Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Once the trailers were in place, Connor got straight to business. In addition to cohosting Grimm Reality , he also produced it, so he spent the morning canvassing the orchards with his lead cameraman and discussing lighting, angles, and locations. Wicked Good Apples wasn’t as large as the apple farm across town, but the orchards were old and diverse and had a charming quality to them. The trees were gnarled and twisted, their blush-colored blossoms in striking contrast to the craggy branches. The grasses were tall between trees and the layout wasn’t always intuitive, but the more Connor traversed the orchards, the more he understood why Holly felt so strongly about them. There was something special here, something ancient and gothic and handcrafted in a way the larger apple farms with their homogenous trees could never be.

The Celeste house was accessed by a winding dirt driveway lined with massive maple trees, and beside the house was an old gray barn with a wood-burned sign that read: “Wicked Good Apples—’Nuff Said.” He hadn’t been inside the barn yet, but he knew it was where visitors paid for their apples and bought cookie cutters and apple pie filling in the fall.

Apple trees completely surrounded the property. The orchards at the far back abutted a forest thick with birches, beeches, and firs. A clear babbling brook snaked between the trees, and a set of weathered boards had been slapped across it to function as a bridge.

Everywhere Connor explored there were secrets to be found. Across the brook there was a little cow path that wound through a patch of new-growth birches, their papery skins peeling like little bits of ash in a fire. There was a ladder of gray boards nailed to an ancient ash on the far eastern end of the property, and when Connor looked upward, he found an old tree house, the roof caved in and the unmistakable script of children on the door that, although faded by time, he could still read: “No Boys Allowed.” There was an abandoned wagon in a wild barley field, and dirt patches beyond where he thought the women might grow pumpkins and gourds in the fall. The birds were out in full force, as was the sun, and by the time Connor returned to the trailer to consult with Charlotte, he found himself charmed stupid by the entire place.

Charmed and excited. It was the perfect setting for strange happenings.

After they discussed taking shots of the house and the Golden Delicious orchards first, Charlotte reminded him he had an appointment with Amy Gordon at three. Amy was a regular Wicked Good Apples customer and was eager to be interviewed about her weird experience at the orchards.

Connor glanced at his watch. He still had a couple hours before he had to head to Amy’s house with the film crew, and he’d spotted Holly and her sister pruning the apple trees in one of the older, obviously less used orchards by the brook. While their hands were distracted, it might be a good time to chat them up. People often wove bits of interesting information into their everyday conversations, and Connor was a collector of bits of information. Besides, he’d promised Holly he’d involve her, and that meant asking her along to the interview.

He strode across the grass and breathed in the sweet scents of blossoming clover. He’d spent the past month in the muggy swamps of Louisiana, and there was something to be said for stepping outside in May and not immediately breaking into a sweat. Connor was from Boston, so he wasn’t a newbie to New England, but he’d grown up in the city instead of in the fields, and sometimes when he was in a place like this, he wondered what he’d missed out on.

He found the sisters at the edge of the orchard, so close to the stream that he could hear the gurgle of water. He couldn’t tell which sister was with Holly since the two redheads were twins, as were the aunts. It was fascinating how twins so often ran in families. He wondered if Holly’s mother had been a twin or if she’d been an older singleton like Holly was.

Winter and Missy were both small, compact women with silky red curls and pixie-like noses, and he wouldn’t have been all that surprised if they’d had pointed ears. In general terms they were attractive women, but the minute he entered the row Holly and her sister were working in, his eyes zeroed in on Holly.

Unlike her sisters, her hair was straight and dark, and the hazel of her eyes had green undertones. Holly was a bit taller than the twins too, and although she was still shorter than him, she had the impressive ability to look down on him as if he were two feet tall instead of over six. She had high cheekbones, a lush mouth, and a figure that filled out her jeans and tank top in a way that made Connor’s blood heat. He thought women were beautiful in all shapes and sizes, but he personally preferred partners who had a little extra curve.

Holly bent over to clip a branch, and he gave a silent groan before forcing the visual from his head. Charlotte was right; he had zero business thinking about Holly in any way other than as a professional partner—not that he had to worry about mixing business with pleasure; Holly had made it clear where she stood on that when she’d left his motel room the night before.

The branch Holly severed drifted silently to the ground. Connor blinked. The branch had floated as if it were a leaf caught on the wind instead of tumbling to the grass with the force of gravity. He was almost sure of it, except he supposed it was possible it had caught on a lower branch and had only appeared to be suspended in the air in a way no object with mass should.

The sister lifted her head and stared at him, as if she’d been pinged by his presence. “Holly,” she said sharply. The moment she opened her mouth, he knew it was Winter. Winter had a challenging voice that he remembered from his first visit. She seemed like the type of person that could be a formidable foe or an equally formidable friend.

Holly’s shoulders stiffened, and with her next snip the branch dropped to the ground with a soft thud. The hairs on the back of Connor’s arms stood as he strode over to them. He was ninety-five percent certain he’d witnessed something not quite natural. “Hello, ladies. How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Winter answered, leaning on one hip and crossing her arms. “Have you seen the entire property?”

“Yes. It’s perfect,” he said simply.

Holly finally gave him the time of day, lowering her clippers and turning to smile up at him with such radiance that his heart stopped in his chest. He hadn’t seen her smile before, he realized—at least not like that. It was a smile filled with love and pride and joy for her orchards, and he had the sudden thought that if a woman ever smiled for him like that, he’d marry her on the spot.

Caught off guard by the unwelcome thought, he quickly added, “Perfect for filming.”

Holly’s smile faded along with the sparkle in her eye. “Right. Filming.”

Connor glanced away. When he looked back, he focused on Winter. He gestured to the gnarled apple trees that were slighter and twistier than all the rest. “Is this the original orchard?”

“Yes. When our great-great-grandmother planted the orchards, she started back here. The grounds are hilly enough that you can see this orchard from the front porch.” A sound trilled from Winter’s back pocket, and she pulled out her phone to silence it. “I have to run to the house and make sure Aunt Daisy takes her meds.”

“Oh, I’ll do that,” Holly offered, but Winter was already backing away, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Nope, I got it. Besides, you know our family history better than anyone, Holly. You should be the one to tell it.”

She plunged into the apple trees, ignoring Holly as she called after her.

Connor jammed his hands in his pockets and gave her his most disarming grin. “I guess you’re stuck with me.”

Holly glared at him before picking up Winter’s clippers and thrusting them at him. “If you’re going to make a nuisance of yourself, you might as well help.”

He must be losing his touch, Connor thought as he took the clippers. That grin usually charmed even the most stubborn of his detractors. He watched Holly work for a few minutes. Her assessments were swift, her movements sure. It was obvious she’d done this thousands of times and could probably prune a tree in her sleep. “You’re clipping away the smaller branches?”

“Yes, it allows for better growth of the larger branches.” She gestured to the tree beside her. “You can do that one.”

Connor circled the tree and severed a scraggly branch with a satisfying snip. The wood fell to the ground with a soft thump. “So, your great-great-grandmother planted this orchard first?” he prompted.

“Yes, Great-great-grandma Autumn started the orchards here, and generations after have added to it. It takes five to eight years for a new apple tree to bear fruit, so it requires time and patience to run an orchard. It’s not a get-rich-quick operation.”

Connor snipped another branch and swatted at a fly that was buzzing around his ear. “Did she intend for it to be open to the public?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” Holly’s greenish-gray eyes narrowed, unimpressed by his play at ignorance. “Two hundred years ago farms were mostly self-sufficient. She planted them for her family.” Holly glanced away to work on the tree, but before she did, Connor thought he spotted a flash of disingenuity in her eyes. A half-truth, then. But why?

“Did she have a large family?”

“Three girls.”

He let the shears lower. “An older girl and a set of twins?”

Snip. Snip. “Yes.”

Well, that was interesting. It would be very rare for the same birth order to be repeated each generation. So rare, in fact, that it was almost impossible.

“Was your grandmother from here?” he asked casually.

“No. Switzerland. She immigrated alone, then she met a local farmer, fell in love, and started this place.”

He wanted to ask about her mother, but he knew if he pried too much, she’d close down completely, so he stuck to history. She seemed more comfortable talking about that, and there was plenty to learn from the past, especially if there was a ghost haunting the place.

Holly walked over to him and pointed to a weak branch he’d missed. “That one,” she said. She was close enough that he could see the perspiration beading along her hairline. He breathed deeply, annoyed by the effect her mint and berry shampoo seemed to have on him.

He clipped the growth and then rested his arm on a thick branch. “Your great-great-grandmother’s name was Autumn. And your aunts are Daisy and Rose. What is your mother’s name?”

“Her name was Lilac.”

Was. That was right, he’d read an article about the car accident in the sheath of papers Charlotte had handed him. If he remembered right, the news clipping had been frustratingly vague about the cause of the wreck.

“Daisy, Rose, and Lilac—all spring flowers. And you and your sisters are named Holly, Winter, and Missy.” He frowned when he got to Missy, which didn’t fit in with the obvious winter theme. He didn’t remember seeing any other name in his research. “Is that her real name?”

Holly’s lips twitched. “She had it legally changed. She was named Mistletoe, but don’t tell her I told you.”

Connor grimaced and Holly laughed out loud. He liked her laugh: it was deep and throaty and genuine. “Poor girl.”

“Yeah, I don’t really know what our mom was thinking.”

“Every generation of girls is named after a season?”

“Yes. When we’ve gone through all four seasons, we cycle through them again. Because our aunts and mother had spring names, my sisters and I should have had summer names, but our mother had a habit of doing what she wanted. Cutesy, isn’t it?”

Cutesy was one explanation. Deeply spiritual and elemental was another.

Connor waved his hand to shoo the annoying fly off Holly’s shoulder. When his fingertips accidentally grazed her skin, she inhaled quietly. His eyes involuntarily fell to her mouth before returning to her hazel gaze. “So you’re just a cute family with generations of totally normal women running an apple farm?”

The fly landed on her forearm, and he brushed it away again, but this time he left his fingertips on her smooth skin, which was hot from the sun. Without thinking about what he was doing, he slid his hand up to cup her elbow.

Holly’s eyes widened and she blurted, “Yup, that’s us: totally normal.”

They stood beneath the flowering apple trees, his palm cradling her elbow and his eyes searching hers as if he could read all of her secrets if only he looked deeply enough. He swore the air thickened around them like an atmospheric bubble.

“Good to know,” he murmured. “For a minute there I thought you might be witches.”