“I tried that last year, and they didn’t take. That’s why I used clippings that had a full season of growth in them. I thought they might be more robust.”
Sanna set the frozen juice blocks on the counter, already considering her dad’s proposition.
“How did you graft them?”
“Whip graft.”
“Let’s try the cleft graft on the understock you have, and a few side grafts onto some older trees. Maybe the scions want a more mature tree to grow with. What do you think?”
His idea could work—Sanna wanted to try it. She needed to know she could make more of those trees, that they wouldn’t die out under her watch after living for over a hundred years.
“What about the Earlies?”
“I can spray them tomorrow—this seems more important.”
That was good enough for her. She grabbed her grafting tools and led the way out of the barn, determined to be successful. She would discover the secret to grafting these finicky trees.
CHAPTER TWO
Dad, come look. I think I can see California.”
Isaac Banks looked up from the magazine cover he’d grabbed downstairs from a line of free travel brochures. He’d gotten himself and his son to the Midwest and wasn’t sure where to go next. Sebastian—Bass—had hopped up on the sloped ledge to get his face closer to the glass in the observation deck of the St. Louis Arch. Twenty other people crowded around the panes to see the sprawling city below them.
Isaac tucked the magazine under his arm and joined Bass at the window.
The horizon blurred in the distance.
“I’m not sure that’s quite California, Guppy.”
“How do you know?”
“Logic. We’re too far away.”
Bass hopped off the ledge, already bored with the view. Keeping a ten-year-old boy entertained required stamina and creativity, especially when going on the third week of a cross-country road trip. Stamina, creativity, and a fair bit of patience.
“That’s just sad,” Bass said.
“Geography is sad?”
“If we’re this far up, we should at least be able to see the Rockies. It’d be cool if we could see Pike’s Peak. Those trams were boss. And the sheep with the big horns bonking their heads together.”
He held his hands to the side of his head as if holding giant cinnamon rolls over his ears while a new batch of tourists joined them in the already crowded space, jostling them into the wall.
“Ready to go back down, Wahoo? There’s a frozen yogurt place in our hotel. We could get some, then order pizza, and swim in the pool.”
Bass took one last look out the glass and nodded. They joined the line for the descending elevators, Isaac keeping his eye on the back of Bass’s head and one hand on his shoulder. He crouched to fit inside the elevator pod, which they shared with a young couple, still in the early days of their romance to judge by the amount of kissing. Each pod contained only five seats and a small window through which Bass watched their descent—occasionally commenting on all the steps they’d have to walk down if the elevator got stuck. Isaac kept himself occupied with the magazine, paging through articles about the best burger in the Midwest and how to get upgraded to first class without using miles.
Isaac had taken enough time to finish up his last project and for Bass to finish the school year, then they’d started out for their summer adventure—or at least that was what Bass thought. In the eighteen days since they’d left home, they’d shouted into the Grand Canyon, ridden horses in Estes Park, and watched the Oakland A’s trounce the Royals in Kansas City. Though he’d lived in California all his life, it had been easy to leave San Jose, where too many people—like his mother, who texted daily—knew about their troubles. Bass had grumbled about missing his summer baseball league until Isaac had promised they could catch a few games while on the trip, hence the A’s game. He had no qualms using some judicious bribery to start their journey in a good mood.
Isaac watched Bass’s breath fog up the window, his legs bouncing—even an elevator ride couldn’t contain his need for perpetual motion. The little-boy cheeks had sharpened into those of a young man sometime in the last year. Big feet didn’t match the skinny legs they were attached to, his still-high voice disarmed his dad with an occasionally good argument for why he should get to stay up later, and a little sprig of hair on the crown of his head still refused to lay flat—and Bass didn’t care, yet. Isaac’s innocent little boy grew up more each day, and he was bound and determined that they would have this last summer of simple boyhood.
“Where’re we going next?” Bass said, sitting so close to him that he was almost on his lap. Isaac put an arm around him and flipped the magazine’s page. The headline read “Ten Best Places to Get Away from It All.” He scanned the article. Most were coastal, like Key West or Malibu. No, thank you. But number two. Number two had potential.
“How about here?”
He pointed to the words Door County, Wisconsin next to photos of a towering white lighthouse, a winding road through an autumnal tunnel of arching trees, and isolated rocky shores with a single kayaker exploring the nooks and crannies. The article described a rural, remote peninsula where people spent their days in leisure amid orchards and ice cream shops—the perfect place for an idyllic, postcard American childhood summer.
As they emerged from the visitor’s center, the afternoon sunshine reflecting off the mirrored surface of the structure above them, Isaac’s phone whistled that a new text message had arrived. Bass scampered ahead, all cowlick and sincerity, onto a wide field beneath the monument where a few people lay on their backs to take photos. They could go home, Isaac thought. It wasn’t too late for Bass to join his friends on the team or sign up for a few camps—but the reality of everything that came with that decision caused his heartbeat to quicken and skip in panic.
They would try their luck in Door County, Wisconsin.
His phone whistled again.
He didn’t need to check. He knew who it was. He’d ignored all the daily messages and phone calls from Bass’s grandma, his mom. He had not given her any warning that Bass and he were going on a trip, where, or for how long they would be gone. He still didn’t know. They’d be gone as long as it took for Isaac to figure out how to tell Bass his mom was dead.
• • • • •
Sometime in the last thirty minutes, Isaac and Bass had driven over an invisible line—or maybe it was the Sturgeon Bay Bridge. Traffic had slowed, radio stations wavered, and the tension that had pinched his right shoulder since leaving California eased. Farm fields traded places with orchards, which traded places with magical patches of forest. Bikers hugged the edge of the road as cars patiently weaved around them. No one hurried—except one dick in a giant Suburban hauling a trailered speedboat.
Already Isaac knew this was the right place for them. He hadn’t seen a fast-food restaurant since crossing the bridge, and the most garish tourist attraction seemed to be the mini-golf courses. Since deciding to head in this direction in St. Louis, he’d done some research. Door County was Wisconsin’s thumb, a peninsula that jutted out into Lake Michigan. Much of the land was dedicated to farming and local tourism, mainly orchards and forests. To the northwest was Green Bay, not the city but the body of water. To the southeast was Lake Michigan. Because of its pastoral setting, it had also become a vacation getaway for those wanting a slower pace and a reason to spend the days outdoors. Perfect.
Orchard stores advertising cherries and apples, fresh baked goods, and gifts appeared along the road. Some promised the best cider donuts or cherry pie, others had outdoor activities where children could burn off some energy, and yet others offered to let you pick your own cherries when the season started. As they approached a store offering a wide selection of samples, Isaac pulled into the parking lot. It seemed like a good time to stretch their legs and grab a snack at the same time.
“Let’s see what we’ve gotten ourselves into, Barracuda,” Isaac said.
He stepped onto the gravel parking lot, the rocks shifting under his flip-flops. Minivans, SUVs, and cars, many bearing out-of-state plates, filled the lot. Inside the store, freezers contained frozen cherries, apple juice from last season, and pies. Fresh baked goods lined shelves, and quippy signs hung from the walls that said things like IF I HAD KNOWN GRANDKIDS WERE SO MUCH FUN, I WOULD HAVE HAD THEM FIRST and I ENJOY A GLASS OF WINE EACH NIGHT FOR THE HEALTH BENEFITS. THE REST ARE FOR MY WITTY COMEBACKS AND FLAWLESS DANCE MOVES. Bass slid his hand into Isaac’s as they walked around the store, staying close to him as they sampled pretzels with cherry-studded dips and homemade jams. A café sold freshly roasted Door County–brand coffee and cherry sodas made with Door County cherry juice.
In the bakery area, Isaac picked up a container of apple turnovers still warm from the oven—they would be a tasty breakfast in their motel room tomorrow.
“Good choice,” a small older woman said. She had come up beside him quietly. Her smile and bright skin contrasted with the silver hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head. She had kind blue eyes that crinkled as she smiled up at him. “They’re the best in the county, other than my own of course.”
She stood a few feet from him, close enough to talk comfortably, but not so close that he felt encroached on by a stranger—though he couldn’t imagine anyone feeling cramped by this tiny woman who radiated a gentle spirit. “Well, how do I get yours?” Isaac said.
“Charmer.” From her arm dangled a shopping basket containing a pound of coffee and a bag of frozen cherries as she took him in from head to toe. She looked around him at Bass, who was doing his best to remain unnoticed. “Are you here for vacation?”
“I think so?” Isaac meant it as a statement, but it sounded more like a question.
“You don’t sound too sure. How long are you staying?”
“I’m not too sure about that, either. We came here on a whim and aren’t too sure what to do next.” Maybe she could share some pointers on where to stay more long term and how they could pass their time. “Can I treat you to a coffee in exchange for more local tips?” He pointed to the four-table café at the back of the store.
The older woman studied him. He envisioned her judging prize cattle at a state fair, her skilled eye seeing below the surface to the quality underneath. She nodded and let him pay for two coffees and one cherry soda for Bass.
As they settled onto their chairs, Isaac stuck out his hand. “I’m Isaac. Isaac Banks. This is Bass.”
She shook it with her soft, warm hands.
“I’m Mrs. Dibble.” She poured a generous amount of cream and sugar into her coffee, unabashedly. “So, where are you staying?”
“We have reservations at Cherrywood Motel.”
She nodded and tapped a short, wrinkled finger to her lips.
“That’s a lovely place if you’re here for a weekend or so. But if you’re looking to stay longer, you might want to try something other than staying at a motel—even those get pricey here during the summer.”
“What else is there?”
“Some people rent their houses, but that’s not cheap either. If you’re looking to make a little money, though, a lot of the orchards hire extra help during the summer. Some provide housing.”
Isaac liked the idea of spending the rest of the summer here. Already it seemed a million miles away from home, away from having to deal with his ex-wife’s death. On the flip side, staying still might give the truth time to catch up to him. He shook the thought away. He thought about where they could go next—maybe south through the Appalachians—and the muscle in his right shoulder twitched in protest. He rubbed it with his left hand. While he had enough money saved to finance a month or two on the road, earning some income meant they could stay as long as they needed. Plus, having some work would also keep his mind from dwelling on the past.
“That would be great. Where would I find a list of places hiring? Is there a website?”
Mrs. Dibble chuckled.
“We’re not so fancy. I happen to know of a perfect orchard that might suit you. It’s not too big—run by a small family. They don’t normally hire help until the harvest, but I know the owner is looking for someone now.” She clicked her tongue. “You might just be perfect. And I know they love kids.”
She nodded toward Bass. Warmth spread up Isaac’s arms—a sure sign this idea had merit.
“Do you have a number?”
She wrote it down and handed it to him.
“You’ll get his answering machine, but he’ll call you back after dinner. He’s always very good about returning phone calls.” Her lips curved into a soft smile.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m sure you’ll be seeing more of me.” Sending a quick smile toward Bass, Mrs. Dibble rose from the table and said her good-byes.
Isaac turned to Bass, who was gulping the last of his cherry soda.
“What do you think, Tuna? Should we check it out?”
Bass’s quick nod reaffirmed his own thoughts. The muscle twitch, the fortuitous meeting of Mrs. Dibble, and the overall easing of tension all colluded as if by design. Isaac dialed the number feeling more certain than he had in years.
CHAPTER THREE
Sanna measured the apple juice into a large glass beaker and added it to the carboy, swirling a cheery red—like Santa’s suit. She wrote down the amount in her notebook and did the same with the next juice, this one a bold sapphire blue, which mixed with the red into a vivid purple. When it came to cider, colors and flavors blended together for her. She knew she had the right blend when it matched the color she had envisioned. It wasn’t scientific—and it didn’t happen with anything else Sanna tasted—but here, with her beloved trees, it worked. She carefully tracked the blends in her journal. The sun streamed through the window, lighting up the colors in the carboy like Christmas lights. She was close—one more juice should do it. She closed her eyes, calling to mind all the juices in the barn’s cooler and their corresponding colors.
Every juice she tasted from their apples had a slightly different hue, differing among individual varieties, but even varying slightly from tree to tree. When she was twenty-four, she had stood at the tall kitchen counter tasting freshly pressed juices she had made for the first time with the press she had unearthed from the old barn. Her plan had originally been to sell them in the farm stand, but she wanted to pick the best. As she sipped each one, an unmistakable color came to mind—different for each juice—and she finally understood the watercolor apple portraits above the fireplace. They were proof she wasn’t the only family member who could see the colors. After she explained it to her dad, he smiled.
“I thought you might have the gift.”
“You knew about this?”
“It’s family legend. My dad said Grandpa could taste colors in the apples, but no one in my lifetime has been able to, so I thought it might be myth. When you returned home after college—the way you were drawn to Idun’s—I thought you might have it.” He had put his hands on the side of her face. “This means something good, Sanna.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t I know before?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“I’ve had apple juice from the Rundstroms a thousand times. Why can’t I see it with theirs?”
“I think it has something to do with apples from our land. We’re connected to it, and it to us.”
Sanna had always appreciated the sanctuary of the orchard, and this revelation bonded Sanna like another root digging into the soil, finding nourishment. She’d never leave.
After a few years of making and selling apple juice, Sanna strolled through the Looms wondering how these older trees still produced apples, even though they couldn’t sell them. They didn’t make for good eating or baking—Einars called them spitters. Over the years, the family had stopped paying attention to the sprawling trees since no one would buy their fruit—customers only wanted attractive, sweet produce. Other th
an the art above the mantel, they had lost track of what varieties they had, but with a bit of research and a lot of comparing and contrasting to the watercolors and online photos, Sanna discovered they had a treasure trove of cider-making apples—Kingston Black, Ashton Bitter, Medaille d’Or, Foxwhelp, her favorite Rambo tree, and so many more. The first Lunds had brought these trees to make cider, but had to stop during Prohibition, packing away the equipment in the back of their barn for Sanna to find so many years later.
She spent years experimenting with small batches, understanding the colors, using their existing press and carboys to ferment. Then, last year, Einars surprised her with plans to rebuild the barn, complete with huge fermentation tanks and modern mills and presses. Sanna could use her talent and passion to help move their orchard into a new phase . . . or so they both hoped.
Sanna poured a small amount of her purple blend into a beaker, where she could experiment on the tinier amount before risking the entire batch. She’d almost found the exact shade of purple she’d been trying to create when it disappeared in a flood of apple juice and crystalline shards. The cause—a hard, green apple thrown through the closed window and into her cider.
Sanna blinked as the daylight pushed the last tatters of lavender from her vision, replacing it with harsh afternoon yellow and floating dust motes set loose by the interruption. She watched the combination of juices swoosh to the floor until just a few violet drips were left. She sighed and plucked the fruit from the broken and wet equipment, careful not to cut herself. With each crunch of glass underfoot, she got angrier and angrier. Some moron had ruined her beautiful purple cider by chucking an apple—an apple that should have been safely left to grow on the branch—through her window. Sanna gripped the sphere and looked down through the broken pane.
Outside, Einars spoke to a handsome dark-haired man. The breeze pulled at his unruly brown curls. At his side stood a miniature version; the man’s hand gripped the boy’s shoulder with one hand as he gestured toward the window with the other, his apologetic smile matching the one of amusement on her father’s face.
The Simplicity of Cider Page 2