When I was thirteen and Bastian came home from one of his tours, he brought me a present from Europe. A snow globe with a camera inside. Photography was my obsession at that age,and I’d been shocked that Bastian had remembered such a small detail from a kid who was just his best friend’s younger brother.
Of course that turned my small crush into a new obsession. After Bastian left a couple of weeks later, I added my initials to theirs.
I used to think that having the same initial in my surname as Bastian was a sign that we were meant to be together. When Jackson saw it weeks later, he teased me endlessly about it, but he never broke the promise he made to not tell Bastian.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if we were running the farm together, if he were still here and not buried on the north side of the orchard.
I push those thoughts away as I approach the farmhouse. The Halls never lock their door during daylight hours—never have, probably never will. That trust in their community and neighbors is part of what makes them who they are.
I close my eyes, drawing in a breath. Somewhere inside, Bastian is probably moving through the rooms like he never left, like twenty-five years of absence can be erased by good intentions and a change of address. The thought makes my fingers tighten around the basket handle until the wood creaks in protest.
I put my hand against the door, knowing all it needs is a little push to open. This isn’t about Bastian or the past or the way my stomach knots every time I see him across a fence line. I’m just here to bring Sylvie the apples she asked for, something I’ve done countless times since I was a kid.
I push the door and step inside, leaving the quiet of the snow-covered world behind.
The kitchen is filled with the scent of cinnamon and coffee. Sylvie stands at the counter, her hands dusted with flour, while Bastian leans against the sink in that casual way that draws my eyes to his bulging arm muscles and makes my mouth waterdespite my brain’s protests. Their conversation drops away as I enter, but not before I catch the thread of it.
“I knew they wouldn’t stay away from your cooking for long,” Bastian is saying. “Stone’s already asking about your apple pie.”
I clear my throat, announcing my presence properly. “Speaking of apples…” I lift the basket slightly, drawing Sylvie’s attention.
“Oh, Taylen!” Her face lights up as she wipes her hands on her apron. “Perfect timing. I was just telling Bastian about our plans for Thanksgiving.” She gives me a hug. “Which reminds me, you’ll join us this year, won’t you? The whole band’s coming.”
It’s impossible to miss Bastian’s subtle shift in posture. His shoulders draw back slightly, his weight shifting away from my direction.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” I say, though with Bastian’s reaction, I’m tempted to accept the invitation just to piss him off.
“Nonsense. You’re family.” The words land heavily on my chest. Family isn’t a word I hear often these days, especially not when it includes me.
Ever since my parents retired to Florida years ago, it's been just me, and despite the frequent calls and their annual visit in the summer, sometimes it does feel like I don't have a family of my own.
I set the basket on the counter, taking the chance to steal another glance at Bastian. His jaw moves silently under his salt-and-pepper beard, the muscle there jumping like he’s working extra hard to hold back words. “Well,” I say, deliberately maintaining eye contact with him, “in that case, I’d love to come.”
Sylvie claps her hands together, sending a small flour cloud into the air. “Wonderful! It’ll be just like old times. A full house, everyone together.”
Bastian pushes off from the sink. “I should check on the heifers,” he says, but I wonder if it’s just an excuse to leave. “Thanks for the apples, Taylen.” My name sounds strange coming from his mouth, formal and distant.
“Any time,” I reply, matching his tone. Our eyes meet briefly, and I catch something there, frustration maybe, or annoyance, before he looks away.
Sylvie watches him go, her expression softening into something that reminds me of my mom. “Okay, how about a slice of fresh cinnamon bread? I won’t take no for an answer.”
Knowing it’s pointless to refuse, and because she’s the closest I’ll get to having a present parent, I take a seat at the large table.
Steam rises in delicate curls from the bread, carrying the scent of cinnamon and comfort across the kitchen table. Sylvie gives me the heel, my favorite piece since childhood, without asking, and a cup of steaming coffee.
“So,” she says, settling into her chair with her own slice and mug, “tell me about your plans for the Thanksgiving market. I need the scoop so I can get my hands on your best stuff before everyone gets here.” Her reading glasses hang from a chain around her neck, swinging slightly as she leans forward. “Griffin mentioned something about special ciders this year?”
I tear off a piece of bread, letting its warmth seep into my fingers. “Three new varieties. There’s a spiced apple-pear that’s been aging since September, and I’ve been experimenting with adding cranberries to the traditional hard cider.” The bread melts on my tongue, perfect as always. “Plus, a nonalcoholic mulled cider that I think the kids will like. Both pair nicely with one of your cheeses.”
“I’ll ask Griffin to place our stalls next to each other.” She pauses, glancing around to make sure no one is listening. “Though I do hope he doesn’t put us anywhere near Margaret Thornfield. That woman has been telling everyone who’ll listenthat her preserves are made from some ancient family recipe, when I know for a fact she bought those jars from the general store in Millbrook and just switched the labels.”
I laugh as I eat another piece of my bread. Sylvie’s not wrong about Margaret.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the kitchen quiet except for the tick of the old wall clock. Sylvie’s presence has always been like this, steady, nurturing. It’s no wonder Hall of Fame is known for retiring to anundisclosedlocation in rural Vermont.
If only the public knew.
It’s not even hard to not bump into them in town when they’re around, but somehow, from the very start, there was this unspoken rule among the townspeople that Winterberry could be known for a lot of things, but not for hosting the biggest rock band in the country between tours.
