

  Customers served and satisfied, I turned to survey my cider supply. I wanted to create a specialty cider that would commemorate my shop’s one-year anniversary, but what flavor should that be? So far, I had no idea. Or more accurately, no good ideas.

  I pulled a test pint from the mini-fridge and gave it a good shake. I’d played with the idea of adding molasses and other spices to give Granny’s standard cider a kick, and I was eager to taste-test the results.

  The color was a little dark, and I didn’t like the way it moved when I swirled the jug. Too thick and slow. I poured an ounce for sampling and gave it a sip in case my instincts were off. They weren’t.

  I upturned the pint into the sink and mentally scratched that recipe off my list of possibilities. I’d have to start over at home tonight. The cider shop was best equipped for making gourmet ciders in large batches, but home was where the recipes were formed. Each of my gourmet flavors began with one of the base options from Granny’s orchard. Honeycrisp, Granny Smith, or Variety. Then I worked in other ingredients, mostly via trial and error, until the flavor was perfect and ready to share with others. When that happened, I made large batches at the cider shop and bottled it in half-gallon jugs for resale. Like most creative endeavors, my recipe trials ended in error more often than perfection, but I never minded. The process was half the fun.

  “Good morning,” I called as additional guests rolled in. I gathered napkins and followed o
ne couple to a table. “What can I get you started with today?”

  “Two mugs of your hot caramel cider,” the woman answered eagerly. “We discovered this place yesterday and vowed we’d be back.”

  “I’m thankful to have you,” I said. “Would you like anything to go with your ciders?”

  She glanced at her smiling companion, whose attention was glued to the menu board.

  “Apple fries?” he asked her.

  She raised two fingers in a peace sign. “Please.”

  “On it.” I smiled as I headed back to the bar.

  A man in jeans and a ball cap scanned the gallery wall near the window. His blue plaid flannel hung open over a white T-shirt, and his posture was painfully casual. Tourist, I thought. Obviously interested in the town’s history. Probably in town for the reenactment.

  “Welcome,” I said on my way past.

  He touched a finger to the brim of his hat without looking away from the framed newspaper clippings and town paraphernalia nailed to my walls.

  I poured the hot caramel ciders and gave them each a cone of whipped cream on top, then popped some apple fries in the toaster oven to heat. I ran water in the sink to wash away the lingering scent of my failed cider while I waited. Hopefully I got better results tonight. There was no way I’d be sleeping, so I might as well make good use of the time.

  The toaster oven dinged, and I plated the apple fries with the ciders and ferried the order to the couple at the table.

  When I came back, the man in the flannel had made his way to the counter.

  Behind him, a large group of women arrived, chatting animatedly and quickly filling three of my tables.

  “I’ll be right with you,” I called to them. I set a coaster on the bar before the gentleman and grinned. “What’s your poison?”

  His lips curled into a strange, unsettling smile. “Surprise me.”

  I shook off the silly shiver and set five juice glasses before him. “How about a proper sampler then?” I asked. “Hot first, so it can cool.” I filled the glasses from left to right and named the flavors as I went. “Cinnamon. Caramel. Fireside.” I switched to cold jugs from the fridge. “Citrus and ginger, green apple.” I went back to the glass with my new fireside flavor, dropped a handful of marshmallows on top, and browned them with my torch.