So instead of walking over to the barn and offering Tilly a chance to talk, I close the curtains and go back to cleaning the house.
EIGHT
Tilly
Bells has only been here a week, and already she’s making a mess of everything. It’s like she’s not only accident-prone but has a tendency to touch and “fix” things that aren’t even broken. It’s a constant fight with myself not to get involved. I mostly keep to myself, tending to the animals, looking over the orchard as a whole, and fixing any issues people might have.
Although we’re open to the public, we get fewer than twenty people a day. And every day, Bells goes around with her little clipboard, noting things down. I can only imagine what it says. I’m sure things aren’t up to par for her.
The only good thing is she’s traded in her heels for an actual pair of boots and those ridiculous pencil skirts for leggings. The only bad part is how freaking good her ass looks in them—like two ripe apples that catch my eye every time she’s around me. It’s freaking torture, which is why I’m actively avoiding her at this point. If I see her coming, I excuse myself to literally anywhere else on the orchard.
Hattie and Lina say I’m being childish, but I’m not going to be the one surprised when this nice act ends and she sells the place.
“Hey, Tilly? Can we have a moment to chat?” Bells sneaks up behind me while I’m giving the horses their breakfast.
“Uh, sure.” I finish with the last one and slide off my gloves before looking at her.
Her auburn curls are tied up in a tight ponytail, and while she’s wearing makeup, it’s not as much as the first few times I met her. I can actually see more of her face now. She’s wearing those tight-ass leggings and a jacket zipped up to reveal only a hint of cleavage. She has her usual clipboard and a sparkly pen in hand.
“So, there are some things I’d love to go over with you. I’ve been taking inventory of everything in the last two weeks, and I have some ideas. Of course, I feel you’d know exactly what’s possible to actually do—or if it’s already been tried.” She smiles.
“Okay.”
“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee at Lina’s and chat about it? It’s an extensive list.”
“No thanks. I have more to do after this,” I lie.
“All right, well, I was thinking of ways to bring in more traffic, and I was thinking about reaching out to my contacts in the city and seeing if they’d have any idea about getting a deal with Metro-North. Maybe a discounted ticket when you buy tickets to the orchard kind of deal.”
“You want to bring in city folk?” I scoff. That’s not our consumer base at all. We thrive on people from neighboring small towns, not city people who wear heels and makeup and complain about the smells of nature.
“Yes, I think it could be a good way to increase sales and traffic,” she says.
“Our consumer base has always been other small-town people. People with kids and pets and such. Why would we shift that to bring in people from the city?” I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I can’t help it. I have beef with the city the way New Yorkers have beef with New Jersey.
“First off, I’m from the city, so please don’t say it like there’s something wrong with that. But second, I know that might be what you usually did, but it couldn’t hurt to switch things up,” she explains.
“Sure.” I leave it at that. I’m not in the mood to argue with her.
“I also thought that it might make sense to have an influencer day. Allow them to come up, experience the place for free, make content, and post it to drive traffic up here as well.”
“You want to give away free tickets and an entire day of sales to make money? That doesn’t make any sense.” I shake my head.
“It would be a way to get people with a strong follower base to do the marketing for free. Why doesn’t that make sense?”
She’s getting defensive, but I don’t care. This is a stupid idea.
“How the hell are New Yorkers and influencers even our base? No one up here has social media, so they wouldn’t see all this so-called content anyway.” I scoff.
“But the people with families and pets who you claim are your base might have it. And when searching for things to do in the summer and fall, seeing this place as an option would drive traffic to paid days,” she explains. Her jaw is clenched, and I can tell she’s trying hard not to fight with me.
I have to admit—it’s kind of hot to see her teetering on the edge of anger like this.
“You think parents have the time to sit and scroll on social media? Why don’t you ask Hattie how often she updates her Instagram? We should be focusing on keeping what we havesteady and not worrying about bringing on any new people.” I shake my head.
“You really think single parents don’t know how to Google? A few posts about this orchard going viral is the difference between a Google search showing this place as the first choice and not being on the list,” she says with a bite. “And another thing, the families and consumers you have now aren’t cutting it. If you haven’t noticed, this is the busiest day we’ve had all week and there are fewer than thirty people here.”
Now I’m the one who’s pissed. Is she implying I’m bad at my job? “It’s not like this is a mall or some New York pop up—it’s a freaking apple orchard. Oneyouraunt has run successfully for almost twenty-five years. Are you really going to shit on her legacy weeks after her death?”
