A Wedding in Apple Grove

by C. H. Admirand

  “I guess it is. My aunt doesn’t lock her doors and that makes me crazy.”

  Meg sighed. “I can squeeze you in around three o’clock.”

  “Great. Thanks!”

  A little while later, she had just finished coaxing life back into a thirty-year-old furnace when her cell phone rang. Since she was at a stopping point, she answered.

  “Oh my God, Meg!” her sister Grace squealed into the phone.

  Switching to speaker, Meg set her phone down on the top of the battered toolbox that had been her great-grandfather’s. “What now? Did Caitlin put a dead mouse next to your keyboard again?” Their middle sister was the family prankster and had the strangest sense of humor.

  “Don’t remind me and don’t get me sidetracked,” her sister said. “You have got to swing by the high school on your way back to the shop.”

  “Get real, Grace.” There were times when Meg felt so much older than the youngest of their Mulcahy brood.

  “Would you just shut up and listen?”

  Stunned that the normally calm one of the trio was getting agitated, she did.

  “I’m talking about the new soccer coach. He’s the first real eligible bachelor to hit town in three whole years! How could you not be paying attention? What is wrong with you, Megan?”

  “Jeez, Gracie, you sound just like Pop. Besides, I already met him.”

  “When?”

  “At the wedding. You and Caitlin were busy flirting with Deputy Jones over by the cake.”

  Her sister laughed and said, “You know we just can’t resist a man in uniform.”

  “You two were all over the poor guy.” Meg remembered watching her sisters flirting and feeling every bit of the seven-year age difference between herself and Grace.

  “You could have called us over.”

  “And interrupt when you and Cait were on a roll? No thanks. I’ve been on the receiving end of Cait’s sharp tongue enough to know she’d have left me bleeding if I did.”

  “I’m worried about you, Sis,” Grace confided. “You work all the time and have no social life. I can’t remember the last time you wore a dress and went out on a date.”

  “I wore a dress yesterday to church and Saturday to the wedding. Besides, I don’t like dresses, and what does one have to do with the other?” Meg asked.

  “Yeah, I know. You prefer your battered carpenter jeans, but, Meggie, you’ve got great legs.”

  Meg laughed. “Standing next to you and Cait, who’d notice, since both of you have legs up to your eyeballs?”

  “Hey, until senior year in high school it really sucked being taller than all of the boys in school.”

  It was an old argument and neither one would ever win. They both had valid points. “Being short is worse,” Meg said, just to get under her sister’s skin so Grace would hang up and let her get back to work.

  “Give me a break, Meg.”

  “OK, look, I’ve got to get going. My next stop is to replace a blown fuse at Dan’s house; he doesn’t have any power.”

  “Oh,” Grace breathed. “That’s excellent.”

  Meg snorted. “Actually, it’s a problem not having power.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “Look, Gracie, if you hang up now, maybe I’ll let you talk me into another pedicure—my choice of color this time. But if I’m gonna make it to Dan’s house and still get to all of the other calls you’ve scheduled for me, I’ve got to go now.”

  “Oh, all right… Talk to you later, Sis.”

  ***

  Dan couldn’t believe he’d started the day without power. No power in his new home meant no water—good thing he’d showered the night before, or else he would have made a really bad first impression on the staff at Apple Grove High. He already had half of the Board of Education wondering if he’d last to the Christmas break. You’d think they’d never hired anyone from out of town before. Thank goodness his great-aunt had swayed the board to focus on his résumé and not where he came from.

  He headed toward the locker room to change for practice. He had a team to get to know and a physical routine guaranteed to have the guys groaning before he sent them to the showers.

  “All right,” he rumbled, standing in the middle of the field, looking at the eager faces surrounding him. “Line up on the end line in the order I call your names. Doyle, Hawkins, Weatherbee, Winter, and McCormack—are you related to the sisters who own the Apple Grove Diner?”

  McCormack nodded and said, “First cousins.”

  He took note of who was who on his clipboard so he would remember who they were by sight tomorrow. Scanning the rest of the group of, he called out, “The rest of you line up behind them so we can get started.”

  “Doing what, Coach?”

  He looked up from his clipboard and noticed it was the captain, Charlie Doyle, asking. Doyle was the tallest of the bunch with a lean runner’s build and coal-black hair. He hoped there was speed to match the boy’s build.

  “Trips.” He chuckled at the sea of blank faces before him. “It was my coach’s favorite drill. Now when I blow the whistle the first five run to the six-yard line—the edge of the goal box—bend down and touch it, turn around and run back. Then run to the eighteen-yard line—the edge of the penalty box—touch it, and run back. Then run to center field, touch the line, and run back. Finally, I want you to run to the other end line, touch it, and then run like you’ve got the ball and winning States depends on how fast you can go.”

  “We can’t go that fast if we have to keep bending down to the touch the lines.” This time it was Hawkins, who was as fair as Doyle was dark, but built like a football player. He hoped the kid could run. The way Hawkins and Doyle stood beside one another had him thinking the two were close friends. He’d find out soon enough.

  Dan nodded. “That’s true, but you’ll be working on your abs and footwork.” Seeing that he had everyone’s attention, he added, “A soccer player depends on the strength in his legs, ankles, and feet. Offensive players also count on the power of their lungs and their ability to keep running.”

  “But Coach Creed—” one of the players began.

  “Is recovering from a heart attack and I know you all wish him a speedy recovery, so let’s make Coach Creed proud and see how fast on your feet you really are.”

  The challenge had been thrown down, and from the eager expressions on the faces of the players lined up on the end line, they’d reacted the way he’d hoped. They were ready to show off for the new coach.

  He blew the whistle and watched the first five off the line. Weatherbee and Winter were about the same height and equally matched, keeping pace with one another, but he’d remember who Winter was without taking notes—the kid had freckles and bright red hair that reminded him of Meg.

  Focusing his thoughts on the team and getting to know the players, he watched them, evaluating as they performed the exercise. They weren’t too bad, a little slow to start, but the short distances inside the penalty box and beyond were a definite challenge; once they got to sprint to center field, they started to show off.

  As the first group made it to the other end line, he shouted, “The States are within reach and Apple Grove High will be the champs. If you want it, run for it.”

  The group charged toward where he stood waiting. Every single face had a look of concentrated determination. He couldn’t be more proud. As they crossed the line, he blew the whistle and the next group repeated the drill.

  When everyone had gone at least once, he gathered them in a circle. “We’ve got our work cut out for us if we’re going to beat Newark High on Friday.”

  “We did last year,” Doyle said.

  Dan nodded. “But they will be expecting our team to be unorganized with Coach Creed gone and an unknown coach stepping in.�
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  One look at the determined scowls on the players’ faces convinced Dan they all wanted the same thing: to win. Apple Grove’s varsity team wasn’t that different from the last team he coached in north Jersey. “What is the most important skill a soccer player has?”

  He waited a beat, staring at their faces, until someone called out, “Ball handling?”

  He shook his head. Someone else called out, “Kicking?”

  With a glance at his watch, he knew he didn’t have time to waste, so he told them, “Running. You have to be fast, you have to think on your feet, and you have to be able to dribble the ball in a perfect three-sixty.”

  Now that he had their attention, he nodded. “So starting today, one quarter of our practice time will be devoted to running; everyone needs to work on their cardio. Any questions?”

  “When do we scrimmage?”

  Dan paused for a moment then said, “When I’m confident I have players who can run their hearts out for the entire eighty minutes.”

  “Not everyone gets to play the whole game,” McCormack said.

  “But we’ll be ready.” He was pleased to see that there weren’t any dissenters in the group; that was a plus because the next drill was a guaranteed killer. “OK, our last drill before scrimmaging is the hardest. Everyone line up behind Doyle and me—”

  “You’re gonna run with us?”

  “Every day,” Dan said. “When I blow the whistle, the last man in line will sprint to the front.” Now they looked worried. “Let’s see who can keep up.”

  Four laps around the field later, he was satisfied that every player had given it his best shot. Some of the defenders didn’t have the wind for sprinting by the third lap around the field, but they would by the end of the week.

  He blew the whistle. “Great job, guys. Who’s ready to play?”

  The resounding cheer was music to his ears. Teenagers were not that different out here in Ohio. “Since I couldn’t find any pinnies, we’ll have to play skins and shirts. Line up and count-off by twos. The ones will be skins, and the twos will be shirts.”

  After a few minutes, he called out, “All right, guys. Let’s change it up.” Moving players around, he watched them play for another ten minutes before calling an end to practice.

  “Great job. Hit the showers.”

  After the boys left, he showered, changed, and drove home. He had a date to cook for. A glance at his watch reminded him that he really had to work quickly if everything was going to be ready to eat when she got there.

  ***

  The soufflé was rising and turning a golden brown. He already knew it would taste delectable; it was one of his foolproof recipes and guaranteed to impress a woman.

  The apple tart he’d baked the night before was sitting on the center island awaiting the whipped topping he thought he’d experiment with. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he was pleased to note that everything was going according to schedule. He believed that timing was everything in life and had in fact led him to Apple Grove. Fifteen minutes more for the soufflé. Once that was out of the oven, he’d begin to sauté the garlic in sweet cream butter for the scampi.

  His mom had told him that his great-aunt loved shrimp and he was determined to do everything he could to ensure he delivered a first-class meal for a first-class lady. He could have said thank you in a more conventional way, but he enjoyed cooking. To him, preparing a meal was akin to a science experiment. The outcome depended on the precision of his measurements, technique, and the timing, which had to be perfect.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, he grinned and turned to double-check the table and decided the single red rose that he’d placed across her plate was just the right touch. A whole bouquet would have been overdoing it. He wanted her to feel special, not embarrassed. And while he’d done his part yesterday during coffee hour, he had a feeling this special meal would make her the talk of the town. “Why not, she deserves the attention.”

  Checking the time, he turned on the coffeemaker and pressed the button on the food processor to whip the topping—and the lights went out.

  ***

  Meg groaned as her cell phone played “Urgent” by Foreigner. It was her father’s sense of humor that decided they’d use that song for emergencies. She was so tired her eyeballs hurt; it had been a really long day. She’d just finished a foray into Mr. Sweeney’s barn to help him gather a dozen eggs as payment for replacing his burned out floodlights. “What’s up, Grace?”

  The youngest Mulcahy sister got right to the point. “We have an emergency call from Dan Eagan. His power just went out again.”

  “I changed out the blown fuse this afternoon.” There had only been one; she’d checked. “I just finished up at Sweeney’s—”

  “I’d ask Caitlin,” Grace interrupted, “but she’s on the other side of Licking County.”

  Meg knew she’d have to answer the emergency call; their family business had been built on their reputation of being on-call twenty-four/seven—no job was too small. Four generations of Mulcahys have lived, worked, and died in Apple Grove. The townsfolk had come to count on them to keep their furnaces heating, their washing machines agitating, and their roofs watertight.

  “Meg?”

  Her sister’s voice snapped her back to the present. “Call him back and tell him I’m on my way.”

  She set the basket of eggs on the floor and wedged her sweatshirt and lunch pail against it so it wouldn’t move and she’d get them home in one piece. On the drive over to Elm Street, Meg relaxed and started to feel just a bit more energized knowing she was going to be seeing Dan again. It was exciting having someone new move into town—especially someone like Dan. He’d definitely made a great first impression and had been on her mind most of the day.

  She wondered how long it would take for Miss Trudi and her cohorts to find out what was behind Dan’s move to Ohio. Not that there was anything wrong with Apple Grove. She loved the rolling farmland dotted with Victorian-style homes and the more traditional farmhouses you expected to see with wide front porches and a barn out back. But it wasn’t just the pretty scenery that kept her rooted to Apple Grove; it was her own family’s history.

  Her great-grandparents, Joseph and Molly Mulcahy, had settled in town in the early twenties, fresh off the boat from County Cork, and with their work ethic and eagerness to lend a helping hand, one thing led to another, and Mulcahy’s handyman business had been born. Oh, some of her friends had moved to Cincinnati and some had even moved out of Ohio, but she liked living in a town where generations of her family had left their mark. She intended to do the same.

  Smiling, she drove past the handful of houses dotting the street. Most of them had rocking chairs on their porches, inviting you to sit a spell and share a tidbit of gossip. She knew that if she pulled into any one of those driveways, she’d be greeted with a welcoming smile and cup of hot tea or coffee. Any other night, she just might think about it, but she had one more stop to make before quitting time.

  The Saunders place was the last house on the dead end. Since half the homes in Apple Grove were built around the turn of the century, most still used the standard fuse panels with six screw-in type fuses. Meg kept spare fuses in the back of her truck. Mulcahys were always prepared for any emergency call.

  She grabbed her flashlight and three fuses, stuffing them in her pockets as she closed the door. Looking out over the open fields behind the old house, she knew it wouldn’t be long before the days would be getting shorter and colder. The hay bales were rolled up and ready to be stored for the winter. Mrs. Saunders had sold off a good part of her land years ago with the stipulation that it be used for farming, same as her grandparents had done. The next field over had a different crop every other year; pumpkins one year and corn the next. She didn’t know much about rotating crops, but whatever grew there always looked healthy and
good enough to eat.

  She drew in a breath and smiled. She loved autumn, the way the leaves changed color, the beautiful reds and oranges of the sugar maples against the backdrop of the brown oak leaves. The smell of wet leaves on a rainy fall day never failed to have her craving a long walk through the fields and woods surrounding her home.

  She didn’t like when the temperature fell below twenty degrees. Her sisters loved winter and were always getting a group of friends together to go ice-skating or cross-country skiing. Meg never really got the hang of balancing on those thin blades or the long, thin skis her sisters used when they headed off across the snowy fields behind their home. Give her a toasty fire, her grandmother’s quilt, a good book, and cup of cocoa over winter sports any day. Come early spring, Meg would be tromping through the mud and rain checking for signs that the trees would soon sprout leaves and the early bulbs in her garden would bloom.

  If it were dark, she knew she’d hear the owl hooting in the pines behind the house. A pair of great horned owls hunted in the fields behind their barn, but she’d never seen the one that kept Mrs. Saunders company at night—could be a barn owl. She’d have to see if Dan was interested in finding out; it could be something they shared: bird watching. Smiling, she lifted her face to the crisp breeze rustling through the leaves. The moon was barely visible low in the sky, just shy of full. In a few hours it would light up the sky.

  The door swung open and her breath snagged in her lungs; eyes the color of the wintry ice on the horse pond in February stared down at her. The longer she stared up at him the harder her heart pounded. Her body’s reaction to him would have scared her spit-less a few days ago, but she’d slowly begun her journey back to the living, where deep-seated emotions and feelings weren’t quite so scary.

  He rumbled, “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m in a bind.”

  “I was on my way home after a really long day…” Her words trailed off as her gaze met his.

  He didn’t say anything, just continued to look at her. She shifted from foot to foot, knowing there was probably more than one streak of dirt on her face. Meg didn’t mind getting covered with grease, dirt, or what-have-you, as long as she got the job done—besides, that’s what soap was for. But compared to the man in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a pale blue, fitted button-down shirt and charcoal pleated pants, she felt like a scrubby street urchin.