The Simplicity of Cider

She pulled two bottles from the fridge and popped them open.

Isaac took a long swig from the unmarked bottle. He’d tasted her cider before, but this bottle was completely different, yet just as wonderful. The apple was more prominent, yet not sweet, almost funky but in a good, blue-cheese way. He held the bottle up to the light and could see the sediment swirling in the bottom.

“This is amazing—so different from the other one.”

Sanna grinned.

“You really like Olive? I wasn’t sure when I blended it. Not everyone likes the murkiness.”

“Olive?”

Sanna leaned against the counter, putting her weight on her wrist as she studied him for a long moment, her eyes squinting. She took a long drink from her own bottle.

“I see colors when I make ciders. I can’t explain it. Each juice has its own hue. That’s what those paintings represent.” She pointed at the watercolors over the fireplace. “A new color comes to me, and I blend the juices until I can re-create it in the flavor. And this one is Olive.”

“You color-code your ciders?” He struggled to understand what she was telling him.

“No.” She reached across the counter and pulled her journal toward her. She opened it and handed it to Isaac. As she sipped her cider, he studied the page, then the next page, then the next. On each was a swatch of layered color, all wildly different from one another—reds, greens, teals, colors he didn’t really have names for. Next to the colors were measurements, apple varieties, percentages, and flavor notes. Scribbles filled the margins and equations contained both numbers and words. Things like sugars and acidity were measured and tested. It was part recipe book, part coloring book, and part wine label, with a hint of spell book. Looking at it was like opening a tiny door into the back of her head. She saw things that no one else did, an imaginary world of cider only she could see.

“You can see the color in your head?”

“It’s the easiest way to explain it. A color pops into my head, and I know what it will taste like. When I blend the different raw ciders together, I know I have it right when it matches what I’ve imagined.” She pulled her journal back toward her, then finished off her cider. Isaac did the same. She pulled two more bottles out of the fridge and popped the caps with steady movements. She moved the way tree branches sway in a breeze, slow and graceful, but full of power.

“Do you have a whole rainbow in there?”

“There are a few rainbows in there. That’s part of the problem. All stock, no sales. Here’s Chartreuse.”

Sanna walked around to the stools on the other side of the counter, pulling a hunk of bread with her. She ripped it in two and gave half to Isaac, oil dripping off her fingers.

“Why no sales? Anyone who likes cider would snap this up.” He stuffed the sopping bread in his mouth, the soft middle giving way as he bit into the crispy, oil-drenched bottom. It was just what he needed, as the cider had gone straight to his head.

“I have no idea what to do or where to start. We sell them at the stand, but there’s not enough traffic there to make the sales we’d need to justify the equipment Pa bought.”

“The website and social media can help a bit there.” He took a drink of his fresh bottle. This cider sang of crisp apples, fresh and green, not too sweet, not too tart—refreshing and easy drinking. He took another gulp, then ate more bread as he settled onto a stool next to this remarkable woman. She licked the olive oil and clinging sesame seeds off her fingers. “Ready to tell me why you decimated this scrumptious bread?”

Sanna spun her bottle in her hands and pursed her lips.

“I think my brother is right.” She closed her eyes as she spoke, and Isaac noticed how her pale eyelashes disappeared into her cheeks, then slowly darkened as they let a few new tears escape. When she opened her eyes again, wiping the tears and pushing her lashes into soggy clumps, she stared at him directly, not shying away from what she had to say. “My father mortgaged everything for the cider-making equipment, and I don’t even have labels for the bottles. This place is my sanctuary, but where can I go when we sell my safe place? Or when they knock it down?”

Isaac nodded to let her know he was listening to every word. Even though he had heard similar things from Anders and Einars, he wanted her to continue. He wanted to hear what she had to say about it.

“Growing up tall and rural wasn’t always easy. I didn’t have a mom to walk me through the changes. I towered over the boys, so they never wanted to dance with me, not even Thad, and he was my best friend in middle school.” Isaac’s fist clenched automatically. Another reason not to like that jerk. Sanna continued. “But no matter how gangly and awkward dances and high school clubs made me feel, I could always come home and feel safe, climb the trees, eat our apples, stare at the sky between swaying branches. Thinking about leaving makes my lungs stop working.” She held a hand to her chest. “To answer your question about the bread—it had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What can I do?” He meant it. Every word. He wanted to help her keep her home, the one she deserved. He understood the importance of needing a safe space.

“See us through the season, then get your boy back to his mom. It seems like he misses her.”

Isaac swallowed the last of his cider, hoping it would drown the guilt bubbling up from the mention of Bass’s mom. He ignored it and focused on Sanna, a plan already forming to help the Lunds keep Idun’s.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


Sanna took a deep breath, though her chest still tightened from all she had learned last night. And all she had said. She’d never shared her family gift with anyone but her dad. She never even spoke to Anders about it, though he, at least, knew the family legends. Isaac hadn’t thought she was crazy. He’d looked at her like he was intrigued. She wanted to tell him more about it, more about her, listen to his reassurances of help. But first she had one very important apology to make.

She looked out the kitchen window to see Isaac and Bass standing in the shade of the barn. She stuffed the last of her breakfast into her mouth, grabbed her hat from the peg, and avoided looking at her dad. She still hadn’t spoken to him about the bills and she still couldn’t wrap her head around how she wanted to approach him. While last night she’d felt as defeated as he did, the morning promised new possibilities. There had to be another way—they just weren’t looking at the problem from the right angle.

As Sanna approached them, Bass stepped closer to his father’s side. That was okay. She had made him afraid of her and she accepted that she had earned the guilty feeling in her stomach.

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