The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  I heard all about the reenactment and the associated mixers with the actors. People shared their traditions and plans for Thanksgiving dinner. Many bought multiple jugs of my specialty ciders to serve with their meals.

  The vibe in the air was electric and charged with positivity in anticipation of good things to come. It was just what I needed. My day got even better when I noticed Mr. Potter’s farmhand, Wes, at a table with the newspaper.

  “Hey, there,” I said, sidling up to him with a smile. “Welcome to my cider shop.”

  He looked up, apparently stunned by my presence for a moment. Then, the proverbial light bulb flicked on. “Hey! Sorry, you caught me in another world for a minute.” He tapped the newspaper.

  “No problem.” I tucked my order pad into my apron pocket. I wouldn’t need it to remember the requests of one guy. “Wes, right?”

  He nodded, and a little smile formed on his troubled face. “How’d you remember that?”

  “I work at it,” I admitted. “I was a waitress for a decade before opening this place. Plus, I like the idea of knowing folks by name. I think it feels good to be remembered, and I like making people feel good. Can I get you started with a couple free cider samples?”

  He agreed, and I went to grab a pair of cups from the service counter. One Sweet Cinnamon cider, and one anniversary sample.

  When I returned with the drinks, I noticed a pen on the table with his newspaper. “Working the crossword?” I asked, craning my neck as I set the cups beside the paper.

  “No. Looking for work,” he said, turning the paper in my direction. “Unfortunately, no one wants my kind of help right now. There isn’t much demand for farmhands in Blossom Valley this time of year.”

  My stomach sank as I recalled Mrs. Potter’s rant about the farm being her husband’s dream and not hers. I hadn’t given any thought to what that would mean for those depending on the pumpkin patch for a paycheck. “You were let go at the Potters’ place.”

  “Mrs. Potter is selling,” he said. “She promised me a good reference for whoever buys the farm, but that doesn’t help me today or for Christmas.”

  “Well, at least tell me what I can get you for lunch. Whatever it is, it’s on me. You’re going to need your energy to make all those new employment contacts.”

  He smiled. “Okay.” His gaze rose to the giant mirror behind the bar where I’d scripted the daily menu. “Ham and cheese sliders? And tater tots?”

  “Good choices. You like apple fritters?”

  “Yeah.” He tented his brow, an odd look of hope in his eye. “I hope the folks I contact about work are going to be this nice.”

  “I think most folks are quite nice,” I said truthfully. “I hope they’ll surprise you.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  I chewed my lip, debating the thing I wanted to say next. “Do you think Mrs. Potter’s decision to sell so soon has anything to do with her boyfriend?”

  Wes’s mouth opened, and his cheeks went red. He dipped his head and leaned in my direction. “You know about that?”

  I gave a sad smile. “Do you think Mr. Potter knew?”

  “I don’t think so. He never said anything if he did.”

  I thought of the last time I’d seen Mr. Potter and how, at first glimpse, he’d seemed to be fuming. “He was mad the day he died,” I said gently. “Not at me, but about something that happened before he saw me. He came around the edge of the barn with a scowl, and I could tell he was upset when we spoke, but he covered it pretty well.”

  Wes frowned. “I didn’t know.”

  “Could he have fought with his wife?”

  “Maybe,” Wes said. “We were swamped that day, and I was going in every direction. I barely slowed down before the sheriff came. Then everything stopped.”

  “Did you ever meet the guy Mrs. Potter is seeing?” I asked. “Rex?”

  Wes’s eyes widened. “How’d you know his name?”

  “I ran into him when I went to check on Mrs. Potter. It was awkward.”

  “I bet.”

  “Is he nice?” I asked. Rex wasn’t traditionally handsome, or rich if the social media photos of his house were any indication. But he had to be something if he’d enticed a married woman into an affair.

  “I don’t know him,” Wes said. “I only saw him around. He paid a lot of attention to Mrs. Potter, and she liked that. He helped her carry things and do stuff around the market area. He complimented her too. At first he just hung around listening while she complained about her life. Then he started showing up more and more. By September, his truck was around all the time, but I rarely saw him. Later I saw less of Mrs. Potter. I figured they snuck off together, and I spent a lot of time hoping Mr. Potter wouldn’t accidentally run into them somewhere.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  Wes blew out a long, exhausted sigh. “Yeah.”

  I excused myself and went to prepare his food. I doubled up on the meat per sandwich and added two extra sliders to the standard order size. Then I filled a bag with apples and other Smythe Orchard produce for Wes’s mama and ferried it all back to him.

  His mouth opened at the sight of the sandwiches, a bowl piled high with tater tots, extra desserts, and a full grocery bag to go. “Whoa. You did not have to do all this.”

  “I wanted to.” I set a page from my order pad on the table beside his food. My number was written across the paper. “You can call me if you need anything. Your mama can too.”

  His jaw set as a storm of unexpected gratitude rubbed against his pride.

  “One more thing about the Potters,” I said. “Then I promise to leave you in peace and get back to work.”

  He dropped a tater tot into his mouth and nodded.

  “Did anyone besides Mrs. Potter have access to the money from the farm? The register till, for example?”

  He drove a napkin over his lips as he swallowed the first gulp of food. “Mr. Potter,” he said. “Just the two of them. Why?”

  “No reason. Eat up, and remember what I said. Don’t lose my number.”

  I headed back to the counter, the conversation with Wes circling in my mind. Mrs. Potter had been seeing Rex for months. Probably since she’d stopped posting photos of her and her husband on social media. And I couldn’t help wondering if the debauchery her neighbors claimed went on in the corn maze was actually Mrs. Potter with her boyfriend.

  The barn door slid open, and a gust of icy wind whirled inside, followed closely by three Wise men and one Wise woman. I beamed at the sight of them.

  “Beautiful!” Mrs. Wise exclaimed, darting her gaze around the barn, then taking a long moment to appreciate the soaring rafters. “Amazing.”

  Her husband waved to me, then joined her in a slow circle around the perimeter, taking in my Blossom Valley paraphernalia.

  Colton and Blake headed for the bar.

  Blake sat first and rested his joined hands in front of him. “I hear congratulations are in order. Third place in a national cider competition? Nice work. Smart judges.”

  I beamed.

  “So, where is it?” he asked. “I want to try this very famous award-winning cider that my brother can’t stop talking about.”

  I glanced at Colton, who groaned as he fell onto the stool beside him. “Ignore him. How’s your day?”

  “Better now,” I said, setting two full glasses on the bar, then filling two more for their parents.

  Mr. and Mrs. Wise took the stools beside their boys, and I distributed their ciders.

  “I’m so glad y’all found the time to stop by,” I said, sincerely. “It’s an honor to have you here. Can I make you something to go with the cider? Light lunch? Something sweet?”

  Mrs. Wise waved me off, then sipped the cider and sighed. “This is heavenly. How many flavors do you make?”

  “Several,” I said. “I’m always trying new recipes. I keep what works and try not to talk about the ones that don’t.”

  “Smart.” Mr. Wise finished his cup and smiled.
“It’s fabulous. A perfect balance of sweet and tart.”

  “That’s the orange zest you’re tasting,” I said. “It works well with the syrup and cinnamon.”

  Mrs. Wise examined the framed magazine pages on the counter. “Delightful and sweet, just like the cider maker herself.”

  Blake chuckled. “Wait till you get to know her better.”

  Colton shook his head and grinned, but didn’t protest.

  I spent the rest of the day wondering how Colton would describe me, if it wasn’t as delightful or sweet.

  That was a mystery I wanted solved.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Colton slept in his truck again, but he came in for breakfast with a little coaxing, which was nice.

  He sipped his coffee and watched me carefully as I plated the scrambled eggs and biscuits. “I have some good news.”

  My hands froze, and my heart caught mid-beat. “You caught Potter’s killer?”

  “No, but I did transfer my daily duties to a set of deputies I trust so I can shadow you until all this is over. Now you won’t have to worry about being in danger.”

  “Shadow me?” I asked, understanding the meaning and not liking it at all. It sounded a lot like babysitting.

  “Exactly. So, what do you want to do today?” he asked.

  I went back to filling the plates and delivered them to my small table. “Honestly, I’d like to find out where Samuel Keller is hiding and turn him over to the marshals. Or we could figure out who killed Mr. Potter.” I took the seat across from him and bit into the corner of a piece of buttered toast.

  Colton made a sour face, then lifted his fork to shovel eggs.

  “Did I tell you Mr. Potter’s farmhand, Wes, was in the cider shop yesterday?” I filled Colton in on my conversation with Wes, and he frowned.

  “It’s a shame that he and his mama’s livelihoods are wrapped up in this mess.”

  “It is,” I agreed, then narrowed my eyes. “Why aren’t you telling me to knock it off and go make cider?”

  He kicked back in his seat, amused. “I’m a lot less concerned for your safety now that my entire focus can be on maintaining it.”

  I mulled that over for a moment, then decided to test him out. “Then I guess the first thing I want to do is take some more produce and pastries to Wes and his mother. What little I had on hand at the shop yesterday doesn’t seem like nearly enough. I’ve got lasting things in my pantry here, like soups and spaghetti sauces, that will keep until they need them.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And you’re just going to ride along?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Absolutely not. I’m driving. You didn’t do so well the last time we hit the road together.”

  I headed for my bedroom to change. “Funny,” I called over my shoulder.

  I rubbed some ChapStick on and brushed my hair while Colton finished breakfast. I hit my lashes with the mascara wand and called it good enough. The dropping temperatures would pink up my cheeks, so no need to bother with blusher. I hurried back to the kitchen and packed two paper grocery sacks full of foods from my pantry, freezer, and fridge. Lastly, I grabbed an oversized barn coat and zipped it to my chin. “Ready,” I said. “Get the door?”

  Colton took the bags from my arms and tipped his head in the direction of my door. “I’ll carry the bags.”

  “Because you’re the man?”

  “Because my arms are longer, and you have to lock up. I don’t have a key.”

  I eyeballed him as he sidled onto the porch with two overflowing bags and a smirk. “Good answer.”

  “It’s not my first rodeo.”

  I preferred not to think of his past rodeos, so I didn’t ask.

  We secured the bags on the floorboards in the back seat of his cruiser, then climbed into the front.

  “Do you know where this guy lives?” Colton asked, buckling in behind the wheel.

  “Not exactly, but I bet you can find out,” I said, trying to look as sweet and adorable as possible.

  Colton groaned, then made a call to dispatch, who found Wes’s name on one of the reports made the day Mr. Potter died and traced his address from there. “Anything else?” he asked, pulling onto the main road.

  “Nope,” I said, feeling powerful at the thought of an entire day with Colton at my beck and call. That wasn’t what he’d called it, but I thought there was room for interpretation.

  The day was cold, probably the coldest this season, and frost clung to the grass along the roadside despite the brilliant sun. Deer milled in fields and near the barren tree lines. I thought of our recent push to register an army of hunters, and I silently wished the deer luck.

  The homes outside my window became smaller and older, then fewer and farther between. They moved from unkempt to dilapidated within a mile, then with more trash on their porches and lawns.

  I knew the area well. Granny and I made produce deliveries to a nearby church and daycare almost weekly.

  Dirty children lined the edge of a precipice near a curve so sharp and steep we nearly had to stop to navigate it in the cruiser. The kids held sticks in their hands, tiny mudballs speared to the ends.

  “What are they doing?” Colton asked, watching the children in his mirror after we passed. “Should they be so close to the edge?”

  “Probably not, but they’re slinging mudballs,” I said. “It requires a good view of the gorge or it’s no fun.”

  He wrinkled his forehead at me. “What?”

  “Those little mudballs will sail on forever if you’ve got a good stick, and you can trail them a long way this time of year with the leaves down.”

  Colton cast me another quizzical look as the road grew narrow and the broken pavement turned to strictly rock and dirt.

  “You never slung mudballs?”

  He slowed to let a handful of chickens cross the road. “No.”

  I shook my head. “We’ve got to change that.” I squinted at the numbers on passing mailboxes until we reached the end of the road. “I think that’s it,” I said, peering up at a small, neglected home on the hillside. One of the numbers was missing from the mailbox, but I was certain we’d arrived.

  Colton rocked his cruiser to a stop in the makeshift drive, which amounted to a bare spot in the grass. We climbed out and collected the groceries.

  “If you have any questions about my family, you can ask me,” Colton said, taking up the strangely difficult subject for him once more, as we crossed the porch. “They all have plenty of questions about you.”

  I loved the open invitation, but I couldn’t bring myself to get started. Asking a barrage of personal questions just felt wrong and rude. “How about if there’s anything you want me to know about your life, you just tell me?” I suggested, giving the home’s front door a heavy rap. “Whatever it is, I’ll want to know because you wanted to tell me.”

  He frowned.

  “Coming!” a woman called from somewhere inside the home, successfully ending our conversation. A moment later, the door swung open, and a woman with disheveled hair and smeared-on lipstick squinted into the daylight. She leaned against the open door as if it was the only thing holding her upright. “Can I help you, sheriff?” she slurred, eyes fixed on Colton’s badge.

  “Mrs. Watkins?” he asked. “Wes Watkins’s mother?”

  “That’s right.” She groaned and pushed away from the door, leaving it open as she wandered back into the dimly lit home. She gathered her cigarettes and a lighter from the TV stand beside a worn-out recliner and lit up. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she rasped. “Come on in and tell me what Wes has done.”

  Colton and I exchanged looks. We stepped carefully into the home and set our bags on a coffee table lined in filthy ashtrays, toppled beer cans, and unfolded laundry. I took a seat on the couch, but Colton remained on his feet.

  “Wes hasn’t done anything,” I said. “We met last week, and I wanted to bring you both a few things. I’m Winona Mae Montgomery, by the way,” I
said, realizing too late that I hadn’t introduced myself. “I live at Smythe Orchard.”

  “I don’t suppose you got any hooch in those bags?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am.” I looked around, desperate to make small talk, but not sure what to say. “Is Wes home?”

  “He’s never home,” she groused. “He’s always working. Always leaving me here by myself.” She collapsed onto the recliner in a heap, dislodging a mangy black cat and about six pounds of loose hair. Her head lolled, and her lids drooped. “I’m always alone.”

  Colton tipped his head toward the door, and I stood, unsure what else to do. “We can see ourselves out,” Colton said. “Have a good day.”

  I paused in the doorway and gave the sad, sleeping woman another long look. How long had her son been caring for her? He said he’d quit high school because his mother was sick, but she wasn’t sick in the way I’d imagined. Wes’s mother was a drunk. And like too many others, she’d let her kid carry that burden. My heart ached for him and all the kids like him. And frankly for all the women like her, because surely no one wanted to be like that or feel like that. Yet, she did. “Will you let Wes know we came by?” I asked, projecting my voice to rouse her.

  “The minute I see him,” she said, her eyes opening briefly before slowly closing once more. She’d set her cigarette in the ashtray by her side with a dozen other finished ones, burning its way out while she fell back asleep.

  Colton stepped back through the door and snuffed it out.

  Wes’s mother didn’t even notice.

  * * *

  Business was slow back at the orchard. Granny had erected heaters under the tent, where she kept a register, prepackaged sweets, and produce. She was reading a book about raising geese and considering closing up for the day when I went to open the cider shop. I thought she should. Everyone needed a day off once in a while, and the continuously falling temperatures had put a stop to the festival fun.

  “I guess the reenactment wrapped up just in time,” Colton said, making himself at home on a stool at the bar. “It was fairly warm until yesterday.”

  “Things have a way of working out,” I said, moving to the business side of the counter.