The orchard smelled of ripe peaches and damp earth, but the air hung heavy with something bitter that August morning. Beth Crane stood in the shade of a gnarled tree, her fingers clutching the telegram that had summoned her home. The ink had bled slightly from her sweat, but the words still clawed at her.
"Robert Crane. Deceased. Return immediately."
She had traveled all night from Charleston, only to arrive at a house half-filled with murmurs and sideways glances. The parlor smelled faintly of honeysuckle and grief.
"Beth." Her mother, Eleanor, stood at the kitchen door, apron strings loose and gray streaks in her hair more pronounced than Beth remembered. "You’re here."
Beth folded the telegram and slipped it into her pocket. "I came as soon as I could. How ...how did it happen?"
Eleanor’s lips pursed. "Heart gave out. In his sleep, thank the Lord. He didn’t suffer."
But Eleanor’s voice trembled, betraying her. Beth glanced past her to the cluttered kitchen table where Aunt Mavis stirred tea with a spoon that scraped the ceramic. The sound made Beth’s shoulders stiffen.
"Why do I feel like there’s more to it?" Beth asked.
Aunt Mavis didn’t look up from the cup. "Because there is."
The words hung there, unspoken yet undeniable. Beth braced herself.
"Sit down, Beth," Eleanor said. She gestured toward the table, but her eyes darted to the window, toward the orchard. "There’s something we need to tell you."
The funeral brought them all out, neighbors, distant cousins, even the butcher who never quite forgave Robert for haggling over a ham. But the biggest stir wasn’t the preacher’s sermon or the heat that made men blot their collars.
It was her.
She stood on the edge of the graveyard in a navy dress that had gone out of fashion years ago. She held a boy’s hand—no older than twelve—and both of them had Robert’s sharp cheekbones and stubborn chin. Beth saw them before anyone else and felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.
"Who is that?" Beth whispered.
Eleanor gripped her wrist tightly. "Not here. Not now."
The whispers started anyway. The woman’s gaze never left the casket.
They sat around the kitchen that night the house too quiet without Robert’s heavy footsteps. Beth leaned forward, her elbows pressed against the table.
"Tell me the truth."
Eleanor didn’t meet her eyes. "Her name is Marion Clarke. She’s from Raleigh."
"And the boy?"
"His name is Henry." Eleanor’s voice cracked. "He’s your father’s son."
Beth shot to her feet, the chair scraping against the floorboards. "You’re saying that kid, that stranger ...is my brother?"
"Half-brother." Aunt Mavis stirred her tea again.
"Mavis—" Eleanor started, but Beth cut her off.
"How long have you known?"
Eleanor flinched. "Since last summer. He promised me it was over, that he’d only gone to settle things. I never ...I didn’t know about the boy until last week. Marion called. Said she deserved to come. Said Henry deserved to know."
Beth felt the blood roar in her ears. "And you let her? You let them come here, parade around like—"
"I didn’t let anything!" Eleanor’s voice cracked like a whip. "She had every right. I hated it, but Robert did this, not me."
Silence followed. Only the distant creak of the orchard swing dared to interrupt.
Henry appeared the next day, sitting under the old pecan tree with a book. Beth watched him from the kitchen window, her anger simmering. When she finally went outside, it wasn’t to greet him.
"You shouldn’t be here."
He looked up, wide-eyed and wary. "I didn’t ask to come."
"But you’re here anyway." She crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
"I don’t know." He shut the book. "Mama said I should come and see where he lived. Where he worked. She thought it might help."
Beth bit back a sharp reply. The boy looked too small for his clothes, like he’d grown faster than Marion could keep up.
"Did you love him?" she asked suddenly.
Henry blinked. "I guess so. He wasn’t around much. Just sometimes. Brought peaches and stories about the orchard."
Beth’s throat tightened. That was Robert, always two steps ahead of guilt, leaving just enough sweetness to make it hard to hate him.
By the end of the week, the orchard felt like a tinderbox ready to ignite. Neighbors gossiped. Customers came to buy peaches but lingered to glimpse Marion and Henry. Eleanor avoided town altogether.
Beth found herself in the packing shed late one night, surrounded by crates of peaches and shadows. She didn’t hear Marion until it was too late.
"I didn’t mean for any of this to happen."
Beth spun, startled. Marion stood near the doorway, pale in the dim light.
"You should go," Beth said.
Marion didn’t move. "I’m not here to fight. I just—I thought you should know. He wanted to tell you. About Henry. He just didn’t know how."
Beth scoffed. "That’s convenient."
"It’s the truth. He wrote letters. Never sent them, but I have them." Marion stepped closer. "You can read them if you want."
Beth’s fingers twitched, itching to reach for them, to rip them apart. But she stayed still. "Why did you come here?"
"Because Henry deserves better than secrets. And so do you."
Beth looked away, her anger waning like a fading storm. Outside, the orchard swayed gently in the breeze, its branches heavy with fruit.
The peaches ripened and fell. The gossip lingered but softened. Henry stayed through the harvest, his small hands learning to sort fruit beside Eleanor and Beth.
One night, Beth found herself showing him how to prune a branch properly. He watched closely, mimicking her movements.
"You’re not bad at this," she admitted.
He grinned. "Maybe it runs in the family."
Beth almost smiled. Almost.
She wiped her hands on her apron and turned back toward the trees, their roots as tangled and deep as the secrets they hid. Yet somehow, they still bore fruit.
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