Page 25 of Fall is Brewing

Calder Cider is still the new name in town. Hartley & Sons is the legacy. Today isn’t about beating her.

It’s about proving I belong in the room, beside her. Part of the town, part of the team. It’s about proving we can exist alongside each other and that there’s room here for competing cider orchards.

When I hear the door open behind me, I don’t need to look to know it’s her entering. The entire room shifts with her energy. Conversation dips a notch—not silent, just aware. A subtle tightening like everyone remembers there are sides.

I glance over my shoulder just in time to catch Willa Hartley stepping inside with a clipboard already tucked under her arm, pen clipped neatly at the top. She’s dressed for business—dark jeans, boots that have seen actual dirt, a sweater in that deep orchard green that makes her look less like a festival mascot and more like someone who belongs to the land.

She doesn’t scan the room for me and she definitely doesn’t hesitate. She walks straight to the front table and immediately begins reviewing the lineup like this is a board meeting instead of a pie tasting.

Composed, not territorial. Focused, not dramatic.

Marcy scurries over to her, already talking. Willa nods once, makes a small correction to the placement of two pies—numbers slightly out of order—and smooths a wrinkled label flat with the edge of her hand.

Detail-oriented.

I watch the way she leans down to read an ingredient list, lips moving slightly as she does the math in her head—moisture content, sugar balance, spice ratios. She’s not here for optics. She’s here to do it right.

Something in my chest shifts, small but undeniable.

I expected defensiveness.

I expected pride.

I didn’t expect precision.

She finally looks up—and this time, she does see me. There’s no exaggerated reaction, no flinching. Just a measured, professional glance that lands and holds.

If anyone else were watching, they’d see two judges acknowledging each other from across the room.

They wouldn’t see the current running under it. Hell, maybe that current is one-sided.

I step forward and cross the room to where she stands in front of the first pie.

“Morning,” I say evenly.

“Morning,” she replies, just as controlled.

Her grip tightens slightly on the clipboard and I notice that Willa doesn’t just come prepared. She comes armed.

She sets her clipboard down on the judging table like she’s claiming territory, and I notice immediately—it’s thicker than Marcy’s.

Tabbed. Color-coded. There’s a packet clipped to the back, pages neatly stapled.

“What’s all this?” I ask Willa and tap my finger to her clipboard.

“Just my notes from previous years. We usually get repeat entries and I like to look back to see how they’ve grown or changed their recipes. Or note if they didn’t change anything based on our notes from last year.”

I nod. Interesting. She clearly values growth and effort… something we have in common.

Marcy appears beside us at the table, her energy dialed to eleven.

“Judges!” she announces, like we’ve just been elected to public office. “I’m so thrilled you’re here. This is going to be wonderful. We have twelve pies, two alternates, and a very enthusiastic crowd.”

“I can see that,” I say, glancing at the cluster of townspeople hovering far too close for comfort.

Marcy beams and hands us a clipboard.

One clipboard.