Frankie and Cami took turns stirring the apples as they cooked down, and the kitchen filled with the most amazing smell. Maggie showed them how to test if they were done: they should be soft enough to mash easily but not so cooked that they turned to mush.
“Some people like chunky applesauce, some like it smooth,” she explained. “We make both. The chunky stuff we just mash with a potato masher. The smooth stuff we run through a food mill.”
They spent the next hour filling jars with applesauce, wiping the rims clean, putting on the lids, and processing them in a big pot of boiling water. Maggie explained each step carefully, making sure the girls understood why they were doing it. Frankie hung on Maggie’s every word, and despite the twinge of jealousy, I loved seeing her learn new things.
“This is how people survived before refrigeration,” she said. “Canning, drying, smoking, salting, all different ways to preserve food so you could eat in winter. We’re lucky we have cold storage and refrigeration now, but canning is still important. It’s a way to add value to the apples, to turn them into something people will pay more for.”
“How much do you sell a jar for?” I asked.
“Six dollars for a pint, ten for a quart,” Maggie said. “Which is way more than we’d get for the same amount of fresh apples. So it makes economic sense, even though it’s a lot of work.”
“Everything you do is a lot of work,” I said quietly.
Maggie shrugged. “That’s farming. But it’s good work. Honest work. And at the end of the day, I can look at a shelf full of applesauce jars and know that we made that, that it’ll feed people and bring in money and help us get through the winter.”
By the time they finished, they had three dozen jars of applesauce cooling on the counter, their lids making little popping sounds as they sealed. Maggie checked each one, pressing on the lid to make sure it didn’t flex.
“Perfect,” she said with satisfaction. “These are good.”
Dinner was simple but delicious: soup made from vegetables that had been canned earlier in the fall, and fresh bread that Maggie had made that morning. We all ate together at the big kitchen table, and it felt like being part of a big, chaotic, happy family.
Which reminded me…
“Maggie, Frankie and I were invited to spend Thanksgiving at the clubhouse in Diamond Creek. We’d love for you all to come with us if you don’t have plans,” I said.
“Please, Maggie?” Cami pleaded.
“I don’t know,” Maggie hesitated.
“I’ve met almost all of them,” Rhoda said. “They are a great bunch of guys.”
“Please, Maggie.” I reached forward and placed my hand over hers. “You are the only person I really know here. Don’t make me go alone.”
Maggie smiled and rolled her eyes. “Fine, we can go to the clubhouse for Thanksgiving.” Frankie and Cami cheered. “But”— Maggie interrupted their celebration, holding up her finger, then pointing it at everyone around the table—“you are all helping me make pies next week to take with us. We will not show up empty-handed.”
The kids groaned, but Maggie and I chuckled because it didn’t come out quite as upset as they were trying to make it sound.
Chapter Twenty
Katrina
Dinner was over, the dishes were done, the kitchen set back to rights, and Frankie and Cami had rushed upstairs to Cami’s room to giggle and talk like girls did.
Like best friends did.
“Let me show you the guest room.” Nox grabbed my bag without a word and took off down the hall. “We waited a year after my dad left before we changed anything,” Maggie explained as we followed behind her little brother. “There are four bedrooms upstairs; I’m in the master, and Rhoda, Cami, and Nox all have their own rooms. Rhoda and I shared before.”
Maggie stopped in front of the door. “This was my parents’ office. I’ve since moved everything to the office above the store. It helps to shut my brain down at night. When everything for the orchard was here in the house, I found myself in this room too many times at two a.m. working on spreadsheets, marketing, and anything else that popped into my head. Now, I make a note of what I’m thinking and I set regular hours. If it doesn’t get done...” She shrugged.
“It’s good to have a balance,” I added.
Maggie smiled and nodded, and I thought again about how much pressure she must be under at such a young age. I stepped into the room behind her and gasped.
Nox set my bag on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed and dashed out, leaving Maggie and me alone.
“This is beautiful,” I said, my eyes taking in every inch.
There was a blueprint of the office it once was, with the built-in shelving that lined one wall, now holding a collection of vintage books and woven baskets. A queen-size bed dressed in crisp white linens and a chunky gray knit throw sat in the middle of the room, replacing the desk that once held the secrets to running an orchard this size. A repurposed wooden ladder leaned against the wall, draped with extra quilts in muted plaids. The walls, painted a few shades softer than the gray blanket that lay across the bed, held framed pictures of botanical prints, and a weathered landscape painting that resembled the orchard just beyond the windows covered in sheer linen curtains that filtered the warm amber glow of dusk as the day faded into evening. On the nightstand, a simple mason jar held sprigs of dried lavender.
