The Apple Orchard

by Susan Wiggs

  “Sometimes you stumble across a treasure when you’re looking for something else entirely.”

  #1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs brings readers to the lush abundance of Sonoma county in a novel of sisters, friendship and how memories are woven like a spell around us.

  Tess Delaney makes a living restoring stolen treasures to their rightful owners. People like Annelise Winther, who refuses to sell her long-gone mother’s beloved necklace—despite Tess’s advice. To Annelise, the jewel’s value is in its memories.

  But Tess’s own history is filled with gaps: a father she never met, a mother who spent more time traveling than with her daughter. So Tess is shocked when she discovers the grandfather she never knew is in a coma. And that she has been named in his will to inherit half of Bella Vista, a hundred-acre apple orchard in the magical Sonoma town called Archangel.

  The rest is willed to Isabel Johansen. A half sister she’s never heard of.

  Against the rich landscape of Bella Vista, Tess begins to discover a world filled with the simple pleasures of food and family, of the warm earth beneath her bare feet. A world where family comes first and the roots of history run deep. A place where falling in love is not only possible, but inevitable.

  And in a season filled with new experiences, Tess begins to see the truth in something Annelise once told her: if you don’t believe memories are worth more than money, then perhaps you’ve not made the right kind of memories.

  From one of America’s most beloved writers, The Apple Orchard is a story of family ties—both old and new—and of the moments that connect our hearts.

  Also by SUSAN WIGGS

  Contemporary Fiction

  HOME BEFORE DARK

  THE OCEAN BETWEEN US

  SUMMER BY THE SEA

  TABLE FOR FIVE

  LAKESIDE COTTAGE

  JUST BREATHE

  THE GOODBYE QUILT

  The Lakeshore Chronicles

  SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE

  THE WINTER LODGE

  DOCKSIDE

  SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE

  FIRESIDE

  LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS

  THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY

  MARRYING DAISY BELLAMY

  RETURN TO WILLOW LAKE

  Historical Romances

  THE LIGHTKEEPER

  THE DRIFTER

  The Tudor Rose Trilogy

  AT THE KING’S COMMAND

  THE MAIDEN’S HAND

  AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS

  Chicago Fire Trilogy

  THE HOSTAGE

  THE MISTRESS

  THE FIREBRAND

  Calhoun Chronicles

  THE CHARM SCHOOL

  THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER

  HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

  ENCHANTED AFTERNOON

  A SUMMER AFFAIR

  For my mother and father, Lou and Nick Klist, with deepest love. All I know in the world of love and passion, hard work and dedication, and the sturdy resilience of the human heart, I learned from my parents. You are, and have always been, my inspiration.

  Contents

  Part One

  Danish Apple Pie Recipe

  Caramel Apple Topping Recipe

  Prologue

  Part Two

  Apple Chutney Recipe

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Part Three

  Lavender Scones Recipe

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Four

  Grape and Rosemary Focaccia Recipe

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Five

  Backyard Garden Salad Recipe

  Chapter Nine

  Part Six

  Tweed Kettle Pie Recipe

  Chapter Ten

  Part Seven

  Julekake Recipe

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Eight

  Mulligatawny Soup Recipe

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part Nine

  Tomato Sauce Recipe

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Part Ten

  Baked Hot Chocolate Recipe

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt

  Part One

  Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.

  —The Song of Solomon, 2:5

  Apples are iconic and convey so much—home, comfort, wholesomeness, health, wisdom, beauty, simplicity, sensuality, seduction...and sin. The Gravenstein apple (Danish: Gråsten-Æble) comes from Gråsten in South Jutland, Denmark. The fruit ranges in color from yellow-green to crimson and has a tart flavor, perfect for cooking and making apple cider. This is an ephemeral variety that doesn’t keep well, so it should be enjoyed fresh from the orchard.

  ÆBLE KAGE (DANISH APPLE PIE)

  Before they taste this, people wonder at the lack of spices. If lovely fresh apples are used, the spices won’t be missed.

  1 egg

  ¾ cup sugar

  ½ cup flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  dash of salt

  ½ teaspoon vanilla

  2 cups diced apples, peeled and sautéed in 1 tablespoon butter until soft

  ½ cup chopped walnuts

  Beat the egg, gradually adding the sugar and vanilla. Then add flour, baking powder and salt to create a smooth batter. Fold in sautéed apples and nuts, then pour into a buttered and floured 8-inch-square glass pan. Bake for about 30 minutes at 350 degrees F.

  Cut into squares and serve with caramel topping, ice cream or both.

  CARAMEL APPLE TOPPING

  This is one of the simplest and most delicious ways to prepare fresh apples. Keep a jar on hand to serve over cake, ice cream, pound cake or yogurt, with your morning granola or straight out of the jar with a spoon at two in the morning, when you find yourself alone and hungry.

  4 sliced apples; no need to peel

  4 tablespoons butter (no substitute)

  a pinch of nutmeg

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  1 cup walnuts

  1 cup brown sugar

  1 cup cream or buttermilk

  Melt the butter in a heavy pan. Add the sugar and swirl until melted. Add the spices and apples and sauté until the apples are tender. Add the walnuts and stir. Turn off the heat, and slowly stir in the cream. Serve immediately over ice cream or cake, and keep the leftovers in a jar in the fridge.

  (Source: Traditional)

  Prologue

  Archangel, California

  The air smelled of apples, and the orchard hummed with the sound of bees hovering over the bushels of harvested fruit. The trees were in prime condition, waiting for the harvest workers to arrive. The branches had been pruned in readiness for the ladders, the last pesky groundhog had been trapped and carted away; the roads between the trees had been graded smooth so the fruit wouldn’t be jostled in transport. The morning was cool with a mist hanging among the branches. The sun, ripe on the eastern horizon of the rolling hills, offered the promise of warmth later in the day. The pickers would be here soon.

  Magnus Johansen balanced on the picking ladder, feel
ing as steady as a man a quarter his age. Isabel would scold him if she saw; his granddaughter would call him an old fool for working alone instead of waiting for the pickers to arrive. But Magnus liked the early solitude; he liked having the whole orchard to himself in the muted hush of the warming morning. He was in his eighth decade of life; God only knew how many more harvests he would see.

  Isabel worried so much about him these days. She tended to hover, like a honeybee in the milkweed that surrounded the orchard. Magnus wished she wouldn’t fret. She should know he had already survived the best and worst life had to offer.

  Truth be told, he worried about Isabel far more than she worried about him. It was the things she didn’t know that weighed upon him this morning. He couldn’t keep her in the dark forever. The letter on the desk in his study confirmed his worst fear—unless a miracle occurred, all of Bella Vista would be lost.

  Magnus did his best to set aside the troubles for the moment. He had risen early to don his denim and boots, knowing today was the day. Over the years, he had learned to judge the moment of maturity for the fruit. Too early, and you had to deal with the inefficiencies of spot picking. Too late, and you risked having fruit that was senescent, breaking down from old age.

  Some mornings he felt his own kind of senescence deep in the marrow of his bones. Not today, though. Today, he felt a surge of energy, and his fruit was at the peak of perfection. He’d performed the starch iodine test, of course, but more importantly, he’d bitten into an apple, knowing by its firmness, sweetness and crunch that the time had come. Over the next few days, the orchard would be as busy as a beehive. He would send his fruit to market in the waiting boxes, each with a bright Bella Vista Orchards label.

  A trio cluster of glossy, crimson-striped Gravensteins hung several feet out on a branch above his head. Hard-to-reach limbs were usually pruned, but this one was productive. Carefully aware of the extent of his reach, he leaned forward to pick a trio of apples and add them to his basket. These days, most of the workers preferred the long bags, which made two-handed picking easier, but Magnus was old school. He was old, period. Yet even now, the land sustained him; there was something about the rhythm of the seasons, the yearly renewal, that kept him as vigorous as a much younger man. He had much to be thankful for.

  Much to regret, as well.

  As he captured the apples on the high limb, his ladder wobbled a bit. Chastened, he left the rest of the branch for the gleaners and climbed down.

  As he moved his picking ladder to another tree, he heard the frantic whir of a bee in distress in the milkweed. A honeybee, greedy for the abundant nectar of the tangled blossoms, was trapped in the flowers, a common occurrence. Magnus often found their desiccated bodies enmeshed by the sticky seedpods. Modern farmers tried to eradicate the milkweed, but Magnus allowed it to flourish along the borders of the orchard, a habitat for bees and monarch butterflies, finches and ladybugs.

  Feeling charitable, he liberated a trapped and furiously buzzing bee from the sticky down, releasing a flurry of seeds parachuted by feathery umbrellas. With no notion that the sweetness was deadly, the bee immediately dove back into the hedge and returned to sipping nectar, the risk of getting caught obliterated by its hunger.

  Magnus moved on with a philosophical shrug. When nature drew a creature to sweetness, there could be no stopping it. He moved his ladder to the next tree, positioning it for maximum efficiency, and climbed to a lofty perch. There, his head above the branches, he inhaled the glory of the morning—the redolence of the air, the quality of light filtering through the mist, the contours of the land and the distant haze of the ocean.

  A sense of nostalgia swept through him, borne along on a wave of memories. As though it were yesterday he could see the sun-flooded landscape, with Eva down at the collection bins, smiling up at him as she supervised the harvest—his war bride, starting a new life in America with him. They had built Bella Vista together. It was a terrible shame that the bank was about to take it away.

  Despite the successes and tragedies, the secrets and lies, Magnus had an abundance of blessings. He had made a life with a woman he loved, and that was more than many poor souls could count. They had created a world together, spending their days close to nature, eating crisp apples, fresh homemade bread slathered with honey from their own hives, sharing the bounty with workers and neighbors... Yet those blessings had come at a cost, one that would be reckoned by a power greater than himself.

  His pocket phone chirped, disturbing the quiet of the morning. Isabel insisted that he carry a phone in his pocket at all times; his was one of the simple ones that sent and received calls without all the other functions that would only confuse him.

  The ladder teetered again as he reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt. He didn’t recognize the number that came up.

  “This is Magnus,” he said, his customary greeting.

  “It’s Annelise.”

  His heart stumbled. Her voice sounded thin, older, but, oh, so familiar, despite the passage of decades. Beneath the thin, wavery tones, he recognized the sound of a far younger woman, one he had loved in a much different way than he’d loved Eva.

  His grip tightened on the phone. “How the devil did you get this number?”

  “I take it you received my letter,” she said, lapsing into their native Danish, probably without even realizing it.

  “I did, and you are absolutely right,” he said, though he felt his heart speed up at the admission. “It’s time to tell them everything.”

  “Have you done it?” she asked. “Magnus, it’s a simple enough conversation.”

  “Yes, but Isabel...she’s... I don’t like to upset her.” Isabel—beautiful and fragile, so damaged by life at such a young age.

  “And what about Theresa? She’s your granddaughter, too. Would you rather the news come from you, or from some undesignated stranger? We’re not getting any younger, you and I. If you don’t do something right away, I will.”

  “Fine, then.” He felt a flash of hatred for the phone, this little electronic intruder turning a bright day dark. “I will take care of it. I always do. And if by some miracle they forgive us—”

  “Of course they will. Don’t ever stop expecting a miracle, Magnus. You of all people should know better.”

  “Don’t call me again,” he said, his heart lurching in his chest. “Please don’t call me again.” He put away his cell phone. The wind swept through the trees, and the powerful scent of apples surrounded him. Wheeling hawks kettled overhead, and one of them loosed a plaintive cry. Magnus reached for one more apple, a lush beauty dangling at arm’s length, the shine on its cheek so bright he could see his reflection.

  The reach unbalanced the ladder. He grabbed at a branch but missed, and then there was nothing to hold on to but the misty air. Despite the brutal swiftness of the accident, Magnus felt eerily aware of every second, as though it was happening to someone else. Yet he was not afraid for himself—he was far too old for that, and life had taught him long ago that fear and happiness could not coexist.

  Part Two

  Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why.

  —Bernard M. Baruch

  APPLE CHUTNEY

  This is a nice accompaniment to spiced pork, roasted chicken or grilled salmon.

  3 tart cooking apples, cored and diced (no need to peel)

  ½ cup chopped white onion

  1 tablespoon minced ginger root

  ½ cup orange juice

  1/3 cup cider vinegar

  ½ cup brown sugar

  1 teaspoon grainy mustard

  1/4 teaspoon hot pepper flakes

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ cup raisins or currants

  Combine all ingredients except the raisins in a heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly, then reduce to simmer and stir occasionally until most of the liquid has evaporated; about 45 minutes. Remove from heat and add the raisins. Store in the refrigerator or can using tradit
ional methods.

  (Source: Adapted from a recipe by the Washington State Apple Commission)

  One

  San Francisco

  Tess Delaney’s to-do list was stacked invisibly over her head like the air traffic over O’Hare. She had clients waiting to hear from her, associates hounding her for reports and a make-or-break meeting with the owner of the firm. She pushed back at the pressing anxiety and focused on the task at hand—restoring a treasure to its rightful owner.

  The current mission brought her to an overfurnished apartment in Alamo Square. Miss Annelise Winther, still spry at eighty, ushered her into a cozy place with thready lace curtains, dust-ruffled chairs and a glorious scent of something baking. Tess wasted no time in presenting the treasure.

  Miss Winther’s hands, freckled by age, the joints knotted with arthritis, shook as she held the antique lavaliere. Beneath a pink knitted shawl, her bony shoulders trembled.

  “This necklace belonged to my mother,” she said, her voice breaking over the word. “I haven’t seen it since the spring of 1941.” She lifted her gaze to Tess, who sat across the scrubbed pine kitchen table from her. There were stories in the woman’s eyes, winking like the facets of a jewel. “I have no words to thank you for bringing this to me.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” said Tess. “Moments like this—they’re the best part of my job.” The sense of pride and accomplishment helped her ignore the insistent buzz of her phone, signaling yet another incoming message.

  Annelise Winther was Tess’s favorite kind of client. She was unassuming, a woman of modest means, judging by the decrepit condition of her apartment, in one of the city’s rambling Victorians that had seen better days. Two cats, whom the woman had introduced as Golden and Prince, lazed in the late-afternoon autumn sunshine spilling through a bumped-out bay window. A homey-looking needlepoint piece hung on the wall, bearing the slogan Live This Day.

  Miss Winther took off her glasses, polished them and put them back on. Glancing again at Tess’s business card, she said, “Tess Delaney, Provenance Specialist, Sheffield Auction House. Well, Ms. Delaney. I’m extremely glad you found me, too. You’ve done well for yourself.”