The Apple Orchard

by Susan Wiggs

  They passed over the town of Sonoma itself—she’d never been there, but Dominic pointed it out—and after a while, descended into Archangel, a place she knew only by name. The town looked very small, a cluster of buildings at the city center, surrounded by a colorful patchwork of vineyards, orchards, meadows and gardens.

  The landing strip was located between two vineyards that swagged the hillsides. The plane touched down lightly, then buzzed along the tarmac, coming to a halt near a hangar of corrugated metal. A few other aircraft were tethered to the ground there.

  Dominic switched off the radios and controls. “Welcome to Archangel.”

  “Thanks for the lift. It was...unexpected.”

  He got out and came around to help her down, his strength giving her a secret thrill. He had large hands and a firm grip, and he handled her as if she weighed nothing.

  “This way,” he said, slinging his suit coat over one shoulder and heading for the parking lot. Away from the landing strip and hangar, the air smelled sweet, and the atmosphere was aglow with autumn light. He opened the door of a conservative-looking SUV and she got in. The car was as neat as everything else about him. She’d never quite trusted pathologically neat people.

  She rode along in silence, watching out the window. Neelie had always tried to get her to explore the wine regions of Sonoma County, but Tess never had time. She’d seen pictures, but nothing could have prepared her for the opulent splendor of the landscape here. The undulating terrain was cloaked in lush abundance, the vineyards like garlands of deep green and yellow, orchards and farms sprouting here and there, hillocks of dry golden grass crowned by beautiful sun-gilt houses, barns and silos. And overhead was the bluest sky she’d ever seen, as bright and hard as polished marble.

  There was something about the landscape that caught at her emotions. It was both lush and intimidating, its beauty so abundant. Far from the bustle of the city, she was a complete stranger here, like Dorothy stepping out of her whirling house into the land of Oz. Farm stands overflowing with local produce marked the long driveways into farms with whimsical names—Almost Paradise, One Bad Apple, Toad Hollow. Boxes and bushels were displayed on long, weathered tables. Between the farms, brushy tangles of berries and towering old oak trees lined the roadway.

  Tess felt a strange shifting inside her as the dark ribbon of the road wound down into the town of Archangel, marked by a sign where a bridge spanned a small waterway designated Angel Creek.

  She told herself not to worry. Not to feel freaked out by the situation. She was used to unorthodox situations. In pursuing the provenance of an object, she had faced all sorts of people, from highly placed cultural ministers to art middlemen who were little more than gangsters, and she’d held her own. The prospect of meeting her half sister should not bother her.

  But it did. She tried to remember the instructions the doctor had given her for breathing. Apparently she was an upper chest breather. This seemed to be a bad thing. She was supposed to inhale all the way down to her lower belly, until her stomach expanded, then exhale slowly, emptying her lungs. She took a breath, placing a hand on her stomach to see if it was puffing out.

  “What are you doing?” asked Dominic, glancing over at her.

  “Breathing.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I’m doing the breathing technique they showed me in the ER.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Don’t make me talk. I need to breathe.”

  “Got it. But...is something upsetting you?”

  “No. Of course not.” Just this whole crazy situation, she thought. “I’ll be all right.” She practiced her breathing as they drove through the town. Archangel seemed quaint without being too self-conscious about it, with a subtle air of rustic elegance. The center of town had a pretty square surrounded by beds of white mums and Michaelmas daisies, a broad green lawn with iron benches, some sweeping eucalyptus trees, their sage-colored leaves fluttering on the breeze. In the very center was a fountain with a copper sculpture of a vine hung with grapes.

  The buildings were well-kept, housing boutiques, cafés and restaurants with colorful awnings, a few tasting rooms, a couple of gourmet shops and an old-fashioned hardware store with wheelbarrows and flowerpots on the sidewalk outside. There were plenty of people out enjoying the gorgeous weather. An elderly couple strolled side by side, eating ice cream cones. A young mother with dreamy eyes pushed a stroller, and a group of rowdy boys jostled past, shoving each other, skirting around a good-looking family consisting of mom, dad, twin little boys and a dark-eyed teen girl.

  Everyone looked normal and happy, enviably so. She wasn’t naive enough to believe they were normal and happy. But in this setting, they resembled movie extras exemplifying the charms of small-town America.

  Past the main part of town, they went by a bank, a low-profile midcentury building of blond brick. “Is that where you work?” she asked Dominic.

  “Yes.”

  She waited, but he offered no more. They drove on, passing a grocery store and gas station, and a pair of churches on opposite sides of the road, as if squaring off at high noon.

  Tall, slender trees stood in long rows that followed the contours of the terrain. A vineyard designated Maldonado Estates went by; then at the next junction was a large rural mailbox marked Johansen. At the roadside stood an old building with a sagging front porch and battered tin roof with a crooked sign that read Bella Vista Produce. The place must have been a farm stand at one time. It resembled a throwback to other days, and she found herself picturing the place filled with bunches of flowers and bounty from the farm, with cars pulling off the road and people browsing the wares. Before she could ask about it, Dominic turned down a gravel drive marked Bella Vista Way. A lurch of anticipation knotted her stomach. “Is this it?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  They drove between rows of twisted, lichened oak trees, beneath kettling hawks and a sky as blue as heaven itself. Orchards spread out on both sides of the drive. In the distance, she could see a cluster of buildings gathered on a rise. Around a bend in the drive, cars were parked in an open field, all kinds of cars, from battered work trucks to electric and biodiesel-powered vehicles to gleaming foreign imports.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Your grandfather’s friends and neighbors organized a healing ceremony for him. I think we’re just in time to join in.”

  She pressed her feet against the floor mat as if putting on the brakes. “Whoa, hang on a second. A healing ceremony?”

  “It can’t hurt, and who’s to say all this energy won’t help? It’s scheduled to start at four,” he said, checking his watch.

  “I thought he was in the hospital.”

  “He is. But everyone’s here for his sake.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “Neighbors and workers. Business associates. Magnus made a lot of friends through the years.” An unexpected catch hitched his voice. “You’ll see.”

  Tess bit her lip. Looked down at her outfit—the dark jeans and sweater, heeled half boots. She had no idea if this was appropriate attire to wear to an event for the grandfather she’d never known. She set her jaw. “Do you realize how awkward this is for me?”

  He braked gently, bringing the car to a halt. “Should I turn around?”

  “Of course not. But you have to understand, this is weird for me. I don’t belong here.” She felt prickly, resentful. On the one hand, she was glad Magnus had such loyal friends and neighbors. On the other hand, what kind of person ignored his granddaughter all her life and then promised her half of everything after he was gone?

  The air was sharp with the scent of lavender, wafting up from a broad field where the herb grew in row after row of blue-green clumps. A mariachi band was setting up in the shade of a California oak tree. Rows of folding chairs were set up, the configuration bisected by a turquoise carpet runner. At the front of the display were more flower arrangements than she ha
d ever seen in one place, outside the Marché aux Fleurs in Paris. Danish and U.S. flags sprouted from some of the arrangements.

  Dominic let her out near the seating area and went to park the car. Tess stood alone, watching people arrive. Some were somber, though a good many seemed more talkative and upbeat. People wore party clothes, the women in bright-colored dresses, the men in everything from crisp white shirts to plaid golf slacks. Several people gave Tess a nod of greeting. A gangly German shepherd dog trotted around, checking people out with a proprietary sniff.

  The house itself was a rambling hacienda-style structure built of pale stone, with thick-trunked vines climbing the stuccoed walls. There was an open, colonnaded breezeway across the back. Through the open columns, she could see a center courtyard, planted with huge potted olive trees.

  An aroma of baking bread wafted from a window flanked by rustic shutters and wrought iron bars. She edged toward the open back door. It was painted sky blue and propped open with an iron stopper in the shape of a cat.

  She found herself on the threshold of a large, airy kitchen with terra-cotta tiled floors and tall windows open to a view of lavender fields and orchards. A log trestle table of scrubbed pine dominated the room. A bewildering array of utensils hung from the walls or were arranged upon the cobalt-blue counter tiles. Trays of food were arranged on catering carts.

  At the far end of the room was a panel of wall ovens, clearly the source of the glorious smell. Tess could see someone there, a woman backlit by the sun shining through the windows. She wore her hair pulled back in haphazard fashion, a gauzy skirt and blouse and two thick oven mitts. Bending slightly, she opened one of the ovens like a door to a safe, and drew a big tray from the rack. Steam rose, intensifying the aroma.

  Tess set down her bag. “Excuse me,” she said. “I—”

  The woman dropped the pan with a clatter onto the countertop. She swung to face Tess.

  “Oh, my God,” she said softly. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  Part Four

  There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.

  —Shakespeare, Hamlet

  GRAPE AND ROSEMARY FOCACCIA

  The carnosic acid in rosemary shields brain cells from free radical damage. Therefore, consumption of the herb could play a role in preventing brain disorders.

  Makes 8 servings

  5 to 6 cups flour

  1 tablespoon sugar

  1 tablespoon instant yeast

  1 teaspoon salt

  2 cups warm water

  ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil

  1 ½ cups green, red and/or black grapes

  2 teaspoons chopped

  fresh rosemary (1 teaspoon dried)

  coarse salt

  If using an electric stand mixer, combine 3 cups of the flour, and all of the sugar, yeast and salt in the bowl. Add the water, then mix well, using the paddle attachment. Then change to the dough hook and gradually add more of the flour, kneading well between each addition, until the dough is smooth, firm and no dough sticks to the side of the bowl. If not using a mixer, stir together 3 cups of flour, and all of the sugar, yeast and salt in a large mixing bowl, then add the water and mix together with a large wooden spoon. Turn the dough out onto a heavily floured board and knead while gradually incorporating more flour into the dough until it is smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes.

  Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and cover with plastic wrap or a dry cloth. Let rest in a warm place until the dough has doubled, about 1 hour.

  Preheat the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

  Pour all but 2 tablespoons of the olive oil onto a 12-by-16 ½-inch baking sheet. Lift the dough from the bowl and gently stretch and press it to fit the pan. Drizzle the dough with the remaining olive oil and dimple the top of the bread with your fingertips. Press the grapes into the dough evenly all over the bread, leaving about 1 inch between grapes. Sprinkle the bread generously with the chopped rosemary and coarse salt.

  Bake the focaccia until it is a nice crisp brown, about 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and cut with a pizza cutter into squares. Serve warm with cheese or butter.

  (Source: Adapted from the California Grape Commission)

  Six

  Tess stepped farther into the unfamiliar kitchen. Her senses were awash with sounds from outside—the breeze wafting through the boughs of the apple trees, the musicians tuning up, the murmur of conversation and rumble of engines. She inhaled the yeasty aroma from the oven, and blinked at the golden light streaming through the windows. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe.

  The woman at the other end of the room stood unmoving, her posture a slender question mark, silhouetted against the light from the window. She had large dark eyes surrounded by thick lashes that appeared damp from crying. Her sable-brown hair was looped into a careless braid down her back, and she wore a gauzy skirt and blouse, an apron, a pair of oven mitts and espadrilles tied at the ankles.

  The two of them stared at one another. The stranger shifted, stepping into a shaft of light through the open window. She had the face of an old Hollywood movie star, with an aquiline nose and full lips. She wore little or no makeup; her olive-toned skin gave her an air of unstudied elegance, needing no embellishment.

  Tess finally found her voice. “You’re Isabel, aren’t you?”

  The woman dropped her hands to her sides. “Theresa?”

  “Tess.” For a moment, she couldn’t say anything else. Her mouth went completely dry. Isabel.

  “Come in,” Isabel said. “Welcome to Bella Vista.” She shook off the oven mitts and reached out, clasping Tess in a spontaneous hug.

  Tess was not a hugger, particularly not with a stranger she’d just met. Yet in the middle of the awkwardness, she nearly melted with the sensation of being embraced. I have a sister, she kept thinking. A sister.

  Isabel felt soft and yielding; her blouse felt soft. Everything about her seemed soft, and she smelled of dried flowers, rosemary, fresh-baked bread. This whole kitchen seemed alive with a peculiar energy; in the old fixtures and furniture, Tess sensed a place where cooking and eating had happened for decades, where people gathered to sample life’s sweetest pleasures.

  They stepped back, circling with a vague hint of wariness. Isabel’s gaze dropped. “I got flour all over you. I’m sorry.”

  Tess looked down at her sweater.

  “I’m so sorry,” Isabel said again. “I’m always doing that, hugging people with my apron on. Here, I’ll brush you off.” She grabbed a dish towel.

  Tess took it from her. “I’ve got it.” She gave her sweater a few quick brushes. “No harm done,” she said, handing back the towel.

  A strained silence drew out between them, invisible yet palpable. She pictured Isabel as she had first seen her, alone in the kitchen, moving with a peculiar grace and assurance as she removed the last batch of bread from the oven. In that moment, she’d appeared to be completely in her element, a woman surrounded by the trappings of home. How on earth could we be related? Tess wondered, thinking about her own kitchen, a repository for work materials and take-out containers. Tess wanted to stare and stare at Isabel, to figure out what they had in common and how it was that they’d both been in the world all their lives without knowing each other.

  Maybe Isabel had similar thoughts, because she said, “You look so much like the pictures of him. It’s uncanny.”

  Him. Erik Johansen. Their common father.

  “I’ve only ever seen one picture of him, so I don’t really know what he looked like,” Tess admitted.

  “I can show you others later.” Isabel stared unabashedly at Tess. “You’re so...pretty. I mean, he wasn’t pretty, but you still look like him. The two of us don’t look anything alike, do we?”

  Tess couldn’t stop staring, either. “I suppose not.”

  “But we have a lot in common.”

  No, we don’t, thought Tess.

  “Can I get you anything?” Abruptly, Isabel seemed more
animated, as if grateful to have a purpose. “I’ve got iced herbal tea or plain water, and I just took out the last of the focaccia bread. Salted rosemary.”

  “It smells fantastic, but no, thanks. Actually, I, um, could use the restroom.”

  “Sure. Of course. It’s just down the hall there, under the stairs. There’s a powder room.”

  Tess hurried down the hallway of the strange house, furnished in an oddly appealing combination of simple rusticity and old-world elegance. Passing a gallery of framed photos on the wall, she had an urge to study each one. Maybe later, she told herself. Assuming she was truly welcome here.

  The powder room was spotless, with bowls of drying herbs, artisan soaps, embroidered towels. As she washed her hands with a bar of handmade soap that smelled of olive oil, Tess studied her face in the mirror. It was just her face. Pale skin and freckles, blue-green eyes, red hair. You look like the pictures of him.

  She dried her hands and whipped out her phone, furious to see that her mother still hadn’t returned her call. Zero bars of service.

  Tess went back to the kitchen. Isabel was arranging cuts of the focaccia on a platter. “Is there no cell phone service here?”

  “No. The closest service is over the hill. Sorry. I’ve got a landline.”

  “Thanks, I’ll use it later.”

  Tess felt supremely uncomfortable, and a telltale lightness in her chest worsened matters. She wondered where Dominic Rossi had gone; he was the closest thing to a friend she had around here. “Listen,” she said, “if it’s weird that I’m here, we can always get together another time.”