The Simplicity of Cider

“You can’t keep ignoring me or the truth. The orchard is wildly in debt, mostly because of all your new cider equipment.” He flipped through the papers, pulling out one covered in numbers. Sanna looked out the window. Every day since her dad surprised her with the trailer full of new equipment, guilt had weaseled into her thoughts. Before then, cider had been about pleasure, making what inspired her—now all that expensive equipment waited unused. She didn’t know if she could make such large batches, if they would still be good, and if she failed, they would lose it all. Avoidance was the only coping strategy she had left.

“Why are you always against us? You can’t come in here and tell Dad he’s doing it wrong when you are never here. He has a plan and has been running Idun’s fine without you. Stick to real estate.”

Anders sighed and looked at her the way only an older brother could, full of exasperation and love. Or at least tolerance.

“I’m not against you. I’ve never been against you, but I am a realist and selling the orchard is real estate . . . so if anything, I’m more of an expert than you are.” He held out the sheet with all the numbers Sanna was not looking at. “Dad hasn’t been doing okay. He’s making decisions based on your turning a profit with the cider, but you aren’t selling the stock you do have.”

“I sell it.”

“Mrs. Dibble and Thad do not count as a thriving business, and I’m pretty sure you lost Thad as a customer.”

“I sell more than that.” Sanna crossed her legs and arms. Sanna knew it was petty, but he brought out the worst in her. She didn’t know where to begin, who to ask, or the first thing about selling. She only knew about making.

He waved the paper for her to take, then gave up and set it back on top of his pile.

“If you claim you want what is best, you’ll consider the offer. Do you really want Dad to have to work until the day he dies? Shouldn’t he be able to enjoy some form of retirement?” he asked. Sanna just stared at him. “If we sold the orchard, he would never have to worry about anything.”

“But what about me? What would I do?”

Anders set the WWW brochure on her lap.

“Everything isn’t about you, Sanna.”

She ignored the itch at the back of her mind created by Anders’s words, worried that if she scratched it, they’d be true. Dad believed in the orchard, in her, in family. So she would, too.

Anders had packed up his car and left the orchard. Sanna had unfolded the WWW brochure, looking at the frothy water slides and tacky cartoon wave that was the company’s logo. Out the window, she tried to imagine a hotel and whining children in inflatable water wings and distracted parents, the scent of chlorinated water replacing ripening apples and summer sun–warmed grass. She couldn’t imagine their beautiful orchard destroyed for this type of monstrosity.

As she had stared out the window, lights flickered at the edge of the orchard. Kids sometimes snuck in with blankets on warm summer nights—the dancing fireflies made a romantic background for frenzied teenage romps. She could certainly understand the allure—it would have been her first choice, too. She made a note to check the area tomorrow for any garbage they might leave behind and stuck it on her journal.

This morning, Sanna peeled that note off her journal and decided to check it out before Isaac and Bass arrived. Elliot trundled over the ground as she recited the list of chores she needed to accomplish. Spray the Looms, mow the grass near the new trees, take dad to PT and doctor, and check on the early harvests. If time permitted, they could start organizing the farm stand.

? ? ? ? ?

She stopped the truck a few trees away from where she had seen the lights. The apples here were starting to blush a pale pink. From experience, she knew these Galas would be entirely red in a few weeks. Sanna trailed her fingers over them, their perfect skin evidence that she could run the orchard. She’d been in charge and making the decisions and everything was going well. Anders didn’t know what he was talking about.

Her eyes scanned the ground for empty cans or stray condom wrappers—it wouldn’t be the first time, and she certainly didn’t want Bass to find those. One of the kids must have left a tennis ball, odd. She bent to pick up the green orb before her, hard like a baseball, and then her stomach dropped.

All around her, the ground was covered with little green apples. At first her eyes didn’t register what she saw, her mind rejecting the possibility. She glanced at the trees down the row and a carpet of unripe apples speckled the ground. If it had been a few weeks from now, she could have gathered them up and let them sweeten, but it was too early for that. They were lost.

Her stomach churned. Who would intentionally pick and discard apples? That was a lot of work to handpick them. She looked above and only a few apples on the tallest branches remained. Why would horny teens do this? She’d never given them a hard time about sneaking onto her property. If anything, she was more tolerant than the other neighboring farms.

The sick feeling in her stomach turned to rage at the unknown saboteur. Were they even a big enough operation for another orchard to sabotage? How dare someone do this to her trees? Adding insult to injury, the culprits had yanked the apples off too far up the stem, meaning there would be no buds next year. Only four trees lost their apples, but that was two years’ worth of crops, and what if they came back tonight to do more damage? Her body grew more exhausted with each new question. The last thing she needed was a sleepless night keeping watch for punk kids. By the time she got back to the barn, her blood was on a steady simmer. Einars and Isaac had already left in the ATV, leaving her alone with Bass. She had hoped to talk it over with her dad alone first.

“Hey, Miss Lund, how ya doing?”

She nodded. “Hi, Bass. I’ll be with you in a second.”

She was still adjusting her schedule for the day as she entered the barn to get her journal and list of to-dos. Bass followed her in, tossing a baseball from one hand to the next. She picked up her journal and turned to see Bass throw the ball high in the air and take a couple of steps back to catch it. She saw the crash unfold in slow motion and before she could say a word, he backed into the tower of crates. Each crate was full of empty bottles waiting for cider, cider she hadn’t had time to bottle because she’d been too busy caring for her father and running the orchard. She watched Bass bump them and the stack wobbled once, then twice, like a tower of blocks assembled by a toddler. It reminded her of a swaying tree in a windstorm, except that there were no roots to keep the crates safely planted, and the tower toppled in a thunder of smashed wood and shattered glass.

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