The Apple Orchard

by Susan Wiggs

  “No, it’s good that you came. I was hoping you would get here in time for the gathering today.”

  A woman with white-streaked hair and hoop earrings, wearing a flowing wine-colored dress, hurried into the kitchen, the heels of her sandals clicking on the tiles. “There you are, Isabel. I knew I’d find you here.” Turning to Tess, she held out her hand. “I’m Ernestina,” she said. “Ernestina Navarro.”

  “Tess Delaney.”

  “Nice to meet you. Are you a friend of Magnus?”

  “Not exactly. I’m...new...”

  “He loves meeting new people.” Ernestina turned back to Isabel. “Everything is about to start.”

  Isabel nodded. “I just came in to finish up the last of the bread.” She untied her apron and set it aside.

  “Of course.” Ernestina’s bold-featured face softened. “Are you going to be okay?”

  Isabel offered a tremulous smile. “What’s the alternative?”

  Ernestina patted her arm. “You could have a meltdown.”

  “With all these guests to feed?” Isabel shook her head. Then she turned to Tess. “Ernestina lives with her husband, Oscar, and their son in the bungalow down the drive.” She gestured at a lane bordered by apple trees, now crowded with guests.

  “We’ve worked at Bella Vista for twenty years,” Ernestina added. “How do you know him?”

  Isabel turned to the older woman, paused, took a breath. “Tess is... She’s my half sister.”

  The dark slash of Ernestina’s brows arched upward. “I don’t get it.”

  “That makes two of us,” said Tess.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about,” said Isabel. “You’re staying, right?”

  Tess didn’t want to be here at all. She didn’t want to stay. But Isabel’s air of barely contained desperation moved her, and Tess herself couldn’t deny a strong tug of curiosity about her sister, and the beautiful estate. “I, uh...yes, if that’s all right. I mean, if there’s room....”

  “I’ve got nothing but room here. I love having guests.”

  The three of them left the kitchen together, stepping into the sun-flooded garden. Though the sound of the mariachis was unexpected, the music they played was curiously moving. Bright and brassy, the piece was in a minor key, its rhythm slow, punctuated with staccato blasts of the trumpet. The band members were dressed to the nines, covered in silver buttons and braided furnishings, their instruments polished like the crown jewels.

  Tess looked around to see if she could spot Dominic, but in the crush of strangers, she didn’t see him. A large framed portrait of Magnus was on display, depicting a distinguished man with a nimbus of white hair. He had a strong face and a handsome smile, and a twinkle in his eyes.

  Chairs were arranged in concentric rings, each marked with a bouquet tied up with ribbons in the colors of the Danish flag—cherry red and white.

  “Is there a particular place you’d like me to sit?” Tess asked Isabel.

  Isabel nodded. “Next to me.”

  Tess had no idea what Isabel thought of the situation. She seemed nice enough, but why would she welcome Tess, a stranger, who now had a claim on half of the old man’s legacy? Glancing over at Isabel, she could read only a deep sadness and worry in her expression. There was also something unsettled and mysterious about this stranger who was related to her by blood. Tess couldn’t put her finger on it.

  An elderly lady already sat in the inner circle, a string of well-worn rosary beads slipping through her fingers while her lips moved in silent prayer.

  Isabel bent down and kissed her cheek. Then she gestured at Tess. “This is Theresa Delaney,” she said. “She goes by Tess.”

  The old woman looked up at her. “It’s good to finally meet you,” she said. “Juanita Maldonado.”

  To finally meet me?

  “My husband, Ramon,” said Juanita. He sat next to her in a wheelchair, wearing a crisply pressed white shirt and trousers. “He and Magnus came through the war together.”

  Isabel gave the old lady’s shawl-clad shoulder a squeeze. “How are you doing?”

  “My feet hurt,” said Juanita. “These shoes, they pinch.”

  “Then you should take them off.”

  “That’s disrespectful.”

  “Not as disrespectful as having sore feet.”

  “This is true.” Juanita leaned down and liberated her feet from the shoes, then discreetly tucked her sun-browned toes into the grass beneath her chair.

  When Tess took a seat, Isabel leaned over and whispered, “Neighbors from way back. I’ll fill you in later.”

  The mariachis concluded their piece. When they fell still, the voices of the crowd tapered off. It was a strange moment, that breath-held silence, which felt vaguely as if they were at a theater, waiting for the curtain to rise.

  Looking around the gathering of strangers, Tess felt terribly alone. She focused on the shush of the breeze through the tree branches, and then the call of a bird, stark in the void of silence. A few coughs and sniffles came from the crowd.

  Then, faintly at first, but gathering in volume, came the simple, clear sound of a ukulele. A young man in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair in a ponytail, walked from the left. In a clear, curiously wistful voice, he began to sing the Hawaiian version of “What a Wonderful World.”

  Tess could almost feel the emotion coming off Isabel in waves. Though tears streamed down her cheeks, there was something strong and noble in her manner. She was a pretty crier, Tess randomly noted. Tess herself looked a mess whenever she cried, her eyes and nose reddening like a drunk’s. She made a point of not crying.

  A priest arrived, a tall man who was so handsome that Tess couldn’t focus on a single word he said. If not for the long white vestments, he might have stepped out of an ad in a glossy lifestyles magazine. She reminded herself of the gravity of the occasion, clearing her throat and sitting straighter in her chair.

  Isabel leaned slightly toward her. “Don’t worry, everyone has that reaction to Father Tom. It’s ridiculous, how good-looking he is.” She dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue. Tess forced herself to listen rather than stare.

  “We come together today to ask for healing and mercy for our friend and neighbor, Magnus Johansen. So many of us owe much to this beloved man. He was a loving husband to his late wife, Eva, proud father of his late son, Erik, and beloved grandfather of Isabel Johansen and...Theresa...” He paused, checked his notes. “Delaney.”

  “I let him know at the last minute that you’d made it here,” Isabel whispered.

  Tess felt the scrutiny of a few dozen pairs of eyes. How much did these people know about her? Did they think she was a prodigal come home or a buzzard circling for the kill? She chafed under the attention.

  “...but most of all,” said the priest, “Magnus is the kind of man who knows how to be a friend to anyone in need. He does not confine his goodness to family alone....” Father Tom went on, extolling Magnus’s virtues in a voice rich with emotion. He offered a tender portrait of a man who had lived a long and varied life, filled with abundance yet shadowed by tragedy. “We humbly ask for healing, but if it is time to let Magnus go,” the priest concluded, “may we do so with grace and surrender.”

  Isabel gasped and crushed a wad of Kleenex to her face.

  Jesus, thought Tess in exasperation. Is this supposed to be helping?

  The priest must have caught her glare, because he quickly added, “However, if our good thoughts, our prayers and energy can bring him back to us, then let us pray for his speedy and complete recovery.”

  More songs and supplications followed, tributes from friends and neighbors, people who did business with Magnus, even the mayor of Archangel. Tess wasn’t naive enough to believe she was getting a clear picture of the man; one’s flaws tended not to be hashed over at an occasion like this. However, it was impossible not to be moved by stories of Magnus helping neighbors with their harvest, saving a toddler from choking, getting a tractor out of a ditch. Tess felt an ac
he in her chest, the grief of lost possibilities. How would her life have been different if she had known her grandfather? It was the not-knowing that filled her with regret.

  The ceremony was not without its purely bizarre moments. At one point, a group of latent hippies in gypsy garb and bare feet performed an interpretive dance to “Age of Aquarius,” their eyes closed and their hands reaching for the sky in a sequence of new-age craziness. Isabel leaned over and whispered that they were members of a food co-op that bought apples from Magnus. Tess had to suck in her cheeks to keep from bursting into inappropriate laughter.

  Beside her, Isabel shuddered and quaked with sobs, each intake of breath a gasp of desperation. Then, glancing to the side, something clued Tess in. Isabel was inches from falling apart...with laughter.

  Tess patted her sister on the arm, for the first time consciously thinking of her as a sister.

  “I’m awful. I shouldn’t be laughing,” Isabel said in a broken voice.

  “It’s okay,” Tess whispered. “Everyone will just think you’re overcome.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Isabel whispered back. “They’re really very sincere, but...”

  Tess watched a woman in a tie-dyed shirt execute a move worthy of a flamenco dancer. “I know. I know.”

  Mercifully, the dancers finished, dropping to the ground like birds shot from the sky.

  A man introduced as Lorenzo Maldonado stepped up, looking elegant yet a bit nervous. “That’s gonna be a hard act to follow,” he said, eliciting murmurs of laughter. He was handsome, with raven-black hair, narrow reading glasses perched on his nose. He indicated Juanita and her husband. “I’m here to speak for my grandfather, Ramon Maldonado, who can no longer speak for himself.”

  “He had a stroke,” Isabel explained in a whisper.

  “My grandfather was working on a ship in Denmark when the Nazis occupied the country. He met Magnus there, and they became lifelong friends. That friendship is the reason the Maldonados and the Johansens have been neighbors ever since. For those of you who don’t know, Magnus saved Papacito’s life, when they were both working against the Nazis as part of the Danish resistance. Papacito was caught sinking a German boat and was moments away from being executed. Magnus rescued him and they both escaped, though Magnus took a bullet in his leg. After the war, Papacito returned home to Archangel. Magnus followed with his new bride, Eva, and in gratitude, the Maldonados gifted the Johansens with Bella Vista, a small portion of their vast ancestral estate. I know I speak for the whole family when I pray for Magnus to recover from his accident.”

  That was some gift, thought Tess, looking around the rolling, golden hills. And once again, she felt a stab of regret. The Danish resistance was one of the most heroic aspects of World War II. She would have loved to hear of her grandfather’s exploits.

  The mariachis played a recessional. Father Tom and some of the guests spiced the air with herbs burning in censers. Everyone headed up a gravel path in a great ragged stream.

  “We’re going up the hill to pay tribute to Bubbie—my grandmother Eva,” said Isabel. “Our grandmother. She died a while back.”

  Glancing around, Tess spotted Dominic Rossi, pushing Ramon Maldonado in his wheelchair. The day had warmed up, and Dominic had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to reveal tanned and sinewy arms that looked out of place—but not unwelcome—on a guy who worked as a banker. The pain and worry in Dominic’s face touched her unexpectedly, reminding her that Magnus meant something to him. As if he felt her gaze, he looked over and gave a nod of acknowledgment.

  The procession passed fields of herbs and flowers dropping their petals and going to seed, and orchards of trees weighted with fruit, some of the harvest already in baskets on the ground and exuding an aroma of lush, heavy sweetness. A slight breeze tossed leaves and spent lavender blossoms and milkweed parachutes into the air, creating a small colorful storm. They came to a knoll overlooking the valley, which was threaded by a silvery stream.

  There, a simple headstone marked the grave of Eva Salomon Johansen, “beloved wife and grandmother.” Tess was intrigued to see a phrase in Hebrew characters. Her paternal grandmother had apparently been Jewish. Beside that was a marker for Erik Karl Johansen, inscribed, Measure his life not by its length but by the depths of joy he brought us. He jumped into life and never touched bottom. We will never laugh the same again.

  Tess stood before the headstone, feeling an unexpected wave of loss, anger and abandonment that shook her to her core. Hi, Dad, she thought. I wish I’d had a chance to know you.

  Someone took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She was surprised to see Isabel standing there, her eyes filled with a haunting sadness, as if she’d read Tess’s mind.

  The mariachis played on, the mournful brassy notes from the trumpet like a cry to heaven.

  More prayers were offered, and then a lone trumpet blared out the poignant strains of “Amazing Grace.” With each successive verse, the other instruments joined in, giving the melody a curiously appealing Latino vibe.

  Then, in the midst of the sadness and despair, some of the young children started to dance. Tess couldn’t see who started it, but she spied a group of little girls holding hands and skipping to the mariachis’ rhythm. They giggled and tumbled down the hill of golden grass. Their clear laughter was infectious, and the band picked up the tempo with a lively tune. Soon, even some of the adults were dancing, clapping or tapping their feet to the rhythm. Within the span of minutes, a spontaneous dance party erupted. An overwhelming sense of community pervaded the gathering. It was all so foreign to Tess, who felt awkward, an outsider here. Why, oh, why had she told Isabel she’d stay?

  She looked over at Isabel to see that her eyes were spilling over with tears again, streaming unchecked down her face. But she was smiling.

  “Grandfather would love this,” she said. “I wish he could be here.”

  Tess couldn’t bring herself to back out of staying. Not now. Still, she did not know how to act around these people. They were like a big family, and Tess had no notion of that, large or small.

  * * *

  Later, in the central courtyard, mariachis set up and continued playing. In the middle of the patio, a fountain burbled, and some of the kids splashed in the water. Under a grape arbor, long buffet tables were set up, spread with a beautiful feast.

  “Help yourself to some food,” Isabel urged Tess. “I know this has been a long day for you.”

  “It can’t compare to the day you’ve had. Come with me.”

  Isabel hesitated, then gave a nod. They each took a plate and helped themselves to a feast that looked as if it had been prepared for a magazine layout. There was a salad sprinkled with fresh flowers—Isabel said they were baby pansies, nasturtium and angelica. The spread included plates of artisan cheeses and raw and grilled vegetables, big chafing dishes of fragrant casseroles, berries and apples with a variety of sauces, an array of local wines and water from Calistoga. The abundance was almost overwhelming to Tess.

  “Your caterer did an incredible job,” she said to Isabel. “Everything looks absolutely beautiful.”

  Isabel paused and frowned a little. “There’s no caterer.”

  This startled Tess. The quality and presentation of the food, on hand-painted majolica ware atop the wrought iron tables, was light-years beyond the usual potluck fare. “Who did the food? I mean, I know you made the bread, but everything else... Did your friends and neighbors pitch in? God, I should have such friends and neighbors.” Now that she thought about it, her friends only did takeout, and she didn’t even know her neighbors’ names.

  “Isabel did the food,” said Ernestina, who was filling her plate across the table from them.

  “Really? I’m impressed by anyone who can cook anything that doesn’t come from a mix. Which dish did you make?”

  Isabel shrugged.

  “All of it,” Ernestina chimed in. “She’s being modest. Nearly everything you see here came from Isabel’s kit
chen.”

  Tess sampled a spicy olive tapenade. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Isabel offered a fleeting smile.

  “You’re not kidding. Is that what you do for a living?” Tess asked. “You’re a caterer, or a chef?”

  “I stay busy enough around here.”

  It wasn’t really an answer, but Tess dropped the subject. She and Isabel had a lot of blanks to fill in, but not here and now. She caught sight of Dominic Rossi across the patio. In his banker’s suit, he was one of the more conservative-looking guests. People seemed to know him; he chatted easily with anyone who happened by, yet she sensed that he was holding himself at a distance. She felt Isabel’s gaze and flushed a little.

  “He told me he’s known your grandfather for a long time.”

  Isabel hesitated, then said, “Yes. For most of his life.”

  “I thought Lourdes and the kids might come,” Ernestina remarked, “but I don’t see them.”

  Tess nearly dropped her buffet plate. Lourdes and the kids. She set her jaw, realigning her thinking. So the incredibly hot banker-pilot-guy was married, with children. Of course he was. She should have realized that right away. Guys like him—handsome, stable, good-humored—got married. They had kids.

  At the end of the buffet table, some of the guests clustered around Isabel, dispensing hugs and earnest conversation. Tess hung back, not wanting to intrude. She wondered what the people here thought of her, the long-lost relative. The by-blow of a careless man. Yet no one seemed shocked by her presence, and no one seemed to judge her.

  Returning to the buffet, she helped herself to another piece of focaccia bread, the top glistening with a sheen of olive oil and sprinkled with big crystals of salt, fronds of rosemary and tiny curls of thinly sliced garlic. She tasted the bread and made a sound of pleasure that would have embarrassed her if anyone had heard.

  “It’s even better with this Cabernet.” Dominic Rossi stood there with two full glasses of red wine.

  Tess felt her face heat with a blush. Okay, so he’d heard.

  “Let’s have a seat over here,” he said, gesturing at one of the café tables.