Hard Cider

by Barbara Stark-Nemon

  “No!” Carrie broke in. “But we thought about it, and we decided we both really always wanted kids, and I should be able to flex my schedule when the baby comes. I’ll be able to graduate and take my boards, and Andrew will get paid a little more . . .”

  Carrie’s uncertain look brought me to my feet and I pulled her into my arms, not looking at Andrew or at Steven. “Oh honey, this is great! You’re going to be a great mom, and if anyone on this earth can figure it all out, it’s you.” I’d said the truest words I could think of with a mind still reeling. Retaking my seat, I looked more carefully at Carrie. “You look beautiful. How do you feel? How far along are you?”

  “Fourteen weeks. I’m a little sick in the mornings, but it’s not bad,” she said. Both she and Andrew were looking at Steven, who had the deer-in-the-headlights, forced smile on his face that got stuck there when he didn’t know where to go in a situation and couldn’t say what he really felt.

  A rescue was in order.

  “What I think you’re trying to say here, hon,” I said with mocking exaggeration, my palms up, hands bobbing with every word, “is that you’re in a state of shock, but this is really exciting news, right? This isn’t what they thought would be happening now, but they’ve considered it, and they’ve decided it’s what’s meant to be, so we get excited with them, right?”

  “Yeah, Dad, you’ve always wanted more babies, remember? Now you can stop bugging Mom about adopting little girls, okay? Only this one is going to be a boy.”

  “Really?” I turned back to Andrew. “You don’t think I deserve a little girl baby?”

  Andrew’s good humor was restored, Steven was genuinely smiling, and I figured this might be my one and only chance to put in a pitch with the fates for a girl.

  “Andrew wants a boy for the first one.” Carrie was chatty now that the tension had been cut. “I’m thinking the first two will be boys and then we’ll have girls.”

  “Whoa . . . how many are you thinking of?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking four. Andrew is thinking two, but we’ll see,” Carrie answered brightly.

  A tidal wave of poignant hope washed over me in that kitchen tableau. The confidence of youth and young love fed Andrew and Carrie’s belief that plans could be made and followed and the future could be navigated on the sunny side of the street. They were willing to work hard, they thought they were the captains of their ship, and all we needed to do was get on board.

  Okay, I can get on board.

  I beamed up at my son, and when I rose to hug him this time, he hugged me back.

  By the time Andrew stumbled down to the kitchen and poured himself a giant mug of coffee the next morning, I’d finished my holiday preparation chores.

  “I always know I can get a big cup of good coffee here. I can make okay coffee at the post, but it’s not as good as this,” he offered.

  “We aim to please . . . Glad you like it,” I said. “What’s your plan for today?”

  “You mentioned that new hard cider place last night. Should we go down and check out the competition? Carrie’s just going to sleep in and take it easy today.”

  “Wow, that’s a great idea,” I said. “He’s not exactly competition. I mean, he could be if we ever decided to go into full production and have a retail space, but right now I’m working with an apple grower, and I’m interested in getting into the juice pressing and fermenting. If our business thrives, we might eventually be a supplier for Tandem Ciders. But we’re a long way off from that, of course.” I grinned. “Do you want to go now? I could get them to open up if they’re not already.”

  Steven walked into the kitchen and started rooting around in the cupboard.

  “If you’re looking for cereal, you’re not going to find it there,” I told him, pointing to the cupboard on the other side of the island where the cereal had always been stored.

  “Andrew and I are talking about going to the new cider place down toward Sutton’s Bay. You want to come?”

  “I think not,” he said. “The right man for the right job, I always say. Andrew’s your guy to test cider, as long as you’re not trying to talk him into giving up his career for this business. I’ve got my jobs around here to attend to.” Steven’s remarks were made with good humor, but they cut nonetheless.

  “Be nice, Mr. Stone,” I said, unable to resist a retort. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “I do want to try some hard cider,” Andrew cut in. “I’ve never had it on this side of the Atlantic. And I’m not going into this business, Dad. I’m perfectly happy being a sheriff.” Andrew’s easy response obviated any need for me to say more.

  He turned toward the stairs. “I’ll be back down in ten minutes, Mom. I’m gonna take a shower.”

  “Okay, honey.” I moved to wash the few dishes in the sink.

  “Are you just going to taste ciders, or are you looking to get involved with this place?” Steven asked.

  I kept my voice casual. “Well, Charlie Aiken is looking to supply hard cider producers with his artisanal apples. I would get into the pressing and storing—maybe all the way to finish, or maybe we’ll provide equipment to let people make their own and supply places like Tandem. I don’t know yet, but it’s a growing market across the country, and we’re positioned perfectly here to take advantage of that. The owners of Tandem want to work with local growers. They’re into the local, sustainable thing and right now, even Christmas Cove Farm can’t keep up with their prospective demand.”

  Although his voice was calm, Steven’s words irked me. “Just remember, Abbie, this is your fantasy, not Alex’s or Andrew’s. Alex should be a PA. He’s good at it and it’s a great achievement for him. And Andrew still needs to think about going to school.”

  “You know, you need to stop lecturing me, Steven. You just heard Andrew say he’s not interested in this for himself. He just wants to go down and try some cider. And I know how you feel about Alex. Everyone knows! You and I have agreed that I’m going to explore getting into this business on some level. I have a lot to learn about running a business, and I hope you’ll consult with me, but it infuriates me that you act as if I can’t learn what I need to know. If you can’t be enthusiastic about what I’m doing, at least stop being chippy and negative! You have a right to share your concerns, and I have heard them, and believe me, I take them into account. At this point all you’re adding to the conversation is negativity. Stop!” I could feel myself getting angrier, but I kept my tone measured. “Our boys are adults. Alex is only looking at moving here as one possible option for himself. And he’s just looking at it. That’s all. He is not giving up being a PA. Period.” I wiped the counter in what I hoped was a conversation-ending flourish and headed to the back hall.

  “I’m going to stay here with Carrie, and maybe take care of some email before everyone else shows up,” Steven said. He didn’t blow up.

  “Great,” I answered brightly. “Have a good morning.” I headed out into the sunshine.

  It was a twenty-minute drive to the cider bar. A little surprised and a lot happy to be on an adventure with this middle son of mine, I waited to see if he wanted to talk before beginning my own musing. Some things never changed, and we drove in contented silence for a few miles, turning south off the access road, away from the lake and toward Northport. Orderly rows of young fruit trees stretched to the horizon on both sides of the road.

  “Don’t these guys have enough apples to supply Tandem Ciders?” Andrew asked amiably. We were passing row after row of the Kilchermans’ apple trees: different varieties, sizes, and shapes.

  “Yeah, they do have a lot of antique varietals, but they’re not set up to grow a lot of the cider varieties. Their biggest production goes for antique eating and cooking apples. We’re ahead in that my would-be business partner got a small orchard planted with just the apples that would make really excellent Michigan hard cider.” I was warming to the topic, but looked over to see if I’d already exceeded Andrew’s interest. He continued to stare
out his window, but I could tell I still had him.

  “Who’s fronting the money?” he asked. Nothing is subtle about Andrew.

  “Well, I’m making a decision right now whether I want to be an investor or a partner with Charles Aiken. If it’s a viable business, and if we think it could really go somewhere, it will be worth it to partner. That’s more involvement than just passive investing.”

  “Which one does Dad think you should do?” Andrew asked.

  “He hasn’t weighed in on that issue. He’s less certain about the whole idea than I am, to say the least,” I admitted.

  “But does he think it’s a bad investment?” Andrew pressed.

  “He hasn’t really spent the time making that assessment. He’s been pretty focused on not wanting it to interfere with Alex’s career, or yours.”

  “So why are you doing this, then? Is Alex really that interested?”

  Andrew’s questions momentarily hung between us. I took my foot off the accelerator and pulled to the side of the road. He had the right to get the same answers as his brother and father. “You know, I feel like I have one more thing in me to do. I love it up here, and even though Dad won’t admit it right now, we’ve both always wanted to have a business that our kids and all the stray people in our lives who need it or want it could join. And for me it’s also about the uniqueness of this area, and about growing things, and about the history of this drink and the people I’ve met who are into it. There are just a lot of ways that it makes sense to me and interests me. If Alex decides to move here, he could help me out. He’s just looking at the idea right now.”

  “Can you make any money doing it? How much do you have to invest?” Andrew was probing now, and I wondered why. He hadn’t taken interest in my professional pursuits or in business of any kind before. Perhaps Alex’s possible involvement had aroused his curiosity.

  Before I had a chance to answer his question, a tap on the window startled me, and I turned to find Gina Leyton, my neighbor, standing next to the Flex. I fumbled with the switch until the glass drew down.

  “Hey, Gina,” I said. We weren’t close neighbors, but had connected in a variety of ways.

  “Hi Abbie.” Gina glanced at Andrew.

  “This is my son, Andrew. Andrew, Gina Leyton. The Leytons live just up Sugarbush there.”

  Andrew ducked across, extended his hand out the window, and actually smiled. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

  Every once in a while they come through for you, these young men.

  Turning back to Gina, I said, “I heard you’re heading to Arizona for the winter.”

  “Yeah, the girls are much more likely to visit us there than here.” Gina wasn’t a chatterer, but here she was, leaning on her elbows into my window, all friendly like.

  “So I met Julia Reiss,” I said. “She’s staying out with you?”

  “Yes, she is. It’s working out real well. She takes good care of the animals, and she’s a quick study. She’s working for Sally in town, but she’s also doing some pruning and winter chores for us.”

  This was intriguing. Gina Leyton was an accomplished person, and reputedly demanding of people she worked with.

  “So is she here for Thanksgiving?” I asked, suddenly feeling Andrew’s impatience next to me.

  “No, she actually left today for Ohio, but she’s coming back late tomorrow. I guess Friday and Saturday are big days at the store and Sally needs her.”

  “Right, well you-all have a great Thanksgiving.” I leaned back and was preparing to pull away, when Gina added, “We’re doing a giving thanks ceremony in the labyrinth Saturday night if you and your clan want to come. We’ll start around seven, weather permitting, and do a bonfire afterward.”

  Gina knew I had a thing for anything Celtic, and I’d been intrigued with the huge labyrinth she and her husband had built in the field next to their house. The new age, upscale version of a corn maze, I guess—but it hooked me.

  “I’d love to do that,” I said. “I’ll see if I can talk anyone else into it. Thanks, Gina.”

  She stepped back and I pulled away.

  “Who were you talking about?” Andrew asked as soon as we were back on the road.

  “A new girl who moved up here and is working at Dolls and More in town. I’ve run into her a couple of times. She actually rowed in college in Ohio. I told her you were a rower. She looks like she’s about your age, but I’m not sure. I was thinking of inviting her for Thanksgiving, but I guess she went home.”

  “Yeah, I heard. All right, let’s see a guy about some cider! Does this thing go any faster than a bicycle?”

  I laughed. “It’s got six cylinders, but I’m sure I’ve never exercised them to your satisfaction.”

  Andrew enjoyed his first-ever American-brewed hard ciders at Tandem Ciders. They had names like Honey Spy, and Scrumpy, and Little Woody, and the tasting room was warm and inviting. We joined a small but enthusiastic group of tasters there . . . early holiday revelers.

  “This stuff’s okay, Mom,” Andrew said, elbows on the bar, head tilted in his unique, ingratiating way.

  “Well, good!” I smiled back at him. “Wouldn’t want to put a lot of work into something you hated, would I?” I sipped my mug of Early Day cider, savoring the tastes of the five apples that went into its mix, and then added, “Thanks for checking this out with me. Makes a great start to the weekend. I’ve been thinking about all the different things I have to be thankful for . . . You’re going to be a great dad, you know. It won’t be easy, but you guys will be good together raising a kid. Here’s a toast to that!”

  Being part of a nest of love for a new baby boded well for this holiday. Our glasses clinked and a moment of joy bloomed at my center, absent any conditions or contingencies.

  Chapter 13

  Streams of sand skittered up the beach in the strong south wind, giving texture to the tableau of bluster, unexpected warmth, pounding waves, and slices of light separating tracts of rain. How often I reveled in these singular moments’ dramatic artwork of weather and lake; they felt created just for me.

  On this Saturday afternoon, I faced the gusts’ full force as I ran from the point down the beach toward the stairs that led to the road back home. Just now, the sun shone anew through a slash in the roiling clouds, sending gold beams in a band across the water to my right and gilding the cresting waves before they pounded into stones along the water’s edge. Further across the lake, to the west, a curtain of rain undulated with the wind, and to the south another pool of light shone from a hole in the overcast. It was a weather symphony with a master conductor.

  Thanksgiving dinner had gone remarkably well, with the only unexpected guests being two Australian shepherd mixes that showed up with Alex. True to form, he’d found them on a pet rescue website and impulsively driven an hour the same day to pick them up. They were on a three-week trial with him, and they were certainly enlivening the weekend with a dose of chaos and entertainment. While I always wished that Alex would think more carefully before making such choices, I missed having dogs around, and these two were sweet and more or less well behaved.

  All the cooking I’d done ahead left me the time on Thanksgiving morning to greet the kids with pancakes and eggs as they appeared one by one—Seth and Alex from their long drive, Carrie and Andrew from their long sleep. The pleasure of sons who care about good food and are willing to help prepare it led to a long, leisurely afternoon of last-minute cooking interspersed with watching football and walking the dogs. The meal itself and the evening that followed featured lively conversation, all of us catching up on each other’s lives and memories of Thanksgivings past. As I did every year, I repeated the story of my immigrant grandparents’ first Thanksgiving in New York. Momentary tightness seized my chest as I wished they could be here to share this night. My grandfather would have made a special fuss in the form of a dramatic toast to Carrie and Andrew, who had brought the most exciting news to the table. That same grandfather had established my habit of c
ollecting conversation topics tailor-made to the dinner company at hand. My grandmother’s simple but delicious recipes had informed my own culinary interest, skipping the generation of my mother, who detested cooking of any sort. I did miss my own parents, badly at times, but Thanksgiving had belonged to my maternal grandparents, and my connection to them formed an important part of my identity, as well as my love of the holiday. The warm comfort of their sheltering home and their abiding support had influenced what I’d sought to provide for my own children.

  The wind picked up and the paisley swirls of blowing sand rose from the flat beach to make hissing sounds against my running tights and nylon jacket. I slowed and turned toward the massive wooden staircase that ascended the fore-dune, fell to a short valley, and then traversed the face of a taller sand ridge. I ran up to the first landing, taking in the expanse of the lake, beach, and dunes as I caught my breath.

  Seth had mentioned a woman friend and their discussion about Thanksgiving plans more than once since he’d arrived, earning him the teasing scrutiny of his brothers.

  “So does this ‘just a friend’ have a name?” Andrew asked, stuffing a bite of herbed biscuit into his mouth.

  “Yeah, her name is Sophie,” Seth answered easily.

  “Where is she today?” Carrie asked.

  “She’s with her family in South Bend. They’re Israeli, but they’ve lived here a long time, so they’re into the American holidays too.”

  “Whoa! Jewish to boot. That’ll light Dad up,” Andrew teased.

  “I can’t imagine not coming home for Thanksgiving,” Seth said. “It just wouldn’t feel like Thanksgiving. I suppose you just have to make adjustments when you become a part of another family, huh?” He turned to Carrie, who looked around before she answered.

  “It isn’t the same with my family split up as it was when we were little and all together. Sometimes it’s hard. It makes you realize how important your family is, though,” she said.