by Connie Cook
As he pulled into her driveway, Bo said, "Ruth, there's something I want you to think about. I may not have the right to say this; it may make you angry, but I feel I should say it, anyways. I believe you mean what you say where your feelings for me are concerned. I may be a conceited dog; I was conceited enough to hope you might return my feelings someday. But now that I know where I stand, I'm not conceited enough to think that your feelings will change. Anything I may have hoped on that front is finished, and I know it. So, know that what I'm about to say has no bearing on me personally, but it may have bearing on you someday. I just have to say that I hope you'll never make decisions out of fear. I mean, because of what you went through with Graham, now you're convinced you'll never love anyone again, but could it be you've decided that out of fear? Just don't close yourself off to the possibility of loving again, will you? That's all I'm asking. And as I told you, I'm not asking that for myself. You have my word on it. I'll never open that subject again. That will be a closed, sealed, shut, and locked book as far as I'm concerned. I don't want you ever to be uncomfortable with me, afraid that I'm going to start bothering you again. And I'll try not to let tonight affect our friendship. I know you're one to say what you mean, so I'll believe you when you say that you appreciate my friendship, and I'll go on offering it."
"Bo, you are truly ... you are, well, you are a prize. Don't worry that I'd be angry about what you asked me about being afraid to love again. You're only proving that you meant what you said about going on being my friend. All the drive home, I've been sitting here thinking about the possibility that I have made a mistake and that what I think is, well, is not caring for you in that way is really fear. But I don't think so. That's the conclusion I've come to. I don't think I've decided this out of fear. But I will think about what you asked me, and as best as I can, I'll try not to, out of fear, to close myself off to loving again. I know you're right about that. I am afraid. I admit it. And I can't imagine loving anyone again. I can't imagine remarrying. I don't know if that's fear or just, plain stubbornness." Ruth flashed him a smile. "But maybe someday ... I'll try to leave myself open to the possibility of falling for someone again someday. Even if I can't imagine it now."
The truck had stopped at the door. Their eyes met briefly as she said good-night and opened the pickup door. The look in Bo's brown eyes was a knife to the heart. Why did Bo have to have sadly, hopeful, brown eyes, too? Did every man who ever fell for her have to remind her of Joshua Bella? Would there be any end to this constant hurting and being hurt? The whole song and dance about the wonder of falling in love that invaded every movie and every book and every life – was there ever anything else to it other than hurting and being hurt?
She was suddenly tired to death of it all. Her promise to Bo notwithstanding, she hoped with all her heart that this was the end of it. If a man never took any notice of her again, it would be too soon. She went inside the house, sure that Mom would read the night's events on her face like the headlines of a newspaper.
Chapter 25
The pale, sickly sun, finally making an appearance from behind the cloud coverage, was growing dangerously near the tops of the mountains in the west. It would soon be quitting time.
She had to get that last quarter of a bin finished. She had the next month's budget worked out around the amount she'd earn if she could consistently keep up her four-bin-a-day habit till the end of the apple-picking season. And, being the last week of October, that end was just around the corner.
So far, she'd attained her goal every day easily. But today had been a harder day. The trees were older and taller. The apples were a variety that clung to the tree for dear life. And it had been misting all day off and on. Not quite raining enough to quit picking but enough to soak through her wool sweater. In short, it had been a miserable day for picking.
Maybe she could stay on for a half hour or so after the rest of the crew quit. After all, she wasn't being paid by the hour. It shouldn't matter if she worked a little later than the rest.
And it would help if she didn't have to move the ladder so often. If she just climbed a little higher, used the top rung of the ladder, and stretched as far as she could reach ... Or if she took less time setting the ladder.
She was too high on the ladder to feel comfortable (she'd never entirely conquered her well-earned fear of heights from her experience at eleven years old), but she ignored her discomfort and stretched as far as she could go. The sodden wood of the ladder rung was slippery, and the ladder wasn't set well. Her foot slid on the rung and threw the ladder off balance. She could feel it going out from under her.
Normally not a screamer, she shrieked – just one, quick, sharp yelp. The ladder clattered to the ground. She managed to catch a branch with both hands and hang for a second or two, knowing she'd have to let go and drop, hoping for the best.
She released the death grip she had on the branch and hit the ground feet-first, twisting an ankle slightly, then rolling to bear the brunt of her falling weight. The ankle smarted. But not badly, she thought, relieved. She inspected herself for any other damage and found a tear in the calf of her jeans and a fairly deep gouge in her leg where a branch had tried to catch her on the way down. Not deep enough for stitches. All in all, she'd come out not too badly.
But she was shaken. She'd have to get back on the ladder eventually, but she needed a minute or two to sit and recover her nerve.
Bo was at her side in under a minute.
"I heard you fall," he said, not wasting words. "Where are you hurt?"
"I'm not," Ruth said. "Not really. I twisted my ankle, just a little. And I tore my leg up a bit. Not bad, though. I'm fine, really."
"Which ankle? Let's see it. I have first aid," Bo said.
"The left. It's fine. Honest! Here." She got up and walked a few steps on it without wincing."
Bo examined it. "Stay off of it till I see if it's gonna swell. It's good you can put weight on it, but might be a little sprained."
"No, I don't think so. I wouldn't worry."
"I'll go get a wrap for it."
"No, honestly. It doesn't need one. I might need something for the scratch on my leg, though. It's bleeding a bit."
Bo inspected her calf next.
"C'mon. Leave the ladder and the bag. I can come back for it. Let's get you to the pickers' shack where I can disinfect that cut and bandage it. It's a pretty good little nick, all right."
"I can do it later. You're fussing too much. I've got to keep going and get this bin finished."
"Close enough to quitting time. You can call it a day, I'd say. Besides, I don't want you back on the ladder today. You look whiter than you should be. I think you're more shaken up than you're letting on. C'mon, let's get you fixed up, and then I'll drive you home. Did you bicycle today?"
"No, I drove the car. It looked like rain this morning."
"Okay, well, I wanna drive you home, make sure you're all right. You can leave the car. I'll swing by for you in the morning if you feel up to picking tomorrow."
"If I feel up to picking tomorrow? Pooh! I feel up to picking right now! I'm feeling much better. I just needed to sit for a bit. And I think the bleeding's stopped. I'll look after the scrape when I get home. I really want to keep going. I hate to leave this bin half-finished. And I can certainly drive myself home. What d'you think I'm made of?"
"I know what you're made of; that's the problem. I know you don't look after yourself. Someone needs to. And forget about that bin. If you're worried about not getting your fourth bin today, you can stop worrying. Far as I'm concerned, I'm calling it a full bin and driving you home."
"But that bin's nowhere near full. Maybe three-quarters. I do need that fourth bin today."
"Hey, who's the boss here? You or me? I say it's a full bin, and I say the day's over, and I say I'm driving you. You can't see how pale you are right now. So c'mon. Get in the pickup. Don't make me carry you, kicking and screaming, because I think that would embarrass you more tha
n me."
Bo was laughing when he said it, but there was a definite note of no-nonsense in his tone. Ruth was afraid for a moment that he'd carry out his threat if she resisted any further. She got up and followed him meekly.
* * *
After a quick soak in a hot tub, she felt like herself again.
The three-quarters-full bin weighed on her conscience. It wasn't like Bo to do anything dishonest, so it must have been all right for him to insist on counting her bin as full. Wasn't it?
But she knew it wasn't a full bin. If it was dishonest, it wasn't only her own dishonesty niggling away in the back of her conscience. It was Bo's. And that was almost worse. Of course, he was doing it to help her out. And that was the problem. He shouldn't have to be dishonest to help her out.
The stickiness of the situation continued to bother her as she dressed and combed her damp hair.
It wasn't really dark yet. It was only heading toward twilight. If she hopped on the bike, she could be back in the orchard in five minutes. If she picked till she couldn't see anymore, she might be able to fill the bin. At least it would be closer to full than it was right now. That is, if Bo hadn't already had it loaded onto the truck to take to the packing shed. But it was worth a try.
Delaying no longer than it took to call, "Mom, I have to go back to the orchard for a little while. Don't wait supper for me," she pulled on her warmest fall jacket and was on the bicycle.
The sky wasn't as dark as it had appeared when she was sitting inside the lighted house looking out the window. With any luck, she could just about fill her bin.
It normally took her ten minutes to get to the orchard by bike, but then, she usually meandered and enjoyed the ride. This time it took her only five by standing up most of the way and pedalling hard.
She arrived at the orchard breathless and moist with sweat, her heart pumping wildly.
Panting noisily, she swung down the row where she'd been picking earlier. Then, she applied the brakes so hard she nearly catapulted over the handlebars.
Someone was there. Someone was at her bin. What on earth ...?
Oh, good heavens! It was Bo, and he was wearing a picking harness and emptying a bag of apples into her bin. She should have known he would have been too honest to mark her down for a full bin that was only three-quarters full.
While she caught her breath, uncertain what she should do, she ducked into another row out of sight and watched him depositing the apples in the bin. How incredibly like him it was! It was the hair ribbon in the pond all over again.
She debated going over to help him finish off but knew it would embarrass him to be found out. And the bin was nearly full.
In fact, if she didn't want to get caught (and she knew Bo would have something to say about her not keeping her promise to him – the promise about not pushing herself past her limits), she'd better get out of the orchard and get the bike back on the road.
She rode home in the dusky, waning light, revelling in the chill of the fall air on her hot cheeks. The lights of the farms along the road made a cheerful glimmer like pinpoints of starlight. Dogs yapped in the distance. It was a time of day and year that Ruth loved. And it was thoroughly lovely. But she wasn't consciously noticing any of it that evening.
The thought that filled her mind was how nice it was to be weak for a change – to be looked after instead of doing the looking after. It was a completely unfamiliar feeling and one that brought her a glow warmer than the lights of the farmhouses or the pink in her cheeks. The relief of momentarily relying on someone other than herself lifted a load from her that she'd carried so long she was unaware she carried it.
Before she knew it was coming on, she was in the midst of a fit of weeping so powerful she could barely see to keep the bike on the road.
She knew Bo would think it was only a small thing he'd done for her. Not worth mentioning, he'd say. And she wouldn't mention it. But, oh, the hugeness of the small things!
When she got to the farmhouse, she waited outside for an extra minute or two to compose herself and let the breeze dry the tears and take the redness out of her eyes.
The crying was a relief, as well, she'd discovered now that she'd learned how. Why had it taken her so long to discover the consolation of tears?
* * *
The morning after the day she'd fallen off the ladder, the moment Ruth was awake, she knew trouble had found her.
There it was! That lighter-than-air-and-joyriding-in-a-soap-bubble feeling.
She acknowledged it to herself and then sternly told herself to snap out of it.
It wasn't possible. It simply couldn't be possible. It was impossible that she could be started down the road to falling for the man she'd rejected decisively and forever just two weeks ago. "Never" had lasted all of fourteen days.
And the man who had promised her that the book of his feelings for her would never, ever again be opened by him. What were his words? Something about the subject being closed, shut, locked tight with the key thrown away. That was the idea, at any rate.
Not that she'd ever want him to reopen the subject! Of course, she didn't! The whole thing was just so completely, horribly, embarrassingly impossible – impossible that she should be feeling this way.
Along with the lighter-than-air feeling came a saturating guilt. She'd been so sure she'd never love anyone ever again like she loved Graham. She'd been positive hers was no transient emotional attachment but something strong and deep and true. And it was.
As Solomon had discovered, "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it ..." (Though, honestly, it was a little hard to believe that Solomon was qualified to write anything on the subject of true love – Solomon and his seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines!)
But she'd found it out for herself. Love was stronger than death. She had no doubt she would always love Graham.
Was it possible that the place she had in her heart for the husband of her youth could leave room to hold that kind of love ever again? Could hearts ever heal so that they could expand to be that large? Could hers?
And the bigger question was, so soon?
Graham had left in February, a scant nine months ago. She'd been widowed only two months.
Was she no better than Solomon, then? It was a blow to discover that perhaps she was part of the human race, after all.
It was utterly unthinkable! It was impossible! Was she so fickle? How could she be capable of feeling anything for anyone else at this point in time, even if it meant nothing?
But, of course, it was all the insanity of a moment. Give it a day or two, and she'd laugh at herself for ever worrying over something so trivial. It was just that it was all such a novelty – so rarely experienced. She wasn't one who fell in and out of love weekly. That was why she was taking it all much harder than she should. She needed to get on with her day and do her best to forget she'd ever had this little conversation with herself.
But getting on with her day meant going to the orchard and unavoidably seeing Bo, a circumstance she dreaded just now. At least the functional part of her brain dreaded it. The part of her brain that wasn't in proper working order made her heart leap at the thought.
It was just too bad that the functional part of her brain seemed to be losing control as the lighter-than-air feeling took over.
No! She would fight this. She had to. But what would she say to Bo when she saw him? Would she be able to think of anything at all to say? Would he notice that she was acting oddly around him? And what should she wear? Did she have anything that looked nice on her that was also old enough to wear to pick apples? Maybe her blue sweater. Blue was a good colour for her...
In spite of her best efforts, her thoughts ran along forbidden trails for quite some time.
* * *
"Morning," Bo greeted her, sounding like his usual self as she ran to the pickup, having heard him pull up in it.
"How's the ankle?"
"It's fine. I told you it was yes
terday. Nothing wrong with it now. I wouldn't even know I did anything to it yesterday from the way it feels this morning."
"Good. And the cut on the leg?"
"It's fine, too. Don't worry. I disinfected it and bandaged it up."
"Good. Don't need my best picker off with gangrene or an amputation."
"Ha, ha."
Then, there was a heavy silence in the pickup. Ruth cleared her throat and sought wildly for something, anything, to say. Nothing came to mind. Surely Bo would notice something was out of the ordinary this morning.
"Sorry. Didn't mean that. Just a dumb joke," he said, staring straight ahead.
"I know. Don’t worry. It’s fine."
Oh, good heavens! She hadn't thought for a minute about her recent surgery when Bo made his comment about an amputation, but he must have remembered it after it was too late – after he'd unthinkingly made his comment – and he thought she'd remembered it, too. He thought she'd taken offence. And now there was no way to fix the situation. This was going worse than she'd imagined.
There was more heavy silence. Then they both burst into speech at once.
“So what are your ...”
“So how long do you ...”
“Sorry,” they both said in unison.
“What were you saying?” he asked.
“No, you go ahead,” she answered.
“Ladies first,” he said.
This was dreadful. It was exactly like a scene from a movie. Exactly like the scene where it’s obvious (to the audience, at least) that the girl’s fallen for the fellow and her brain has turned to mush. It was impossible that Bo hadn’t noticed that something was amiss. How could one disguise a mush-brain?
And the worst of it was, she hadn’t fallen for the fellow! Not really fallen, at any rate. She couldn’t have. Her brain had turned to mush for some other reason.
She took a deep breath and told herself to get a hold of herself.
“Okay, I was going to ask you how much longer you think we’ll be picking.”