The scent of overripe McIntosh is a sweet, rotting weight in the late afternoon air. Beatrix Linwood stands in the farmhouse mudroom, shoulders aching, as she methodically scrubs tractor grease from her knuckles. The pumice soap stings the small nicks on her sun-warmed hands, a map of another harvest fought alone. Through the screen door, the long, shadows of the Green Mountains begin to stretch across her rows, turning the red fruit to bruises.
Lowell Eames leans against the doorframe, his suit jacket a sharp, unwelcome contrast to the weathered wood of the porch. He doesn't step inside, but his presence narrows the room until it feels like a cellar. He checks his watch, a heavy silver thing that glints in the dying light. The Stowe bank has held the Linwood note for fifty years, but Lowell’s patience has finally expired.
'Friday, Beatrix,' Lowell says, his voice as dry as autumn leaves. 'Fifty tons processed and on the trucks, or the board triggers the sale. There isn’t a single cidery in Vermont that will take your yield on such short notice.'
'I’ll find one,' she replies, though the lie tastes like copper. She dries her hands on a rough towel, her gaze fixed on the driveway. The sound of an engine vibrates through the floorboards. A black truck crunches onto the gravel driveway, slowing to a deliberate halt by the barn.
