Page 34 of Love, Untangled

She gave a small nod, longing swirling through her. “Okay.”

Chapter 14

Carlo

Penelope Davis drove him utterly mad in the best possible way. Long after her visit last night, her scent seemed to cling to his kitchen. Pen made him feel alive. His energy vibrated from his muscles and he smiled. He was happy.

Such a foreign concept.

Except…except…Pen was the ray of sunshine that’d brought him out of the gloom he’d sunk into. That morass sucked at him, trying to pull him back down.

Alpaca Man returned while Carlo was on his porch, carefully applying the final coat of stain to the table he’d made from a dead apple tree. It was lower than a typical dining table, but wider too. A craft table for Pen. He’d gotten the idea when he saw her materials piled up on a small plastic folding table. This one would suit her needs much better.

The alpaca spent the morning following Carlo around and making appropriate sounds when Carlo talked to him—making it seem like Carlo was having an actual conversation with another being.

Over the better part of that week, the two of them conspired to reiterate just how lonely Carlo had been.

Carlo stopped walking, leaning his wheelbarrow against one of the slender tree trunks. They were deep in the middle of the orchard. He placed his hands on his hips as he looked up at the ripening fruit above him. Though still early, the sun blazed down through the leaves, and Carlo squinted.

“If I’m happy, am I being unfaithful to Cora?”

Alpaca Man grunted.

“I don’t know either. My mind says no. That she’d want me to be fulfilled, to find joy and live life. But my heart can’t let her go. She was so young.”

Carlo settled on the edge of the wheelbarrow. This one was large and plastic, unlike the old wooden one he’d meticulously rebuilt. He’d spent hours sanding and staining the wood to make sure it would withstand the thunderstorms that boiled up from the mountains to the west. That one was a pretty attraction to welcome people to the orchard’s small store he’d also planned to reopen this year. Cora’s grandfather opened up the orchard to people who wanted to pick their own apples, something Carlo planned to bring back—along with sales of his nonalcoholic cider. The hard stuff required a license, and Carlo wasn’t interested in pursuing that now. Instead, he planned to sell what he bottled to local shops and restaurants.

His current wheelbarrow was sturdier and more practical, with bigger wheels and a better center of balance than the old-fashioned one he’d restored.

He picked up an apple from the pile he’d collected and bit into the sun-warmed fruit. Now that it was July, the apples had ripened enough for juicy flavor to coat his tongue, the tartness causing his cheeks to pucker slightly. Nearly perfect. At least he thought it was.

Cider making had never been Carlo’s interest. He liked apples and he enjoyed the drink, but Cora had been passionate about the stuff. She’d brought home every imaginable variety and made notes in her notebook about each one’s distinct flavor, the lightness or heaviness of the bubbles, the bite of the alcohol. It had taken him months to acquire an understanding of her writing, but now he could have held a conversation with her.

One that was years too late.

It might have already been too late even when she was alive.

“She was distant toward the end.” He took another bite of the apple and chewed. “I don’t know what her plan was, but I felt like our connection was slipping. She really wanted to move back here, and I wanted to stay. I was ten years into my career, moving up the ranks. If I’d stayed, if I’d been able to stay, I would have made station chief by now. In another couple of years I could have been promoted into the city’s hierarchy, but that was my dream, not Cora’s, and she wanted to pursue her own goals. I think…I think she would have left me, eventually. Even though I planned to buy her a farm, I see now that she would have had to start growing trees from saplings. That was a twenty-plus-year investment. Was it really fair of me to ask her to wait that long?”

Alpaca Man laid his head on Carlo’s thigh. Carlo ran his fingers through the warm, soft fuzz. Alpaca Man made a contented sound in his throat.

“Right. So you see, I was selfish. I didn’t think enough about her. And that’s why I have to see this through. It’s…”

He sucked his lips into his mouth, his teeth pressing hard against the softer tissue.

Penance floated through his mind. But that wasn’t right. He wasn’t doing this to punish himself. He was creating Cora’s cider to honor her memory. Not many apple varieties grew abundantly along the coastline, but these apples had adapted well to the climate and were thriving. Cora had gone to school in part to ensure the trees’ continued success. Now, she deserved others to benefit from her passion, from her life’s work.

Carlo offered the alpaca the rest of the apple. “Here. Let’s head back to the house. I’m finished harvesting for the day.”

He rose while Alpaca Man crunched his treat, making happy noises in his throat. After sliding back on his thick leather work gloves, Carlo gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed it toward the barn.

He’d turned his into a state-of-the-art distillery, using a large chunk of the life insurance he’d received after Cora’s death on the project. It was shiny and a bit overwhelming if he was honest.

Soon he’d have to turn it on. But for now he could simply press the apples of their juice and enjoy their sweet-tart flavor.

“It’s research,” he said. Alpaca Man dipped his head in seeming agreement.

Carlo pushed the wheelbarrow into the cool confines of the space and took off his thick gloves, laying them on the workbench. Once assured all was in place, he whistled to Alpaca Man, who trotted out of the barn, and Carlo slid the large, heavy wooden doors shut.

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