Sam stopped, shut her eyes, and took a deep breath.
The scent of peaches—sweet, nostalgic—filled her nose, and once again images of her family orchard and bakery filled her mind.
“Do you have a recipe in mind?” Suzette asked in a meek voice.
Sam opened her eyes and smiled. She had, without knowing, pulled her necklace free and was rubbing the key around her neck once again.
“I do,” she said, walking over to wash her hands. “I do.”
Two
Summer 2006
Sam Nelson sprinted between the rows of peach and apple trees, her arms outstretched as if she were soaring over her family orchards like the ancient crop duster her grandfather used to fly.
In one hand, she held an old wooden basket, in the other a half-eaten peach, the juice dripping down her arm. U-Pickers, who flocked to the Mullins Family Orchards and Pie Pantry every summer day and fall weekend to wander the lush hillside, pick their own fruit, and gorge themselves on apple pies and cider donuts, jumped as the thirteen-year-old girl flew past them, a blur like the bees and hummingbirds that darted from tree to tree.
“You’re supposed to pick some, Sam,” she could hear her grandmother call in the near distance, “not eat all our profit and scare away all our customers!”
Sam laughed, finished off her peach, and tossed the pit far into the air, watching it roll down a hill. She continued to dart in and out of the fruit trees before stopping in front of a tree to watch an urban family dressed in pressed shorts and colorful polos fill their baskets with apples.
“Excuse me,” Sam said, using her free hand, still sticky with peach juice, to tuck her long, blond hair into the back of her T-shirt. To the shock of the family, Sam began to scale the tree, climbing with one hand and holding on to the basket with the other, until she was entwined in its upper branches. She looked out at the orchards and then down at the family. “There’s an even better tree … one, two, three … six rows down and on your right.”
As the family continued to stare, Sam said, “See you later. And thank you for visiting Mullins Family Orchards!”
The family walked away, turning every so often to consider the girl hidden in the tree.
Sam sighed.
Another birthday stuck here working on this orchard, she thought. Every birthday. Every summer. Why couldn’t I have been born somewhere else? Or in the winter?
Sam scanned the orchards. U-Pickers laughed and posed for photos with apples on their heads, babies in the baskets, hugging trees. She lifted her head to study the sky, blue as her eyes. The clouds moved across the sun, blocking it out for long distances at a time, causing the landscape in front of her to become illuminated one patchwork piece at a time: the rolling hills lined with grass and endless rows of trees, peach, tart cherry, apples of every variety; blueberry bushes sitting at the bottom of the hill where the rain pooled; the old red barn where high school kids doled out baskets for fruit, which Sam’s father weighed when they returned; the old shed where more high schoolers handed out free donut samples and sips of apple cider to arriving cars; the farmhouse with shutters—designed with apple cutouts—where her grandparents, Willo and Gordon, lived; the blue-green waters of Suttons Bay stretching out beyond the trees, the Old Mission Peninsula jutting into it; the family cornfields that sat across M-22 and would soon be cut into an intricate corn maze filled with spooks and goblins to scare fall visitors.
This slice of northern Michigan was Sam’s home, her whole world.
And yet, she thought, squinting her eyes and watching a large boat drift across the horizon on the bay, making it look as if the world were indeed flat, there has to be so much more out there, doesn’t there? Sam watched the boat get smaller and smaller as it drifted through the bay and out toward the big lake, wondering if her “boyfriend” Connor—who had asked her to go steady by giving her an old mood ring—was on it with his dad, taking tourists out on a fishing charter.
“Sam?” she suddenly heard her grandma call. “Sam?”
“Now where could she be?” her mother asked.
Sam shut her eyes to block out the world, held her breath, and squelched her giggles. Suddenly, she screamed when she felt her leg being tugged.
“Grandma!” she yelled, opening her eyes to find her grandma Willo partway up the tree and pulling on her leg.
“I’ve never picked an apple this big before,” Willo said, continuing to tug on her granddaughter’s bare leg. “Seems like it’s stuck on the tree.”
“Grandma!” Sam continued to laugh. “Stop!”
She looked down at her grandma. “And you look like the one who should be picked!”
Willo was sporting her customary outfit: a floppy crocheted red cap that resembled a ripe apple, with a green stem and two little leaves on top. It was something a parent might dress their toddler in for a photo shoot, but Willo had the innocence, enthusiasm, and excitement of a child, qualities Sam adored in her grandma.
“Thank you, Sam,” she said, bowing with a flourish of her hat, her cropped salt-and-pepper hair flat against her head. “That’s a compliment! I’m a new version of a Red Hat Lady.”
Sam smiled at her grandma. She sported an oversized T-shirt with the Mullins logo on the front—PI = 3.14159 (WHO ARE WE KIDDING? PIE = LOVE!)—which hung down nearly to the bottom of her capri pants; her bright purple tennis shoes were the exclamation points on her outfit. She was quite the contrast to Sam’s mom, Deana, who still looked like a girl herself in cutoff overalls and blond ponytail, her lips shiny with gloss.
“What are you doing up there, young lady?” Sam’s mom asked. “You could hurt yourself.”
“Never have before,” Sam said. “I just wanted to get a better view of the world.”
“Today’s a big day for you,” Deana said. “Thirteen! You’re officially a teenager!”
“What do you want for your birthday?” Willo asked, before adding with a laugh, “and if it’s different than what we already got you, pretend to like it anyway.”
Sam looked out over the gently rolling hills and sighed. “I want what’s out there,” she said.
Willo and Deana glanced at one another.
“What do you mean?” her mom asked.
“I want the world,” she said.
Willo continued to look at Deana, sadness etched on her face. “But your roots are here, sweetheart,” Willo said, “just like these trees.”
“I know,” Sam said, exhaling loudly, tapping her basket against a branch nervously. “But shouldn’t we be able to grow wherever we want?”
No, Willo wanted to scream. Instead, she took a deep breath, smiled, and willed herself to say cheerily, “Yes, of course.”
Willo put one arm around her daughter and squeezed her, before jumping up to tug on her granddaughter’s leg once again.
“It’s a big birthday, and we have a big surprise for you,” she said, changing the subject. “So go get cleaned up.”
Sam climbed down the tree, handed her basket to her mom, and took off running, her arms again outstretched, her mom and grandma watching her fly away until she was no bigger than an apple on the tree in front of them.
At dusk, Sam walked into the family room of her family’s brown-shingled cottage that sat on a rocky point of beach overlooking the bay and called out, “Hello?”
She scurried barefoot from room to room, calling out to her mom, dad, and younger brother, Aaron, but her voice was the only one that answered back.
“Hello?” came the echo.
Sam slipped on a pair of fancy flip-flops—bejeweled with shiny blue stones—and slipped out of the cottage, stopping at the last moment to give her image a final once-over in the little mirror shaped like a ship’s wheel mounted by the front door. Sam was wearing her favorite dress, the sweet summer blue one that her mom said matched her eyes and that featured little eyelet sleeves and hem. She had pulled her long, blond hair into a pretty fishtail braid and swung it over her shoulder, a look she had seen in a
fashion magazine.
Sam scurried up the hill to the edge of her family’s orchards, the light growing dimmer as she entered the hobbit-sized forest of fruit trees. She squinted and her heart began to pound.
I’m thirteen! she suddenly thought. A teenager!
Sam slowed her pace. Why did everyone leave? Suddenly, she got angry. Are they still working? Did they get tied up with stupid tourists?
She made her way up another gently rolling hill—apples trees now replacing sweet cherry trees—and that was when she saw it: lights had been strung between rows of trees and, in the distance, lights twinkled in the barn.
Sam suddenly began to run, her braid swatting her back as if she were a racehorse, and she sprinted until she was standing under the lights in the orchard and could see her entire family—aunts, uncles, cousins—and many of her friends from school.
“There she is!” she heard her grandma yell. “Sam’s here!”
Sam’s mom and dad rushed out of the barn to hug her, followed by her nine-year-old brother, Aaron, who gave her a halfhearted side hug and a soft punch in the arm. Everyone in the barn clapped.
“You’re old now,” Aaron teased. “Hurry up and turn sixteen so you can drive me around.”
“You’ll have to ride in the trunk,” she teased back, messing up his already-messed-up hair.
“Happy birthday!”
Sam turned, and her grandma and grandpa were standing, arms outstretched.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “Did you do all this?”
“Let’s just say it was a joint effort,” Willo said.
“That means she did,” Gordon laughed, “along with your mom. I love you to the moon and back, Sammie!”
“Me, too, Grandpa,” she said.
“Me, three,” Willo added. “Now follow me.”
Willo was sporting two party hats, both angled on her head, giving her the look of a demented dragon. She was wearing so many colorful leis that they made it seem as if she were wearing a neck brace. She walked Sam over to a long table in the back of the barn strewn with party supplies, carefully placed a hat on Sam’s head—“Don’t want to mess up your beautiful hair!” she said, moving the braid over Sam’s shoulder—hung a blue lei around her neck, and tucked an electric-blue hydrangea behind her ear.
“Hungry?” she asked.
Sam lifted her nose like her grandparents’ dog, Doris, a happy old yellow Lab who was standing guard by the barbecue grill. Doris believed she truly ruled these orchards, and it was her duty to keep them rid of pesky, unwanted animal visitors.
“We made all your favorites,” Willo continued. “Barbecued ribs, corn on the cob, foiled potatoes, fresh tomatoes with basil, and iced tea.”
“You’re forgetting the most important part,” Sam said with a smile. “Dessert. It’s what we do best.”
“That’s a surprise,” Willo said, matching her granddaughter’s smile.
I hope it’s a cake this year, Sam thought. For once. Not another pie.
“Go say hi to Connor and all your friends,” Willo said. “They’re waiting.”
Sam took off in a flash and ran to her girlfriends, all screaming, jumping up and down, and chanting, “You’re a teenager!”
The girls parted like the Red Sea as Connor approached carrying a small gift topped with a tiny bow. “Happy birthday,” he said, holding out the box.
“For me?” Sam asked.
“Of course,” he said.
Sam opened the box. Her hands trembled nervously. A delicate gold chain sparkled. Sam lifted it out. “A necklace,” Sam said.
“See?” he asked, cupping the end of the chain. Two small gold pendants sat in his palm. “One is the state of Michigan,” he continued, “and the other is an apple.”
Sam looked at Connor, her eyes wide.
“One is for home, and the other is because … well”—he stopped and scanned the orchards behind them—“it’s home, too.”
“Oh, Connor, it’s too much,” Sam said.
“My mom picked it out,” he said nervously, smoothing his sun-lightened bangs across his forehead. “I wanted to get you Justin Timberlake tickets, but they were too expensive. And my mom would have had to drive us. My mom really likes you.” Connor hesitated. “So do I.”
He smiled shyly, and the hanging lights sparkled off his braces.
“Thank you,” Sam said, giving him a quick hug as her friends giggled.
Sam wanted to tell Connor she liked him, too, but she couldn’t get the words to come out.
What’s wrong with me? she wondered.
Her friends immediately broke into applause and circled around her to see the necklace.
Saved by the bell, Sam thought, forcing a smile at Connor, who retreated to talk to the boys clustered together in the corner.
After dinner was over and Sam had opened endless gifts, the lights suddenly went off.
Happy birthday to you …
Sam turned, and her mom and grandma were carrying a huge platter. Candles flickered on top, a huge 13 candle towering over them. They set the platter down on an old wooden picnic table in front of Sam.
When the singing ended, Willo said to her granddaughter, “Make a wish, and blow!”
Sam shut her eyes, made a wish, and blew.
“What did you wish for?” her brother yelled, causing everyone to laugh.
“She can’t tell,” Willo said, leaning over and yanking out the dripping candles. Then she whispered into her granddaughter’s ear, “But I bet you wished you could already help us run the bakery and orchard.”
Sam’s heart felt as if it had been cracked in two. She turned away from her grandmother to hide her expression, remembering what she had said earlier in the day.
What if I don’t? Sam thought.
“What is this?” Sam asked, as her mom and grandma began to cut the dessert. “I kind of hoped there’d be a cake.”
“Here?” Willo laughed. “That’s heresy.”
“This is a peach-blueberry slab pie,” Deana told her daughter. “It’s an old secret family recipe.”
“It’s kind of…” Sam stopped, unsure of how to finish the sentence she’d already started. “… ummm, not pretty.”
Deana kneeled next to her daughter. “You never try it,” she said. “You always say the same thing: that it’s not pretty enough to eat.” She stopped and looked up at her own mom. “That kind of hurts our feelings.”
“I’m sorry.”
Willo kneeled on Sam’s other side, her knees popping. “Think of how our trees look in the winter before they become so beautiful in the spring,” she said. “The apple blossoms, the fruit, the green leaves are hidden until they’re revealed. And yet they’re still beautiful, even in winter. The beauty in the world is more than skin deep.”
Deana stood and opened a gallon of vanilla ice cream. She picked up an old scoop and dipped out a huge circle of ice cream that she placed on top of the still-warm pie. It began to melt immediately. “Taste it,” her mom urged.
Sam picked at the pie for a second before digging her fork into the crust and the fruit and tasting it. Her eyes widened, and she dug her fork back into the pie.
“Told you,” Deana said.
“And your mom and I still have our gift to give to you,” Willo said, “but we want to do it after everybody leaves, OK?”
Sam nodded and continued to eat, asking, “Can I get another piece before it’s all gone?”
Willo and Deana smiled broadly and chuckled, cutting another piece.
After everyone had cleaned up and said their goodbyes, three generations sat in front of an empty platter, the lights in the orchards swaying gently in the summer breeze. In the distance, they could hear the waves from the bay and the big lake, Lake Michigan, while crickets hummed in unison in the orchard, tree frogs moaned, and a whip-poor-will called.
Willo stood and walked to the table in back, where she pulled out a wrapped box that had been hidden under her jacket.
“Happy
birthday!” Willo and Deana said in unison.
The present was wrapped in brown paper stamped with pies and apples, and it was tied in string. It was the way the Mullinses always wrapped their fresh and frozen pies for customers.
Sam untied the string and ripped open the paper. Her mouth fell open, and she looked up at her mom and grandma, confused. “What is this?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.
“It’s our family recipe box,” Deana said. “We made a new one for you.”
“And it’s filled with our treasured family recipes,” Willo added. “All of our special pies and desserts. We copied some of the original recipes, and your mom and I handwrote some of them, too, just for you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sam. She looked at her mom and grandma. “I was sort of hoping to get my first cell phone. Or even tickets to see Justin Timberlake in Traverse City.”
Willo nodded and Deana placed her hand on her daughter’s back. They both took a seat next to Sam, as Deana produced a small key from her pocket.
“Here,” she said, handing her daughter the shiny key. “We had this made for you, too. Open it.”
Although new, the box’s wood looked old and burnished, and it glowed in the light. Apples had been carved onto its top and then hand-painted, but the red and green had been scraped and flecked to make it look worn. On the front of the box, underneath the small lock, was a little sign that read RECIPE BOX. Sam took the key and inserted it into the lock, which popped when she turned the key fully. Sam opened the box, which was crammed with index cards. Little tabs reading PIES, COBBLERS, DONUTS, COFFEE CAKES, COOKIES, and JAMS AND JELLIES marked different sections of the box. Sam pulled out the first card, which read Peach-Blueberry Slab Pie, and studied it closely. The recipe was handwritten, in cursive—in the same looping style Sam used—and the ink had been faded and smeared, the words ghosted next to each other. The card was flecked with flour, and there were darker stains, perhaps from vanilla or eggs, as well as clear stains where butter and grease had soaked into it.
The Recipe Box Page 3