Golden Laurels, Red Persimmons

I had six minutes to keep my label printer from jamming and my shop from being taken off the map. The printer clicked, flashed red, and fed a crooked strip of paper onto the counter. I yanked it free, smearing blackberry ink across my thumb. Outside the front window, a delivery truck blocked the view of the old persimmon trees. Across the street, a banner hung from the scaffolding around Vale House. THE VALE COASTAL PRESERVE: A NEW CHAPTER FOR CALDER BAY. My shop was listed beneath it, in smaller type. JUNIPER & STONE, FOUNDING CULINARY PARTNER. I had not agreed to become anyone's partner. I set the label aside and called the number printed on the banner's press release. The woman who answered sounded smooth enough to have practiced saying no without using the word. "Vale Coastal Development," she said. "This is Dana." "This is Mara Ellis. Your release says my business is a founding partner." "Yes. We're delighted to have you with us." "You might want to be delighted after asking me." A pause. A keyboard tapped in the background. "The partnership was arranged through the estate office," Dana said. "You should have received the agreement." "I received a notice about a lease renewal. I did not receive a partnership agreement." "I can have someone resend it." "Don't. I'm not signing anything." I hung up before she could turn my refusal into a misunderstanding. My hands were shaking, which annoyed me. I had made a business out of cutting fruit, boiling it down, and putting it into jars that could survive a shipping box. I knew how to handle a bad batch. I knew how to negotiate with a distributor who wanted half my margin and all my recipes. I didn't shake because someone printed my name where it didn't belong. The bell over the door rang. Julian Vale stepped into my shop. For one second I was back at the estate, kneeling beside a man with sweat-soaked hair and a pulse that fluttered under my fingers. Then I was in my own shop again, with a jam-stained apron and a lease notice tucked under the register. He looked older than he had three years ago. Not much. Enough that the corners of his eyes had settled into lines I didn't remember. His dark coat was damp from the coastal drizzle. "Mara," he said. "Julian." His gaze moved past me to the jars lined up along the shelves. He had always looked at my work as if it mattered. That used to be one of the things I liked about him. "I saw the press release," he said. "So did I." "I'm sorry about the confusion." "Is that what you're calling it?" He took off his gloves. "My aunt's office handled the partner list. I thought the paperwork had been settled." "Then you thought wrong." "I'm not asking you to sign anything today." "You're announcing my consent today." His mouth tightened. "I didn't approve the release." "You're in the picture." He looked over his shoulder. Through the glass, a photographer was aiming a camera at the banner and the people gathered beneath it. Julian had been standing beside his mother, Celeste Vale, when the picture was taken. Celeste's white coat stood out among the dark umbrellas. "I arrived after they started," he said. "I didn't know your name was on it." "Everyone knows my name. It's printed on every jar." The words came out sharper than I intended. I didn't soften them. He reached into his coat and drew out a folded paper. "There's more. Your lease is held by the Vale orchard trust. The board wants to change the land use. I came to tell you myself." My skin went cold under my apron. "Change it to what?" "A hotel, a conference building, private cottages. The full proposal isn't final." "They're building a resort on the orchard." "The board is considering it." "And my lease?" "I don't know what they intend to offer." "Then you came to tell me you don't know whether I can stay, after your family announced I'd help them build it." His eyes held mine, steady and familiar and completely useless. "I came because I didn't want you to hear it from a lawyer." "Too late." A customer opened the door behind him, then stopped when she saw our faces. I forced a smile and asked if she needed anything. She picked up a jar of pear butter and went to the register. Julian waited until the door shut again. "I know I owe you an explanation," he said. "No." I pressed the crooked label flat on the counter. "You owe me an answer. Did you know they were using my name?" "No." "Will you get it removed?" "Yes." "And will you protect my lease?" He took half a breath. "I can't promise what the board will do." That was honest, at least. I picked up the jar he had been looking at. Red persimmon jam, bright through the glass. "Then don't ask me to trust you." His face changed at the word, but he didn't make me explain why. I rang up the customer's purchase. When I looked back, Julian had stepped outside and was standing beneath the banner, calling someone. The printer clicked red again behind me.