Page 37 of Call It Love

The unmarked back roads beneath my tires were so familiar I could have driven them blindfolded. As I crested a hill, I slowed, taking a moment to appreciate the stretch ofland before me. Below, Silver Creek Farm was spread out in organized patches of land. Greenhouses glinted in the fading sun, and red barns stood sturdy along the horizon. To the east, fields of ornamental shrubs and perennials stretched wide, big blue and white blooms of hydrangeas next to viburnum bushes and clusters of rhododendrons and hostas. To the west, rows of Japanese maples and crepe myrtles alongside dogwoods and redbuds—staples in Tennessee landscaping—waited to be shipped to nurseries across the state. Beyond them, the taller silhouettes of river birch, tulip poplars, and magnolias added to the landscape. Young Aspen and Willow trees danced in the evening breeze.

Quiet pride settled in my chest. For over two hundred years, generation after generation of Allens poured sweat, tears, and likely some blood into this land, each striving to do their part to leave it better than it was. What began as a homestead to feed a family had grown, little by little, into a commercial farm that provided in new ways.

And nestled in the middle stood the farmhouse—the heart of the farm. And further down the drive, a warm light glowed from a window of the cabin where Anna was settling for the evening.

I told myself I wasn’t looking for signs of her, but I knew that was a lie.

She’d only been here for a short time, but I was more aware of her than I should be. I’d catch myself wondering what she was doing when she was in the cabin—if she still liked to get lost in a book while curled under a blanket with a cup of tea. Or if she had picked up a quiet new hobby to fill her evening hours. Did she still hum while she cleaned?

Did she ever wonder about me? Still feel the same pull I did earlier today?

And fuck me, but that was the last thing I should be thinking about. It was too soon for that. She was still healing from the trauma Mason had put her through. We hadn’t even faced what happened between us all those years ago.

But I found myself caring less and less about the past and more about what was right in front of me. About how natural it felt to have her back here again. How the farm felt more vibrant with her touches. How I felt a little less alone.

Blowing out a long breath, I kept driving, still needing the space to think. To breathe. I followed the road a little farther before turning down an unmarked gravel road. In a few feet, I was flanked by rows of fir trees, mostly Frasers, but also some balsams tucked in.

I passed the first several dozen rows marked with blue ribbons, this year’s crop that would be cut in the fall. But when I reached a clearing with far fewer trees, I pulled off and killed the engine. For several minutes, I just sat there, watching the fading light close around the evergreens.

This part of the farm was different from the rest. Unlike the lower fields that had stood for generations, the Christmas tree lot was newer. It had been my uncle’s project, started by him shortly before my sisters and I moved to Sterling Mill, and it had been my first experience of working alongside him.

A smile tugged at my lips as I recalled the day Uncle James had brought me up here to get out of the house where I’d been moping around. I’d been around twelve, and I’d been feeling down with the departure of my dad for another long trip as he geared up for another race. He knew I was always the most excited of anyone in the family to come up here and pick out our family Christmas tree that would take up a full corner in my grandparents’ living room. Cam always complained it was too cold. Bristol was happier inGrandpa’s garage than outside. But me? I loved feeling the soft needles run through my fingers and the scent of the fresh pine, especially after we cut it down.

That day, Uncle James determined I was old enough to do more than pick out a tree. It was time to learn the story of the tree, he’d said. To help grow them. He promised that someday we’d come back and cut one down that I’d helped plant. He walked me to the simple building where he kept tray after tray of tiny seeds inside a cone of soil and explained it would take nearly five years before they were tall enough—about one foot—to plant in the ground where they’d continue to grow for up to another five or more years, depending on how big he decided to let it grow.

I wasn’t old enough to handle the auger that drilled holes in the ground, but I was old enough to place the five-year-old seedlings in the holes and cover them up. I didn’t care about getting dirt under my nails like Cam did. I loved pressing the soil around each stem. That day, I fell in love with the idea of planting something that would take root and grow into something that would give someone else pleasure. After that, I was like an obnoxious puppy, always following Uncle James around the farm to learn everything I could. And patient as ever, he taught me everything he knew.

Nearly ten years later, I drove up here on a bitter December day and cut down one of those trees I’d planted alongside him. I’d just never imagined it would be without him.

Silver Creek Farm was now mine. Uncle James had willed the entire operation to me, trusting me to carry on the legacy he inherited—and the one he believed I could carry on.

But I was doing it on my own. Not with Anna like I’donce imagined. Not with kids running through the fields, learning to appreciate the land the way I did. Anna had broken up with me just before I left for college, saying she didn’t want to hold me back. I was angry and didn’t fight back. By the time I came home for winter break ready to convince her she was wrong, she was gone, married to Mason.

One by one, all the people I had ever counted on had left. My mom ran out on us when we were kids. Anna. My grandparents and uncle. My dad.

The farm became the only constant, the one thing I had left.

And the older I got, the more I wondered if I was just tending to someone else’s legacy without ever creating one of my own.

But with Anna back, hope had crept in.

Maybe—just maybe—I had a chance to build something with her after all.

And that possibility scared the hell out of me.

Because this time, if I lost her again, I wasn’t sure I’d know how to start over.

Chapter 13

Anna

I’d founda steady rhythm to my days now: tidying up the main house, prepping meals mid-morning, then listening for the crew to filter in—boots heavy on the floorboards, voices loud with jokes, and the flirty but harmless banter with me that made me laugh, and sometimes blush. They were hard-working and loyal, which was more than I could say for most of the self-serving types I’d left behind in Nashville. I loved that even in modern times, Chase continued the tradition of feeding them. Not having grown up with any traditions, I loved the connection to the past.

Being here felt…right. Like I’d come home as Mallory had suggested. I was feeling more confident in my skin, less guarded about what I said. Silver Creek Farm had become a refuge. A bubble. And for now, I would enjoy it.

After cleaning up from lunch, I decided a walk was in order. The sun was warm, and the blue sky was cloudless. I craved a little quiet after the hubbub of the meal. I savored these moments, the space to think and let my mind wander.To remember whatIenjoyed, not just what I was expected to do.

I called for Jack and headed across the wide yard toward the woods to a path. I knew it well, but until today, I’d avoided it because of all the memories I’d have to travel. Chase and I used to take long walks on it when we were teenagers. He’d talk about his plans to study horticulture in college, eager to bring back new ideas to share with Uncle James. I used to dream about finding a place in that future, fitting into a world so different from the one in which I was raised.

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