Chapter 4

By noon, the cast-iron woodstove in the corner of the living room was throwing off a steady heat. Sam was sitting by the hearth with his sketchbook, his breathing easier in the dry air.

Behind the cabin, the old Winesap and Stayman apple trees were heavy with late-season fruit--un-sprayed and small, but rich with natural sugars. I spent two hours picking a single bushel, washing the fruit in well water, and coring twelve pounds by hand.

I built a low fire in the kitchen range.

I had twelve pounds of tart apples, two cups of dark brown sugar, a stick of cinnamon, and a pinch of ground clove. I let the fruit simmer down for four hours, stirring with a wooden paddle until the pulp broke down into a dark, thick spread.

By Saturday morning, I had twelve eight-ounce Mason jars, hand-labeled with a marker: June Bell's Apple Butter -- Made by Ava Bell -- $6.

Helen drove Sam and me to the courthouse square for the Saturday Farmers' Market.

I didn't have a branded wooden booth like Sunday Table's double space across the lawn. I had a folding card table with a clean white flour sack for a cloth, set up between a honey vendor and a man selling cedar birdhouses.

Across the green, Luke and Megan were busy. Their booth was framed with branded burlap, string lights, and professional signs. A line of thirty people waited for boxed pastries and sourdough loaves.

Megan wore a crisp white chef's coat, laughing as she handed a pastry box to a local food blogger.

My table had no line.

For two hours, people walked past without looking. They saw the handwritten labels and kept moving toward the established vendors.

By 1:00 PM, I had sold seven jars to older church acquaintances who dropped six dollars into my tin can with brief, sympathetic smiles.

At 1:30 PM, Helen walked over with Clara Jenkins, who had run the town's dry goods store for forty years.

Clara picked up the open sample jar, dipped a wooden stick into the apple butter, and tasted it.

She paused, looking down at the dark paste.

"This is June Bell's recipe," Clara said, her voice carrying over the chatter around us. "The slow-cooked Stayman apples with the toasted clove."

She looked up at me.

"Did you make this, Ava?"

"Yes," I said. "Yesterday, in my grandmother's kitchen."

"I haven't tasted this since your mother brought it to the church bazaar in ninety-four," Clara said. She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and set it on the cloth. "Give me three jars."

Two women at the honey table turned around. "Is that June's recipe?"

"It is," Helen said clearly. "Made the right way."

Within ten minutes, the remaining jars were gone. For the first time in fourteen years, someone had handed me cash for food that carried my own name.

Then Jim Miller, the market manager and an old high school buddy of Luke's, walked up to my table. He looked uncomfortable, holding a white envelope.

"Ava," Jim said, looking at his boots. "I need you to pack up."

"I paid the twenty-dollar space fee, Jim."

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. "Luke called the board president this morning. He says Sunday Table owns the trademark on June's name, and he filed a formal dispute. I don't know who owns what, Ava. I just know the board won't let you sell on town property until somebody settles it."

"This is my mother's recipe, Jim. She was winning ribbons at the county fair before Luke Mercer ever set foot in Virginia."

"I can't get in the middle of it, Ava. I'm sorry."

Across the lawn, Luke was watching. Through the crowd, he caught my eye, slowly raising his paper coffee cup in a deliberate, unhurried salute.

I folded the cloth, packed the empty card table into the bed of Helen's truck, and climbed into the passenger seat.

My phone buzzed in my lap.

It was a text from Luke:

Come home, Ava. We'll tell people you took personal leave. I'll withdraw the market complaint, and the kids can have their normal life. Stop making this harder than it has to be.

A second notification flashed at the top of the screen:

Main Street Pharmacy: Refill ready for Sam Mercer (Albuterol HFA + Flovent). Copay due: $118.50.

I opened my banking app, staring at the numbers.

Between my market cash and the checking account Luke hadn't drained, I had eighty-three dollars to my name.

I stared at the screen until the numbers blurred.

Luke wasn't asking me to come home. He was waiting for me to become desperate enough to obey.