I whooped so loud, jumping up and down, a marked tennis ball flew all the way into the sorting bin.
Uncle Sawyer hired Jay Hidalgo’s team to clean the trees the same way he’s done every year since before I was born. Harvest is a week of intense work for everyone involved, regardless of the number of trees suffering from root rot.
What’s different this year is the Hayes family’s presence looming over all of us.
We start every day early because it gets so hot by mid-afternoon. The workers finish before four, and they load up, going to wherever they stay for the night. I hang back in thepeach shed collecting baskets and stacking unused crates for tomorrow.
We bumped the harvest up a week, so Gina can have her wedding the weekend before the peach festival. It doesn’t make much difference in terms of output, but it does mean we’re working our asses off at the same time Mav is playing the final series for the Cup.
My body has been tense every day wanting to know what’s happening. I’ve been checking for texts from Gina and Haddy. The series started in LA, since the Champions have had the better season over the Frost. Gina explained how it goes to me, and since they traded off wins, the guys are now headed to Atlanta for the next two games.
Mom walks down from the house, carrying a basket of snacks, and Uncle Leon is with her, holding a cooler of what I’m sure is ice water. It’s so hot, I might hop on the four-wheeler and drive over to the creek for a polar plunge.
Kelani has run up and down the hill so much, she’s now sleeping on her back under the flatbed trailer. I take a picture to send to Maverick later.
We’ve been texting. I’ve been sending him pictures of Kelani and me, pictures of the harvest, pictures of the baskets full of fresh, golden peaches.
At night I send him pictures only the two of us can see. He calls, and we talk about all the things we’d do if we were together.
“You hungry, babe?” Mom walks over with a paper-wrapped chicken salad sandwich.
“I need to drink something first.” I walk over to where Leon has just put the cooler on the concrete ledge.
My uncle Sawyer has been talking to the foreman, and now when he walks over to us, his expression is grave. Themuscle in the side of his jaw moves, and when his eyes lift to my mom’s, his expression stops my breath.
“It crossed the line,” he tells her quietly, nodding in the direction of the grove. “Manny found dead leaves on the trees higher up.”
My eyes flash to the hill, and I drop the sandwich as a wobblyNoslips from my lips.
“Dove?” My father calls after me, but I’m already running.
I pass them, tree after tree filled with thick green leaves. The fruit has been picked clean by the crew of workers my uncle hired. They look the same, like they always have every season. But I heard what he said. I know what that look meant. I saw where he was pointing.
Terror clogs my throat, and tears are on my cheeks. My legs ache from running, but I can’t stop. I weave through the trees until I reach it, the oldest one. The twisted one that fought so hard and wouldn’t be uprooted. My grandfather’s tree.
Sliding to a stop, I plunge my hands into the leaves, moving them away one after the other, searching for it, blinking the blurry tears from my eyes as pain sinks my chest. I’m moving all around, feeling each leaf, fighting the truth.
“He’s wrong,” I gasp, closing in on the final section. “It hasn’t found you.”
My face drops along with my shoulders. I lean against the twisted trunk, wrapping my arms around the scratchy bark. I’m holding on with all my hope… Then I see it.
On the ground at the base, sprouting from the soil, a cluster of orange mushrooms.
I scream as I fall to my knees.
With my bare hands, I rip them out, shredding them inmy fingers. Then I start to dig. The hard soil tears the skin around my nails, but I don’t feel it. I claw into the ground, pulling the dirt away, searching for the roots.
I’m shaking and crying, tearing it from the earth. My skin is brown and my nails are bleeding.
“You can’t kill it!” I shout, my shoulders breaking with my sobs. “I won’t let you!”
“Stop, Dove.” Strong hands grip me, pulling me away from the spot. “Stop.”
My uncle Leon holds me against his chest, and I drop my head as I cry. The knot in my throat is a painful rock, sharp and dry.
“It’s too late,” I weep. “We lost. It’s too late.”
He rocks me in his arms, sliding his hand up and down my back, not saying anything.
