Sappy Go Lucky

They warned me a Storm was coming.
They failed to mention she'd be gorgeous, relentlessly cheerful, and completely
incapable of leaving me alone.

And the worst part is that I don't
mind.

Eva Storm inherited the maple farm next
door—the one that's been a vacant buffer between me and the rest of the world.
From the minute she arrived, it's been loud and unruly over there when I'm used
to solitude and silence.

I wandered over to take a peek and broke my
own ankle in the process, which means I can't drive or leave my house without a
chaperone. Somehow Eva keeps showing up for the job.

She shows up for a lot of things, actually.
Her brand of chaos seems like the piece that was missing in our quiet
community. But she's temporary, and I'm broken in more ways than one. She's
going to sell the property and go back to the city where she came from. I can't
afford to be crushed by the aftershocks.

Except... I also can't imagine going back to
life like it was before. Eva might be the winds of change I need.

I just have no idea how to ask a Storm to
stay...

Sappy Go Lucky is book four in the
Planted and Plowed series of romantic comedies featuring the Storm sisters.
Love blooms reluctantly and stems get spliced in these steamy romantic comedies
rooted in found family and fresh starts.

I inherited a maple grove.

A man named Lionel, the only lawyer
in this entire town, sits across a massive wooden desk blinking at me from
behind Coke-bottle glasses, explaining that I, Eva Storm, am the only
beneficiary of a dilapidated maple syrup operation deep in the Catskills.

“We have been trying to reach you
for some time,” he says, frowning at the paperwork.

I perch in my seat, worried it will
collapse and dump me into a stack of yellowed files on the frayed carpet.

I’ve been trying to ignore the
certified mail that just keeps showing up at my sister’s house back in
Pittsburgh. I thought it was something to do with my mother and I really didn’t
want to get involved. Turns out the father I never met has died after decades
of ignoring the property he inherited from other long-lost relatives.

Lionel’s eyes blink some more,
owlish against his dark brown skin. “Are you ready to sign the documents?”

I reach into the purse on my lap and
pull out a gel pen with purple, sparkly ink. “I guess I might as well.” I click
the pen a few times, taking it all in. One signature and I become responsible
for a massive old house set on a dozen acres of land. My mind whirs, wondering
how long it will take me to organize a real estate sale.

Lionel coughs. “Legal documents
require blue ink.” He slides a chewed-up ballpoint pen across the desk and I take
a minute to wonder who gnawed on it. Whatever.

I sign with a flourish and Lionel
nods. “Very good, Ms. Storm. Welcome to Fork Lick.”

My boots crunch on the gravel in the
parking lot outside as I make my way back to my sister’s car. I was supposed to
buy it from her, but that’s on hold until I figure out my finances among all
this maple sap. I pull out my phone to text the Storm Sisters Group Chat,
knowing they are probably dying for information.

That’s an exaggeration. They’re all
at work.

I own a farm. Orchard? Is it a
factory?

I stare at the screen, watching in
frustration as the message slowly sends. I guess the service here is spotty. I
unlock the car and toss the paperwork on the passenger seat while I wait for
one of them to reply. We have different absentee fathers and Mom gave us all
her last name, which is about the only thing she gave us. My sperm donor
apparently kicked the bucket and left me the mess that spilled out.

Eila

Have you seen it yet?

Eden

Are there bees?

Esther

Did you find a realtor who can sell
it for you?

Of course Esther is already pushing
me to sell it. I toss my phone on the heap of paperwork, turn on the engine,
and slowly navigate to the former home of Walter and June Pierce.

I’m part of the Pierce family. It
feels strange, to have relatives I never knew. They
had entire lives and ran a business and died while I was in Pittsburgh mooching
a bedroom from my big sister.

It’s … unsettling.

I turn onto the lane—this place has
lanes! How fun is that?—and drive past a cute farm, then a tidy yard with an
actual mailbox on a wooden post that reads THORNE. It has rose bushes
underneath, dormant in the February chill.

And then I get to my driveway. It’s
more like a group of potholes strung together with crumbling asphalt. Esther’s
car creaks and groans as the tires jut in and out of the dips. I give up about
halfway to the house and cut the engine, pulling on the emergency brake before
hiking the rest of the journey.

Lionel gave me the keys but the
front door is ajar when I arrive. If this were the city I’d worry the house was
full of drug users, but something tells me raccoons are more likely to be
squatting inside. I freeze in the entryway, where a framed photo of a couple
hangs crookedly on a wall with faded floral wallpaper. In the sun-bleached
photo, a middle-aged man rocking a bushy mustache kisses the cheek of a
middle-aged woman whose smile lights up the entire frame.

This must be Walter and June,
beautiful and happy here in this moment amidst the ruins. Do I look like them?
I trace my fingers along my own jaw, trying to decide if I have either of their
noses. I guess only Walter is related to me by blood. I’m struck with an
overwhelming sadness at all this absence in my life. And at the fact that the
father who abandoned my pregnant mother also abandoned his
responsibilities to Pierce Acres.

My hands shake as I pull out my
phone to call Esther, who thankfully answers right away.

“Hey, kiddo. You all right?” The
reception is terrible, but the warmth of Esther’s familiar voice settles my
nerves.

"I'm at the house,” I say, my
voice coming out smaller than I intended. "Esther, it's... it's a
lot."

"Tell me what you see."

I wander deeper into the house,
phone pressed to my ear. "There's this photo of Walter and June where they
look so happy." My throat tightens. "I never even knew they existed
and now they're gone and I'm supposed to just... what? Sell their whole
life?"

"You don't have to decide
anything today," Esther says gently. "Just look around. See what
you're working with." Esther usually doesn’t have time for kindness, which
tells me this is as big a deal as it feels like.

I move through rooms frozen in
time—a kitchen with avocado-green appliances, a living room with a couch still
wearing its plastic cover, dust motes dancing in the afternoon light streaming
through grimy windows. Everything is dated but not destroyed. I mean, there’s a
layer of grime everywhere and I know enough to recognize heaps of mouse poop.
But otherwise, it's like they just... left one day and never came back.

"The house is actually kind of
solid," I tell Esther, running my hand along the banister of a wooden
staircase. "Needs a deep clean and some updates, but the bones are
good." My influencer brain is already cataloging the original hardwood
floors, the farmhouse sink, the built-in shelving that could look amazing with
the right styling.

“I wonder if Nate would come take a
look,” I say. My brother-in-law is a carpenter. But he and my sister Eden are
up to their ears in their own work with custom beehive supplies and beeswax
beauty products. I know this because I manage their marketing.

Esther grunts and the metallic clang
I hear above the static tells me she’s probably changing out a keg at the bar
she owns. "What about the actual syrup making stuff?"

"Haven't looked yet. Let me go
outside."

I step onto the sagging back porch
and immediately understand the word "dilapidated." The wood here is
seriously past its prime. The railing is cracked and leaning, the steps crooked
and warped. Beyond the house, a cluster of weathered huts sags in various
levels of decay. But behind them, spreading across the hillside, is a forest of
maple trees.

"Oh," I breathe.

"What?"

"Esther, there are so many
trees." I'm walking without thinking, phone still at my ear, drawn toward
the grove. "They're huge. Old. Some of them have, like, taps still hanging
out of the trunks. All rusty and forgotten…”

The maple grove is dense and wild,
sunlight filtering through the branches in golden shafts. It's beautiful in
that Instagram-perfect way, except nobody's been here to photograph it.
Nobody's been here to care for it at all.

"This could be really
something," I hear myself say. "I mean it would take a ton of work...
Esther, this place could be stunning."

"Hold on, are you thinking
about keeping it?"

"What? No. No, I'm just
noticing things.” I'm absolutely thinking about keeping it, which is insane. I
have a life in Pittsburgh. I have work. I have my sisters. I can't just stay
here in the middle of nowhere because some trees are pretty.

Can I?

"Eva, you're doing the
thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you get all
dreamy and start planning before you think it through."

"I am not—" I stop walking
abruptly. Through the trees ahead, I can see the neighbor's house—the one with
the THORNE mailbox. It's much closer than I expected. Close enough that I can
almost see through the windows.

"There's someone over
there," I tell Esther.

"Well yeah, people live in Fork
Lick. Also I can barely hear you.”

“Let me try to video call.” I switch
over to video, holding out the phone and fluffing my hair as I wait for Esther
to accept. “Can you see it?”

I gesture around, give her a little
twirl to show her the amazing trees and could-be-amazing house.

“I can’t see you, but I can hear
you. How isolated are you there? Should I worry?”

“Hm, I don’t think so. Everyone I
met so far has been really nice.” Everyone is basically Lionel and the
equally-ancient man working the desk at the motel where I booked a room for the
night. “Can you see any of the grove I own?” I drift closer to the property
line, moving my phone camera through the trees. The Thorne house is tidy and
well-maintained, clearly inhabited by someone who knows how to actually take
care of a yard. Solar panels glint on the roof, theirs is a well-kept driveway
and the lawn has beautifully mown grass.

“Sorry the service sucks here. I
should probably introduce myself at some point," I mutter. "You know,
be neighborly. Let them know someone's finally dealing with this place."

“See how you’re mentally committing
to this?” Esther huffs. “This screams responsibility, Eva. Do not insert
yourself with the locals.”

I'm about to respond when a shape
moves past one of the windows. A very large shape. "Esther, I think
there's a—"

The shape appears in the yard, arms
moving, approaching me. For a split second, I can make out broad shoulders,
what might be a beard, and—oh god, is he looking at me?

            I
back toward my house because he seems not to want me at his. Is he shooing me
like I’m a raccoon? He keeps waving his arms until the irrational part of my
city-girl brain freaks out.

HUGE. MOUNTAIN MAN. LUMBERJACK.
POSSIBLE YETI.

In my haste to get back in the
Pierce house, I stumble. My phone goes flying from my hand, tumbling into the
undergrowth somewhere behind me. I can hear Esther's tiny voice calling my
name, tinny and distant and increasingly panicked.

"EVA? EVA? WHAT'S
HAPPENING?"

I scramble after the phone, heart
hammering, face burning with embarrassment even though nobody—I think—actually
witnessed my freak-out. My fingers close around the case and I yank it up,
clods of dirt falling from the screen.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" I
gasp into the phone. "I just—there was a person. A really BIG person. Like
a yeti or a lumberjack or—"

"I'M CALLING THE POLICE!"

"No! Don't! I'm fine,
seriously, I just scared myself being creepy and spying on the neighbors—"

A sound cuts through the air. A
crash, maybe? Or a yell? It's hard to tell over my own heavy breathing and
Esther's continued nagging.

I freeze, staring through the trees
at the neighbor's house. Did something just happen over there?

"Eva, where are you right
now?" Esther sounds calmer at least.

"I'm... I'm by the porch. Near
the house I now own." I'm backing away slowly, clutching my phone with
both hands now. The screen has a crack running diagonally across it. Perfect.
"I think I’ll walk back to the car."

"That sounds like an excellent
plan."

I walk around the other side of the
house, noticing the foundation seems fine…there’s not even moss growing on it
like there is at Eliza’s house. I can see the Thorne house from the front of
mine. Nothing seems to be moving or amiss. Maybe I imagined the sound. Maybe
I'm just jumpy.

"I'm almost at the car," I
tell Esther, my voice steadier now. "I'll figure out next steps from the
motel."

"Do you want me to stay on the
phone with you?"

"No, I'm okay. Really. I'm
just... I'm going to go now."

"Call me when you get to your
hotel. I mean it, Eva."

"I will. Love you."

I end the call and shove the phone
in my pocket, breaking into a jog. When I reach the battered sedan, I
practically throw myself inside and lock all the doors. My hands are shaking as
I grip the steering wheel, staring through the windshield at the house—my
house—silhouetted against the fading light.

What the hell am I doing here?