Page 1 of Baking Spirits Bright!

CHAPTER 1

Erica

Istep onto my porch and cringe. Behind me is the sound of a steady stream of water hitting the ground.

Most people living in the country wake up to birds chirping, but I wake up to my neighbor peeing off the porch.

I train my eyes on my feet and shove my earbuds in. I’ve learned the hard way not to put them in before leaving the house, or I might not hear the warning.

“Morning, Erica,” my neighbor calls.

I wave an arm behind me, refusing to look back. I can’t be rude because he has a right to half of the porch on this duplex. Oh, and he’s my landlord.

Paul isn’t home much between his store and “courting Miss Dot”—his words. But when he is home, he makes himself at home frequently.

I hit the pavement and speed into a jog in the opposite direction of him.

There aren’t a lot of decent housing options in Apple Cart for a single person, and I was ready to move out of my parents’ house. It was either here, the trailer park, or an RV in Wisteria.

The good news is this one-bedroom is affordable and a few blocks from everything in town. The bad news is it comes with Paul.

In the long run, it will be easier for me to move away if I’ve already left home. Our family is close, and many of us work together at the apple orchard.

Soon as I graduated Auburn, they lured me back with a decent salary for running their social media and marketing and the safety net of home. I was coming off a failed engagement with my college boyfriend and a little vulnerable.

I’d always planned to help market the orchard. However, I’d never planned for it to be my only client.

No matter how much responsibility they add to my job description and how many raises they offer, I need more than Apple Cart. It’s a great place to live, but I want a life of my own.

Here, I’m part of the Marshall family orchard. Every generation adds more people to grow our business. I expand it in a virtual way, and I’d like to expand my own life more than virtually.

I turn down the pavement and jog past several houses. Nicer and bigger than the duplex, and definitely not for sale. If I were staying here long term, these would be nice.

Although my roots are here, I don’t want them to run so deep I can’t pull out and replant at any time.

My main project this year has been overhauling the orchard’s website. If we’re going to be a known tourist attraction and apple supplier, then we have to update how people can buy our products.

Months of digging up old photos and getting stories from my mom and uncle turned into beautiful pages and content for anewsletter. However, my biggest idea to date was suggesting an official dessert for Apple Cart County.

The idea was to have a taste testing at the orchard and let the community vote on their favorite apple dessert. Then Paul overheard my conversation and said we should have a town bake-off to get more desserts. Before I could come up with a rebuttal, he went back in his side of the house.

A few hours later, I heard about a county-wide bake-off while I was at Piggly Wiggly.

So much for my grand idea to put the orchard on the map. Technically it is, but a tiny dot on the state map only used by people over sixty who still visit rest areas on their way to Pigeon Forge.

I want top billing on Google searches.

Ironically, I’m near the Pig as I’m thinking about this and give it a snarl. I wait on a log truck to pass and cross the street to run near the park.

If I can make the orchard well known, I can start a marketing agency. Then I can get multiple clients and live wherever and be a real independent woman. Not just Erica Sinclair, one of the Marshall family’s granddaughters.

I can earn my own way and live wherever—

“Oomph.” I hit something and land on the sidewalk.

“Are you okay?”

I squint my eyes open to a man’s hand near my face. I take it and allow him to help me stand. He pulls me up firmly but gently at the same time. Like a lumberjack cuddling a kitten.

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