And, how it all ends up (Long chapter)

Chapter 56 – The Reception

The orchard never looked so fine. Every tree wore a halo of pale green and dew, and the wooden tables set between the rows groaned under the weight of roast pork, baskets of cornbread, honey pies, jars of peach chutney, and bottles of cider so crisp they stung your teeth. The boys were all scrubbed up and freshly shirted—some even sportin’ boots instead of bare feet. Lu had insisted.

“You are not," she told Seis pointedly, "goin' to dance at my weddin’ in socks with holes.”

He'd grumbled, but when she handed him a fresh pair of boots sent from town by one of her cousins, he looked like he might cry.

Music wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. Dos strummed his wire-stringed box, Once banged a couple of milk cans with spoons, and Quattro and Nueve clapped out a rhythm. It had soul, like the rest of us.

Ann had made a crown of woven wild herbs and slipped it on Lu’s head after the ceremony. “You’re a queen now,” she said with a smile. “But don’t forget, queens still do dishes.” Lu laughed and hugged her mama hard.

I spent the first hour sittin’ on a stump near the apple tree, a cup of spiced cider in my hand, just takin’ it all in. There was Gus holdin’ court with a group of kids, tellin’ tall tales about lightning pigs and haunted grain silos. There was Seis teachin’ one of the littler boys how to roast an apple on a stick over the fire. There was Lu, glowin’ like the sun that never set, chattin’ with some of the neighbor women who’d helped bring extra chairs and desserts.

Once and Doce had built a little side table stacked with the “Wedding Batch” of whiskey. They handed out samples like barkeeps at a saloon. Folks sipped and nodded, some whistled, one lady said, “This’ll cure a broken heart and a cough.”

“Special stuff,” Doce said proudly. “Distilled under love and rain.”

That’s when the boys got it in their heads to put on a “performance.”

I shoulda stopped it. I shoulda read the warning signs—Quattro whisperin’, Uno grinnin’ like he had bees in his boots. But no. I just sipped my cider and let 'em cook up their mischief.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Uno announced, clamberin’ up on an overturned crate. “And Ron.”

The crowd chuckled.

“We present to you... Ron the Brew King!”

Out came Dos, wearin’ my old sun hat as a crown and draped in a dusty quilt like a robe. Quattro followed, carryin’ a ladle like a scepter. Nueve brought up the rear, on all fours, wearin’ cow horns and mooing for some reason that made no sense.

The sketch was nonsense—something about how I ruled over a kingdom of barrels and bees, commanding the elements to brew the perfect booze. At one point, “Brew King Ron” waved his ladle and shouted, “Distill, my minions!” while someone off-stage set off a puff of flour.

Lu laughed so hard she had to sit down, tears streamin’. Even I had to admit, the impression of me mumbling and waving a wrench while muttering about condensation coils was spot on.

When it ended, they took a bow, and Dos tried to curtsy but slipped and landed square on his bottom. Everyone applauded anyway.

Later, after most folks had eaten their fill and the music had faded to a lazy rhythm, Lu and I slipped off toward the porch. We didn’t need to say nothin’. We just drifted that way, like a couple leaves on a breeze.

The swing creaked as we sat. She rested her head on my shoulder, crown of herbs still perched like it belonged.

“Tired?” I asked.

“Happy,” she said. “And maybe a little tired.”

We watched the shadows stretch—not grow, exactly, just... deepen. The light was always there, but now it felt more like evening. Quiet. Private.

I set my empty cup down on the railing. “Did you think we’d ever get here?”

“I didn’t know where ‘here’ was for a long time,” she murmured. “But once I saw this place... saw you with the boys, saw the way you looked at a busted wagon axle like it was a puzzle worth solv’n... I figured maybe this was it.”

I took her hand. “I’m glad you stayed.”

She looked up at me, soft and sure. “I’m glad you asked.”

A moth drifted past. The sound of laughter still rose from the orchard. Somewhere, Seis was playin’ a slow, wandering tune. I reached up and pulled the herb crown off her head, set it gently on the porch rail.

“I reckon we oughta save that for the mantel,” I said. “Somethin’ to remember today by.”

“Today?” she said, scootin’ closer. “Ron, I plan on rememberin’ every day from now on.”

We sat there, long after the last guests had gone, the fire burned down low, and the only sound was the chirp of sleepy birds in the trees.

There wasn’t no moon, no stars. Just the light. Always the light.

Chapter 57 – Settling In

It was a strange thing, wakin' up that first morning as a married man. Not that the sun looked different—still the same ever-shinin' light it always was—but the way it fell across the quilt felt warmer somehow. Felt like the bed knew there were two of us now. Felt like the walls had shifted just a little to make room for the next chapter.

Lu was still sleepin', hair spread over the pillow like a fan of cornsilk. I lay there a while, not wantin' to disturb her, just listenin' to her breathe. There was peace in it, in the gentle rise and fall, like tides I hadn't noticed before. She made the room feel lived-in in a new way, though she’d been sleepin’ here on and off for a while now. But this was different. Permanent.

We took our time that morning. No chores until breakfast, no rush to dress. Just pancakes with honey, strong coffee, and laughter at how the boys had left behind a full tray of cider-soaked sausages with a note that read: "Honeymoon Breakfast, Eat Up!"

After eatin', we got to work settlin' her into the room proper. We cleared space on the shelves, rearranged the dresser drawers. I moved my old photo box down from the high shelf and set it on the bed. She opened it like it held treasure, and maybe it did—faded photos of me and Peg, of the old dog, of my brother's boy with a fish near twice his size. Lu held up one of me in my younger years, shirt off and covered in mud beside a tractor.

"I’m frammin’ this one," she teased.

"Please don't," I muttered. "That was a bet gone wrong and a rainstorm gone worse."

She tucked it aside anyway. Then she found the picture of Peg and me on the day we finished buildin' the porch. Both of us smilin', tools in hand, sun behind us. Lu didn’t flinch. Didn’t set it down hard. She ran her finger along the frame and nodded.

"Your past made you, Ron," she said. "So I’ll love it too."

That just about knocked the wind outta me.

We hung that one up in the hallway, not the bedroom. She said it felt right there, like Peg was keepin’ watch but not hoverin’. I agreed. Funny thing about love—it ain’t always about holdin’ on. Sometimes it’s about makin’ room.

Later, we took a walk down by the new stillhouse. Nueve came joggin’ up with a board twice his height, lookin’ proud. "We’ll have it ready in two weeks," Doce said. "Unless it rains again."

"It won’t," Lu said, squeezin' my hand. "Sky’s been real generous lately. I think it’s givin’ us time to build."

We nodded to the neighbors who’d brought wood scraps and barrels from their own stores. Folks had come outta the trees to help since the wedding. Some brought nails, others tools. One older couple dropped off a whole stack of cured pine from their old barn, said they weren’t usin’ it and wanted it to go to a good roof.

Lu’s kin—her sisters and one of her older brothers—were scrubbin’ the windows and checkin’ the fermentin’ casks. They worked quiet but steady, noddin’ at me and smilin’ just a touch wider when Lu passed by. We weren’t just playin' house anymore. This was real.

After the tour, we came back to the porch with a pair of sweet teas and sat watchin' the orchard. She tucked her legs under her and rested her head on my shoulder.

"Feels like we built somethin'," she said. "Not just buildings or barrels. Somethin’ that’ll hold."

"Yeah," I said. "Feels like we finally settled in."

And we had. In more ways than one.

Chapter 58 – Planning for the Future

The first full week as husband and wife felt like the last few drops of a sweet cider bottle—warm, settled, and worth savin'. Lu took to the house like it had always been hers, movin' around the kitchen hummin' little tunes, tidyin' shelves the boys never dared touch, and somehow organizin' the pantry without ever makin' me feel like I was in her way.

"I ain't tryin' to change a thing," she said, smilin', hands on her hips. "Just tryin' to make it easier to find the cinnamon when it’s pie time."

I chuckled and nodded, glad to have her there, not just sharin' the bed but sharin' the rhythm of the place. The boys, for their part, didn’t seem too phased. They’d long since accepted Lu as a constant in our world. What changed now was how she let them know she was officially kin. Uno got a motherly earful for hangin' laundry too close to the chimney, and Quattro got scolded for leavin' his boots in the pie prep area. They took it with grins, even thanked her.

One morning over breakfast, with hot bread and honey, we sat down with Once and Doce. They’d been workin’ like mules helpin' with the new stillhouse, but their minds were sharp, and Lu had an idea.

"We’re buildin’ somethin’ here that ain’t just about bottles and crops," she said. "It’s time we think big. Bigger than this porch, this orchard. We’re gonna need papers, plans, permits."

Doce raised an eyebrow. "You want a proper distillery?"

"I want a legacy," Lu said, pointin’ toward the stillhouse with her teacup. "Somethin’ these boys can keep growin'."

That’s when I pulled out the folded parchment I’d been scribblin’ on in the barn. Schematics, rough numbers, dreamin'. I laid it out on the table, and Once let out a low whistle.

"You drew this?"

"It’s not pretty," I said. "But it’s a start."

Lu leaned over and smoothed it out. "Far Light Spirits," she read aloud. "I like that."

"Why Far Light?" Doce asked.

"Because it’s always bright here," I said. "Always light, even when things were hard. Felt like a sign."

We spent the rest of the day hammerin' out details—placement for aging barrels, a bigger fermentin’ room, and maybe, just maybe, a little corner storefront where folks could buy direct. Lu took notes like a schoolteacher, askin' sharp questions and makin’ sure everyone had their say. Even Seis wandered in after lunch with a sketch of a flavor chart he’d been dreamin’ up.

Later that afternoon, we walked the edge of the orchard with Gus, who'd stopped by to drop off some extra nails and a worn but serviceable press. "You folks are stirrin' up somethin' good," he said. "Reminds me of when I first cleared my place. That kind of hunger don’t come around often."

Lu looked up from her notepad. "We’re not just tryin' to fill shelves. We want somethin' that outlives us."

Gus nodded slow. "Then you’re doin' it right."

We paused under one of the older trees. The branches creaked softly in the breeze, leaves flickerin' like green fire. It was there Lu turned to me and said, "We should name the orchard, too."

"Name it what?"

She tapped her pen against her lip. "Peg's Orchard."

I blinked. Swallowed. "You sure?"

"She was part of your story," Lu said. "And now she’s part of mine."

I kissed her hand and said, "Then Peg's Orchard it is."

The following day, we hosted a little meetin' in the barn for neighbors and nearby homesteaders who'd been lendin' hands here and there. Lu baked up two pecan pies, and I set out three jars of last season’s peach whiskey. Folks came with ideas, questions, and even offers. A wiry man named Bale offered us three unused copper coils from an old pumpin' rig, sayin' they might serve us better than they did his shed. An older woman named Miss Leany promised a stack of barrel staves from a long-dismantled root cellar.

"Your farm's like a river now," she said to Lu. "Everything's flowin' toward it."

We accepted each gift with thanks and invited everyone to come back when the first batch was bottled. That night, while the boys were off in the bunkhouse playin' cards and shoutin' about some imaginary raccoon, Lu and I stayed out late on the porch, watchin' the trees sway.

"You ever think we'd end up here?" she asked.

"Not in a million lifetimes," I said. "But now that we have, I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."

She nestled close. "We’ll need to put a sign on the road. Big enough folks can see it comin' from town. Earthshine Goods for the front, Far Light Spirits for the side."

"We got the lumber," I said. "And plenty of paint."

That week ended with all the boys helpin' cut and sand the main signboard. Quattro etched the letters by hand, his tongue pokin' out with concentration. Once did the measurements. Doce mixed the paint. By the time it stood upright at the edge of the road, pegged deep in cemented earth, it looked like it belonged there.

We stood around it, all of us, and Lu read the name aloud once more. "Far Light Spirits," she said with a smile. "Now we just gotta live up to it."

And we would. With sweat, laughter, and a whole lotta love—we would.

Chapter 59 – Epilogue: Full Circle

Years roll easy when you stop countin’ 'em. First it was a season, then two. Then the stillhouse got its front door, and the orchard bore twice the fruit it used to. Before I knew it, my joints started poppin’ in the mornin’ and my beard turned from peppered to snowdrift white. But it didn’t bother me none. Not here. Not with her.

The farm had grown in quiet, strong ways. The distillery stood proud, its copper glintin’ in the eternal sun. Folks came from towns miles out to buy our bottles. “Far Light Spirits” became a name folks trusted. Some even asked for tours. We obliged when we could, walkin' them past barrels and the press, showin’ 'em how we did things proper—with care, not rush.

Lu? She got wiser with every batch. Even started teachin' a class once a month for young women wantin’ to learn the ropes of land and liquor. She wore her wide straw hat like a badge and could hush a room just by liftin’ one eyebrow. Folks listened when she spoke. I reckon I still did, too.

The boys grew. Oh, how they grew. Uno and Dos stayed on as master brewers, takin’ more pride in their craft than I ever did in my prime. Quattro married a girl from a valley over—sharp as a whip, and quicker to catch him sneak bites of raw dough. Seis took up root experimentin’ full time, grew things in jars that smelled like sunshine and vinegar. Nueve and Dies turned into builders—real ones. They helped raise two new bunkhouses and even a guest shack for when traders passed through.

Once and Doce? They co-managed the books, the orders, and the bottling lines. Kept things hummin’. Every week, we’d sit on the porch and go over numbers while Lu brought out tea and pickled eggs. Business was good, sure. But family was better.

One evenin’, a drone buzzed in from the sky, droppin’ down slow into the clover patch by the gate. Our youngest hand—Lu’s nephew by her middle brother—ran up and snagged the parcel like a rabbit. Brought it straight to me.

It was a letter. Real paper, folded clean. Addressed to Uncle Ron in big, round handwriting.

Inside was a note from my grand-nephew back on Earth. A boy I’d barely met once at a reunion. He’d grown now, finished with school, and lookin’ for work. Said he’d heard tell of a place out past the reach of normal days, where family meant somethin’ and the sun never set. He asked if he could come work the land, learn from me.

I sat quiet with that letter for a long time. Lu came and rested her chin on my shoulder, eyes scanning the lines.

"Well?" she asked.

"Tell him to pack light," I said, chucklin’. "We’ve always got space for one more."

Weeks passed, and the boy came. Name was Tanner. Good hands, if a little too used to touchscreen livin'. We set him to work cleanin’ the coop, fixin’ irrigation, and helpin’ Seis label new pepper varieties. And each time he did a job well, I saw somethin’ in him—somethin’ familiar.

Then came one lazy afternoon when I was sittin' beneath the apple trees, fixin’ a broken crate, when I heard Tanner cussin' under his breath. Rope was givin’ him trouble.

"Knots ain’t your friend today?" I called.

He grinned sheepish-like. "Keeps slippin'."

I waved him over and patted the log beside me. "Let me show you a trick. Learned it from my old uncle back on Earth."

He handed me the cord, and I walked him through it—twist, loop, tuck. "That’s a barrel knot. Holds tight under weight and don’t slip when wet."

He practiced, tongue out just like Quattro used to, and nailed it on the fourth go. "Thanks, Uncle Ron."

That’s when it hit me. Full circle. From me and Peg to me and Lu. From dirt and heartache to roots and laughter. From leavin’ Earth thinkin’ I had nothin’ left, to buildin’ a life worth passin’ on.

Lu walked out a minute later, apron dusty and arms full of fresh cornbread. She kissed my cheek, smiled at Tanner, and said, "You boys done talkin’ rope? There’s mouths to feed."

We ate out under the shade, with the distillery whirrin’ in the distance and the orchard heavy with promise. I looked at all of it—every laugh, every scuffed boot, every calloused hand—and felt it deep in my chest.

Later that night, Lu and I stood by the new sign near the gate. A few fireflies—probably genetically tinkered, but still magical—blinked across the fence line. She leaned her head on my shoulder.

"You happy, old man?" she asked, half teasing.

"Ain’t never thought I’d find heaven in the dirt," I said, restin’ my arm around her. "But here it is."

THE END.