Page 1 of Fall is Brewing

CHAPTER 1

Willa

Autumn doesn’t arrive in Orchard Falls quietly.

It crashes in like it owns the place.

The air smells like apples and damp leaves and campfire, like someone turned the saturation up on the entire town overnight. The mountains surrounding us have started their slow, dramatic costume change—greens bleeding into golds, rusts, and deep reds that make tourists pull over on the side of the road, phone cameras in hand, like they’ve just spotted a celebrity.

Which, in Orchard Falls, they kind of have.

I stand at the edge of our orchard with a clipboard tucked under my arm, boots already dusted with dirt and apple pulp, and watch the morning sun cut through the rows of trees like it’s blessing them personally.

Dew clings to the grass. The occasional apple thuds softly to the ground as our small crew works their way down the rows, laughter drifting between the trunks.

This is the season.

My season.

And also the season that might finally break me.

“Careful with those,” I call out, even though I know better. I always do this—hovering, fretting, mother-henning a process that’s been done the same way for decades.

Eli lifts an apple in response, perfectly red and unblemished. “Relax, boss. We’re treating them better than most people treat their children.”

I snort despite myself. “As you should.”

Because these apples matter.

Everything here matters.

Hartley & Sons Orchard has been in my family for three generations. My great grandfather planted the first trees by hand, stubborn and optimistic and apparently immune to blisters. My grandfather expanded it, turning the original idea into the legacy it now is in town. And my father modernized it just enough to keep us competitive without losing the soul of the place. And now it’s mine—every creaking barn door, every cider tank, every expectation soaked into the soil.

Some people inherit jewelry or furniture.

I inherit pressure.

There was quite the debate in my family over the name—Hartley & Sons. I’m no one’s son. But as my father pointed out, that’s besides the point. If it was up to him, we’d simply rename the place Hartley Orchard. “It was damn stupid and presumptuous of your great grandfather to name it that, anyway! As if he’d only ever have sons in this lineage.” Dad had bristled in the past while Grandpa simply waved a hand at him.

“It was just a figure of speech my daddy used!” he’d argue. “You know I believe in my WillaBug here being able to run the place, gender be damned.”

Even still… I have a lot to live up to. And it’s my first year taking over entirely. Sure, Dad and Grandpa are still around, but I have the keys to the place officially now. Figuratively and literally since Dad is ready to retire and start traveling the world with my stepmom, Patty.

I turn away from the crew and head toward the main barn, the sound of my boots changing from grass to packed dirt to worn wooden planks. Inside, the air is cooler and sweet with fermentation. Rows of stainless-steel tanks line the wall, quietly doing their magic. Bubbles rise lazily inside the glass gauges, like the cider is breathing.

I rest my hand against one of the tanks, feeling the faint hum beneath my palm.

Two weeks.

Two weeks until the Orchard Falls Cider Competition.

Two weeks until everyone in Orchard Falls—and every tourist within a fifty-mile radius—gets a taste of whether Hartley & Sons still deserves its reputation.

For years, winning had been a given. We competed against dozens of orchards all over New England for the Orchard Falls Autumn Festival. We took home ribbons like clockwork—Best Cider Overall, Most Traditional, Best Spiced. My dad used to joke that they should just engrave our name ahead of time and save themselves the effort. We took home so many ribbons… except for the People’s Choice. Our town loves us… and yet, we haven’t won the blind ‘People’s Choice’ taste test in years.

Then last year happened. They happened.

I grab my clipboard and scan the latest numbers, even though I’ve already memorized them. Sugar levels are right where I want them. Fermentation is steady. Everything is technically perfect.