The Grove by Chelsea Emerick

        She peels the skin of her mandarine carefully, watching the pith gently burst as the segments appear with each bit that she pulls away. The familiar creaks of the house settle under a brooding sky. She decides to open the ancient kitchen window. Setting the mandarine down on her bread plate, she leans over the sink and fiddles with the rusted latch. Tiny particles break off the hinge and scrape the peeling finish from the window’s wooden frame, but with a bit of force, she manages to thrust it open.
        A cool, unsettling, breeze drifts into the kitchen. The thick summer air disappears as the sky fills with dark, heavy, clouds. Cassidy Reynolds can smell a heavy storm coming, just like the ones she’d see every summer when she grew up in this house.
        It’s so weird to be back, she thinks as she leans against the counter, continuing to eat her mandarine, as the sky shifts to black, quickly blocking out the sun entirely. The orange grove buzzes under the storm that’s rolling in. Cassidy can see the dark green leaves jostling in the soft wind as though they’re quivering in fear. It’s as if they know their fate is in her hands.
        The piles of papers on the kitchen table flicker as the stale air shifts from the open window. She places a faded mug that reads To fish, or not to fish, that is the question, atop the papers. She’s been avoiding looking at them. The attorney dropped them off two days ago, politely setting them in the very same spot when he stopped in to explain what would happen next over a cup of coffee.
        Cassidy didn’t care about what would happen next, not yet anyway. She’d barely settled into being back in town when the attorney had shown up. Her bags were still wedged in the back of her little yellow GeoTracker and the house was still coated in a soft settling of dust. She spent the next two days bringing it back to life, trying hard not to think about exactly where it was that her father’s elderly neighbour, Eugenia Gibb, had found him lying when she came by for their weekly game of cards. Based on the fragments of glass and bits of candied orange Cassidy had found under the couch, she suspected Ms Gibb had spotted him as soon as she walked into the entryway. Strangely, the evidence brought relief. It meant there was a chance he’d gone peacefully in his sleep, on the couch, or suddenly dropped dead while setting the table. She’d blocked out the
details about how her father was found, all she knew was the old woman from up the road got a hell of a fright and was short one cake dish.
        Must pop in and thank her for the casseroles she put in the fridge, Cassidy notes as she sets herself down at the dining table with the last bits of her mandarine. She picks at the larger pieces of pith that remain clinging to the segments, reading snippets of the documents piled on the table.
        DEED TO REYNOLDS FAMILY CITRUS FARM peeks out from the middle of the bundle. She’s glanced at that line, in particular, multiple times over the last few days. Nothing about it makes her curious to delve into the documents. As the only child of a twice-divorced farmer, she’s seen this coming.
        Clyde Reynolds was rumoured to be a difficult man. If he hadn’t been her father, Cassidy is certain she would have agreed with the mob of locals. Clyde was just a middle-aged grump, weathered by the harsh lifestyle of running a farm and cursed with bad luck. But Cassidy knew better. Beneath that exhausted, filthy, exterior was a man who had big thoughts and even bigger feelings.
        Her mother walked out when she was nine. Immediately, Clyde called up the local hairdresser, Iona Clarke, to come round to the house that very afternoon and teach him how to braid Cassidy’s hair in preparation for school the next morning. There were no tears about her mother’s departure at first. Instead, her father dove into survival mode. The routinely packed lunches continued without a fuss, with the new addition of sticky notes that told her things like, “I love you!” and, “Have a great day!”
        Even at nine years old, she could see how hard he was working to ensure that life would go on as normal. He was showing her that he could be enough for both of them.
        Undoubtedly, there were teething problems. Namely juggling the responsibility of running a farm and raising a kid at the same time, alone. Clyde had secured a couple of full-time farmhands before the first divorce, so the day-to-day operations stayed normal, but the administration work quickly piled up. Joellen, Cassidy’s mother, had covered the books for twelve years before she up and left. After a rocky first year of trying his own hand at managing everything, Clyde had to bring in someone to handle the administrative affairs.
        Ted Crocker was a slight young man, eager to make a good impression and keep his newest client happy. He handled all manner of payroll, taxes, and business for the farm. He was also the one who gently suggested the farm be left to Cassidy. Ted was all for keeping things in the family. As a son to old Reginald Crocker, the third of the local Crocker Associates line, it was a matter of upselling tradition.
        Cassidy eats the last of the mandarine segments and pushes the bread plate away. The rustic dining table is clear of everything except the dreaded pile of paperwork. The surrounding surfaces, the counters, floors, shelves, and even cabinet tops are all gleaming from her efforts over the last two days. The beaten-up farmhouse has been scrubbed anew inside. With a few updated pieces of furniture and a lick of paint, Cassidy would even go so far as to call the place cute.

        She thumbs at the stack of papers, wondering how much longer she can put it off. The house was paid off years ago, the taxes aren’t due for at least four more months, and the day-to-day operations continue to run smoothly. The farmhands keep showing up for work, the suppliers still get their deliveries, and the house, miraculously, remains standing. But the soul of the operation is gone. The man who had cut her sandwiches into stars and mastered Dutch braids by the second day of single fatherhood had kept the grove alive.
        Cassidy swore she’d never return to Arcadia, at least not to live, but now the farm had fallen into her lap. Was she still so sure? She wonders if, like him, she could be enough on her own.
        The thought of another generation living in the same creaky house, riddled with sugar ants and lashed by summer storms, surprises her with appeal. A soft tug at the pit of her stomach tells her that maybe this is where she’s meant to be. After all, she is a Reynolds.
        A flash of light strikes outside, followed quickly by a booming thunderclap. Cassidy jolts with alarm. After a moment, she smirks at her initial fright. The storms here really haven’t changed. As she watches the lightning tear through the bleak sky, comfort creeps in. The whistle of the wind sneaking in through the gap under the back door hums sprightly. The patter of the rain hitting the thin window panes transports her back to her childhood. She closes her eyes and remembers the feeling; muddy and breathless from running barefoot through the loam in an afternoon downpour. The drum of the rain hitting the metal roof as she’d make it inside with her father, who would wrap her up in the biggest towel he could find, and carry her to the bathroom so she wouldn’t continue her footprints from the porch through the hall.
        Sitting in the aging house as a violent sky clamps down on the last real piece of her childhood, she takes a deep breath and picks up the first of the papers. Cassidy is the only Reynolds left. Who else could ever love this place the way she does?