Walker tried to keep up with Grammy, though her pace surprised him. For someone in her seventies, she moved through the water like she'd been doing it all her life. Which, he supposed, she had.
“Careful with the scoop,” she said, glancing over to Fernando. “You go too fast, and you’ll just push them away.”
Walker adjusted his grip on the wooden handle and dipped the scoop into the water. He pulled it toward him slowly, watching the berries tumble into the wire basket.
“Good job, Walker. You’re a pro at this.” Grammy patted his shoulder.
“Really?” He smiled wistfully. “I could do this all day.”
“That’s longer than my grandkids ever lasted,” she said with a chuckle. “They help because they have to, but they don’t love it as you do.”
“Maybe they won’t mind if I help you now,” he said. “We’re moving here, you know.”
Grammy hid a smile. “Gerard told me.”
A gust of wind rippled across the bog, sending the floating cranberries shifting like tiny red marbles. They worked for a while in comfortable silence. The scrape of scoops and distant chatter from Fernando and Pug drifted across the water.
Finally, Walker said, “Did you enjoy doing this when you were a kid?”
“I did, through all the tough times and good,” she replied. “Dad and I would tend it, then in the fall, family came out to help.” She scooped another row of berries, guiding them into the boom. “They didn’t complain, though,” she added. “Back then, this meant Thanksgiving pies and keeping the farm running another year.”
Walker nudged a cluster of berries toward her line. “Can I help each fall? After this year, I’ll have a lot more free time.”
“Well,” she said, “someone’s gotta keep the tradition alive.”
Walker scooped another basketful of cranberries, watching them shine deep red against the gray water. “Maybe I will.”
She smiled but didn’t look at him, just kept working. “That would make me very happy.”
After a while, about half the berries had been harvested. Grammy looked over them proudly. “You three did a very good job. Now, I think it’s time I show you my surprise.”
“Is it more work?” Pug asked, snickering. “Walker said you all stayed busy in Hobson Hills, and I’m starting to believe it.”
“Eh.” Grammy shrugged. “It kinda is more work.”
They climbed back onto the dock and took off the waders, leaving them in a wet pile. Walker fully intended to come back and finish the harvest.
“This way,” Grammy said, walking toward the house in the forest.
The building sat alone at the edge of the cranberry bog, looking like an exhausted grandparent. Its gray wooden siding had long ago lost whatever paint once protected it, leaving the boards silvered and rough from years of wind and rain. A narrow porch wrapped around the front, its railings crooked, one post braced by a weathered plank that looked almost as old as the house itself.
It was still picturesque, though. The cranberry vines stretched out in long red carpets across the low fields, their color deep and dark in the fading afternoon light, and behind the house, tall pines and maples stood close together, their leaves halfway through turning. Rust-colored maple leaves drifted lazily down, gathering along the porch steps and across the packed dirt path that led from the bog. The wind carried the smell of damp earth and cold water, the perfect autumn scent.
“The inside is a lot nicer,” Grammy said, opening the door. “Come take a look.”
Inside, smooth hardwood floors gleamed. A large living room, kitchen, and dining area lay open. The appliances looked brand new, shining silver. The counters were white with dark, swirling marble tops, and a small kitchen island sat in the middle of the space. A stack of papers lay there.
“There’s a bathroom at the back,” Grammy said, leading them through. “Come look upstairs.”
One spacious room with a private bathroom was on one side, and two smaller rooms with a connecting bathroom were on the other.
One upstairs window of the house hung slightly open, its screen rattling faintly whenever the wind picked up. The glass panes were uneven and old, warping the view of the bog beyond them so the red fields seemed to ripple even when the air was still.
The place had the quiet of age. Somewhere that had seen many seasons come and go. Beyond it all, the cranberry bog stretched toward the hayfield, while the old house kept its silent watch at the edge of the field.
“Wow,” Fernando said, looking around. The inside is gorgeous, Grammy. You all did a really nice job fixing it up.”
“We were motivated with love.” Grammy smiled softly. “Mateo, Abel, and Valentina helped a lot, too.”
