The Apple Orchard. Сьюзен Виггс
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a haunted history—it was the site of a crime of passion—but Tess didn’t mind. She’d never been superstitious.
The apartment was filled with items she’d collected through the years, simply because she liked them or was intrigued by them. There was a balance between heirloom and kitsch. The common thread seemed to be that each object had a story, like a pottery jug with a bas-relief love story told in pictures, in which she’d found a note reading, “Long may we run. —Gilbert.” Or the antique clock on the living room wall, each of its carved figures modeled after one of the clockmaker’s twelve children. She favored the unusual, so long as it appeared to have been treasured by someone, once upon a time. Her mail spilled from an antique box containing a pigeon-racing counter with a brass plate engraved from a father to a son. She hung her huge handbag on a wrought iron finial from a town library that had burned and been rebuilt in a matter of weeks by an entire community.
Other people’s treasures captivated her. They always had, steeped in hidden history, bearing the nicks and gouges and fingerprints of previous owners. She’d probably developed the affinity from spending so much of her childhood in her grandmother’s antiques shop. Having so little in the way of family herself, she used to imagine what it might be like to have siblings, aunts and uncles...a father.
Tonight, she found no comfort in her collected treasures. She paced back and forth, wishing she hadn’t had that extra glass of champagne, wishing she hadn’t given away her last cigarette, wishing she could call Neelie or Lydia, her best friends. But Lydia was busy being engaged and Neelie had a new boyfriend; Tess couldn’t interrupt their happy evening with a ridiculous cry for help.
“Yes, ridiculous, that’s what you’re being,” she said to her image in the mirror. “You don’t have a single thing to worry about. What if you were really in trouble? What if you were like the Winthers in Nazi-occupied Denmark? Now, there’s something to fret about.”
Then Tess thought about the panhandler, who probably had her worries as well, yet she seemed to face the world with weary acceptance. She seemed content with her scones and her dog. Maybe I should get a dog, thought Tess. But, no. She traveled too much to take responsibility for even an air fern, let alone a dog.
Yet no matter how much she tried to ignore the hammering in her chest, she couldn’t escape it. That was the one thing she’d never figured out how to run from—herself.
Part Three
My dear, have some lavender, or you’d best have a thimble full of wine, your spirits are quite down, my sweeting.
—John O’Keeffe, A Beggar on Horseback, 1798
LAVENDER SCONES
2 cups flour
½ cup rolled oats
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon sea salt
1/4 cup butter
1 ½ tablespoons lavender flowers, fresh or dried
1 egg, beaten
1/3 cup honey
½ cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Combine flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Cut in butter and add lavender. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture. Pour in the egg, honey, buttermilk and vanilla. Stir just until combined. With floured hands, pat the dough into a round about 1 inch thick and cut into eight wedges. Bake scones for 12 to 15 minutes, or until lightly browned. Serve with butter and honey.
(Source: Adapted from Herb Companion Magazine)
Three
Archangel, California
“I found him wandering down the highway,” said Bob Krokower, indicating the gangly shepherd-mix dog struggling at the end of the leash. “Fay and I thought Charlie would be a nice companion for us in our retirement, but...uh...turns out it’s not exactly a match made in heaven.”
Dominic Rossi eyed the huge paws and mischievous eyes of the overgrown pup. Then he turned to Bob, a friend and client at the bank, who had yanked the dog across the field and over Angel Creek, which ran between their homes. “I’ve already got two dogs,” he said. “Iggy and the Dude.” Both were also rescues, a crazy little Italian greyhound who’d survived a puppy mill, and another dog of such mixed heritage, sometimes Dominic wasn’t even sure he was a dog.
“We can’t keep him. Leaving this morning for a weekend with the grandkids. He’s real social,” said Bob, adjusting his baseball cap. “Here’s a big bag of dog food. He’ll get along fine with your other dogs. With your kids, too. He loves kids. Just...not retired folks.”
Dominic had a list a mile long of things he had to do today, including picking up the kids from his ex-wife’s, but there was nothing on the list about rescuing a stray dog. He’d risen early as usual, starting the day with a walk through his vineyards. Growing grapes and making wine was a passion, but at this point, it was far from a living. He had to fit it in between his day job and his duties as a single father, rushing around between roles.
“Listen,” said Bob, “if you can’t take him, I guess I could drive him down to the shelter in Healdsburg....”
Dominic looked into the young dog’s liquid brown eyes. Once you looked into a dog’s innocent eyes, it was all over. “Leave him. I’ll figure out something to do with him.”
Bob shoved the leash into his hand. “You’re real good with dogs and people. I’m sure he’ll do just fine with you. Thanks a bunch, Dominic.”
Dominic watched him amble away, confident that the big pup was in good hands. Bob knew him too well. He knew Dominic Rossi had a hell of a time with the word no. “Charlie, eh?” Dominic said to the dog. “You look like a handful, but I’ll find a new home for you. The Wagners need a housewarming gift, come to think of it.” Kurt Wagner had just qualified for a mortgage under a program Dominic had instituted at the bank enabling military veterans to buy homes; maybe Kurt would be willing to give the dog a home. Doubtful, though. Kurt’s wife had a baby on the way, so a half-grown dog would probably be too much.
Checking to see that the leash was secure, Dominic looked across the rolling hills at the Johansen spread, the apple trees of Bella Vista in craggy rows along a distant ridge that abutted Dominic’s place. The pickers should be in full swing by now, but Magnus’s orchard was curiously silent, with no one in sight.
The thought of work reminded him he’d better get going. He paused for a few seconds more, taking a big breath of morning and telling himself to be grateful for the life he had, even though it wasn’t the life he’d planned out for himself. His career as a navy pilot had ended when a mission had resulted in a mishap. Now he was a single dad here in Archangel where he’d grown up amid the sun-seared fields and vineyards, a place for dreamers and bohemians, farmers and families. The landscape, wild and dry, was crisscrossed by roads lined with twisted old oak trees leading down to a postcard-perfect town filled with shops and cafés. It wasn’t exactly torture, being back here. He was growing grapes and making wine, something he’d always dreamed of doing, even though there weren’t enough hours in the day to do it right. Life was good—mostly—so long as he focused on the things he had rather than the things he lacked.
Charlie gave a noisy yawn and licked his chops.
“I know, buddy. Let’s figure out what we’re going to do with you.” He thought again of Magnus and his granddaughter Isabel. Maybe the orchard next door was silent because Magnus’s money troubles had