Kent Orchard
"During apple harvest, cider maker Patricia takes on a volunteer worker who's running from London—and discovers he has unexpected talents."
The orchard stretched across the Weald like a painter's dream—rows of ancient trees heavy with fruit, the particular golden light of Kent in September. I'd been making cider here for forty years, since I'd inherited the farm from parents who'd inherited it from theirs. It was in my blood, like the tannins in the apples.
"I'm looking for work." The man who'd appeared at my gate was clearly city—the shoes alone gave it away. "I can do anything. I'm a quick learner."
"Do anything, can you? Ever picked apples?"
"No."
"Pressed them? Tended trees? Spent fifteen hours on your feet in harvest season?"
"No, no, and not recently."
I should have sent him away. Instead, something in his eyes—desperation, maybe, or just genuine need—made me sigh and open the gate.
"Two-week trial. Minimum wage. You sleep in the barn conversion and you work when I tell you to work."
"Thank you." The relief on his face was almost embarrassing. "I'm Stephen, by the way."
"Patricia. Don't thank me yet. Harvest is hell."
He wasn't wrong about being a quick learner. Within three days, Stephen could identify apple varieties by sight. Within a week, his picking speed matched my regular workers. He asked questions constantly—not annoying questions, but intelligent ones about fermentation and tannins and the chemistry of cider-making.
"Why this?" he asked one evening, both of us exhausted, watching the sun set over trees that had witnessed centuries.
"Why anything?" I handed him a glass of last year's vintage. "The orchard needed someone. I was here."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer." I sipped my cider. "What are you running from, Stephen? And don't say you're not running—you've got that look."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I was a lawyer. Corporate. Made a lot of money helping companies do things I'm not proud of. One day I looked in the mirror and couldn't stand what I saw."
"So you came to an orchard."
"I came to somewhere simple. Somewhere I could see the results of my work. Somewhere the ethics were straightforward—grow things, make things, sell things to people who want them."
"Ethics in cider." I laughed despite myself. "Never thought of it that way."
"Everything has ethics. The question is whether you're paying attention."
The two-week trial became a month, then two. Stephen's legal mind found applications in the business side—contracts I'd been neglecting, regulations I'd been ignoring, opportunities I'd been missing. The orchard prospered in ways it hadn't in years.
"You're good at this," I admitted one evening. We'd moved from the field to my kitchen, sharing dinner that had become routine. "Better than anyone I've hired."
"I have good motivation."
"The simplicity? The ethics?"
"Partly." His eyes met mine. "And partly you."
I was fifty-eight years old. My husband had died a decade ago, and I'd long since accepted that love was a young person's game. But Stephen was looking at me like I was something worth wanting, and my body—traitor that it was—responded.
"I'm old enough to be your mother."
"You're twelve years older than me. And I'm not young." He reached across the table. "Patricia. I know this isn't conventional. But I've spent my whole life doing conventional things, and it made me miserable. Here, with you, I'm actually happy."
"You're happy picking apples."
"I'm happy being useful. Being real." His hand found mine. "And I'm happy when I'm around you. That doesn't have to mean anything, but I thought you should know."
I kissed him because I was too old for games and too tired for pretense. His mouth was gentle, questioning, giving me space to retreat. I didn't retreat. I pulled him closer and let the thing that had been building between us finally ignite.
"Bedroom," I said when we broke apart.
"Are you sure?"
"I've been sure for weeks. I was just too stubborn to admit it."
My bedroom hadn't seen a man in ten years. But Stephen didn't comment on the dust or the solitary pillow—he just looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"You're beautiful," he said as I undressed.
"I'm weathered."
"Like the orchard. Beautiful because of the years, not despite them."
He proved his words with his body—hands that found every place loneliness had settled and warmed them, mouth that told me things words couldn't express. When he finally moved inside me, it was with a gentleness that made me cry for reasons I couldn't explain.
"There," he whispered. "I've got you. Let go."
I let go. Years of solitude, years of telling myself I didn't need this, years of watching couples walk through my orchard and pretending I wasn't envious. It all released in waves that left me gasping, clinging to him while he followed me over the edge.
"Stay," I said afterward. Not a question—a statement.
"I wasn't planning to leave."
"I mean really stay. The barn conversion's fine, but..." I gestured at the bed. "This is better."
"Considerably better." He kissed my forehead. "Are you offering me a job and a home?"
"I'm offering you whatever you want. Within reason."
"Then I want this. The orchard, the cider, the woman who makes both." He pulled me closer. "I spent forty years building a life I hated. I'd like to spend however many I have left building something I love."
The orchard's in both our names now. Stephen handles the business while I handle the trees, and we meet in the middle for everything else. The cider's won awards. The farm's profitable. And every evening, when the work is done, we sit on the porch and watch the sunset over trees that have witnessed centuries of love—and are witnessing ours.
Some people find redemption in grand gestures. Stephen found it in apples and ancient trees and a woman who'd stopped looking for love because she thought she'd already had her share. Turns out the orchard had one more harvest waiting—the one we built together, sweeter than any cider we've ever made.