Sam dipped her head and traced her fingers over the names of young lovers—enclosed in hearts—that had been carved into the picnic table over the years. To Sam, the table looked like a work of art, intricately designed. She suddenly remembered Connor having carved their names into this table, ages ago. Her eyes nervously scanned the tabletop, and, there, on the far edge nearest her, were their names, faded, worn, dulled but still there.
I set myself up to fail with him, Sam thought. Whose rules was I following?
Angelo looked toward Sam, his bare arm brushing hers. Her heart raced, her body stiffened, and she moved her arm, imperceptibly but ever so slightly, closer to his.
“You’re also an artist, Sam,” Angelo continued. “You follow those rules in baking, but you also live to reinvent and reimagine recipes. You take risks. And that’s the perfect balance in life, if you can only allow yourself to see that and embrace that. So you need to ask yourself, ‘What balances risk with my love of baking?’ How do you marry the two?”
Who is this person? Sam thought. A Zen deliveryman?
The swans and ducks waddled their way up the embankment and surrounded Sam and Angelo. They squawked and began to peck at Sam and Angelo’s legs. Realizing they had no food, they finally honked their disappointment and waddled back toward the water. As they were swimming away, Sam turned, extended her hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Sam, and I’d like to start over.”
Angelo turned, extended his hand, and said—a thousand-watt smile beaming on his face as bright as the sun behind him—“Hi, I’m Angelo, and it’s really nice to meet you, Sam.”
“Wanna see where I’m from?” Sam asked, standing.
“Why do you think I’m here?” Angelo asked.
Twenty-two
“Grandma … Mom,” Sam said. “This is Angelo. Angelo, this is Deana and Willo.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Deana said, giving him a hug. “Welcome to Michigan!”
“So this is the famous Angelo?” Willo said, smiling broadly.
“Famous?” Angelo asked, turning toward Sam. “You’ve talked about me?”
“She baked for you,” Willo said, a mischievous look in her eyes. “Even better.” Willo leaned and pulled Angelo in for a big bear hug. “And, yes, she’s talked about you,” she whispered in his ear. “Come, come,” Willo said, ushering him into the pie pantry. “This is where Sam grew up.”
Angelo turned, his eyes trying to take in every nuance of the place: the soaring roof, the rugged beams, the expansive barn-wood counter, the open kitchen buzzing with activity, the shelves, cases, and freezers filled with pies.
Angelo smiled. “Now I know where she gets all of her talent and passion,” he said in a voice filled with emotion. “I finally get it.”
Willo and Deana exchanged glances and surprised smiles, and Sam ducked her head in embarrassment.
“It smells like heaven in here,” he said. “And who did all the paintings on the floor? They are amazing … so full of happiness and joy.”
“I did.” Willo beamed. “I think this young man just earned himself a free piece of pie. Your choice?”
He smiled and scanned the expansive chalkboard menu, which was as long as the checkout counter. The chalkboard was replete with endless food and dessert options along with cute, colorful drawings of happy fruit and dancing pies, as well as funny quips and phrases, like What did the apple say to the farmer? Stop picking on me!
“I think it has to be apple,” he said, “with apple cider ice cream.”
“A man after my own heart,” Willo said. “Back in a flash.”
“So what brings you to Michigan, Angelo?” Deana asked, her head bobbing between Angelo and Sam, who was giving her mom a Stop it already glare.
“I needed a mini vacation from work and school,” he said.
“Sam said you deliver wonderful fruit and produce to some of New York’s best restaurants?” Deana said.
“Yes,” he said. “But I want to do more.”
“I think anything having to do with fresh fruit is top of the tree,” Deana said with a wink. “What are you studying in school?”
“Business,” Angelo said.
“That’s what I studied in school,” she said.
“It was your daughter who encouraged me to go back to college.”
“She did?” Deana asked, looking at Sam, whose face was already turning red.
“Isn’t that right, Michigan?” Angelo asked.
“That’s right, Jersey,” Sam said.
Willo returned with a slice of hot apple pie topped with melting ice cream on an old green Depression glass plate. “Thank you,” Angelo said, immediately taking a bite. He shut his eyes and chewed. “Wow. This is the best pie I’ve ever had in my life,” he said. “No wonder you walked out on Chef Dimples. This place is so much better than his overpriced celebrity Southern Gothic hangout.”
“A man who speaks his mind and loves our pie,” Willo said. “I think I already like you.”
“Thanks,” Angelo said, his mouth full. He locked in on the plate and began devouring the pie as if his life depended on it.
“You eat this week?” Willo asked with a laugh.
“Bag of pretzels on the plane just didn’t cut it,” he said. “Do you mind if I see the orchard?”
“Sure,” Sam said, as Deana took his plate. She began to lead Angelo out the doors.
“They already have nicknames for one another,” Deana whispered to her mom. “‘Michigan’ and ‘Jersey.’ It’s so cute.”
“You coming, Gossip Girls?” Sam asked, hearing their hushed whispers.
“Right behind you,” Willo said in a chirp.
Sam led Angelo out of the pie pantry, down the gravel path, and into the orchard, which was overflowing with U-Pickers on a magical summer day. Gary saw them and came rushing over, hand extended.
“Angelo, I assume,” he said. “I’m Gary Nelson, Sam’s father.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“No sir,” Gary said. “Just Mr. Nelson.”
“Dad,” Sam said.
“Just teasing. Call me Gary. And welcome to our orchard.”
“I hear you have a big anniversary coming up?” Angelo asked. “And a big birthday, too.”
Willo beamed. “Seventy-five and one hundred,” she said. “I’m turning seventy-five, in case you were wondering.”
Angelo laughed. “I would have guessed you were just turning legal drinking age,” he said.
Willo laughed in unison with him. “Honey, then that means I’ve been drinking illegally for decades.”
“Want a tour?” Gary asked.
Angelo nodded. As the five walked through the midst of the orchard, Angelo’s head turned this way and that, up and down.
“It’s so…” He stopped, searching for the right word. “Green.”
“It certainly is,” Deana said.
“Living in New York, I’m so used to everything being gray: concrete and steel, construction and trucks,” Angelo said. He stopped and walked over to an apple tree. “I deliver these,” he said, his eyes wide in wonder. “But I never see it grow, live … I never see where it comes from. This is the real deal.” He turned and looked at the family. “It’s magical.”
“A city boy who loves the country,” Gary said.
“My family once had a small vineyard and farm in Italy,” he said. “My grandparents sold it and moved here. It’s in my blood, I think.” His eyes scanned the orchard, the fruit, the hillside and bay. “I wonder what my life would have been like if they had kept it. It’s not easy to keep something like this going in a family for so long.” Angelo turned to Sam. “You’re really lucky.”
Sam nodded. “We better get you checked into your inn,” she said. “Don’t want you to lose your room. It’s crazy around here on the weekends.”
They turned and headed toward the barn.
“Where are you staying?” Deana asked.
“The Bayview Inn,” Angelo said.
“Sam suggested it. The inn looks very nice.”
“That’s just silly,” Willo said. She turned to Sam. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier he was coming?” Suddenly, her face lit up. “Aaron is away at college. Angelo could stay in his room.”
“Grandma,” Sam said, the word filled with tension.
“No, it’s OK, ma’am,” Angelo said.
“You’re working and going to school,” Willo said. “It’s silly for you to spend your hard-earned cash on a hotel if you don’t need to.”
“He’ll lose his deposit anyway,” Sam said.
“Sylvia at the Bayview Inn has been one of my dear friends forever,” Willo said. “I’ll just call her.” Willo stopped and her face lit up again. “Listen, if Sam thinks it’s too awkward for you to stay in her house…”
“Grandma!”
“Well, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” she asked. “Then stay with me. I have so much room, and it’s just me toddling about in that old farmhouse. It’d be nice to have some company for a couple of days.”
“I couldn’t, ma’am,” Angelo said.
“There is no discussion,” she said. “And stop calling me ma’am, or you won’t get any more pie.”
Angelo laughed, and Sam shot her grandma a dirty look. Willo laughed in delight.
“OK, let me call Sylvia and get you set up in the spare room,” Willo said. “Then why don’t you two take the boat out. It’s a beautiful day, and there is no better way to see Michigan than from the water. Right, Sam?”
“It’s all gassed up,” Gary said. “And Sam is a very good captain.”
“And she already made dessert for you,” Willo added. “Follow me.”
She took Angelo’s hand, and Sam drifted back, watching her grandma chat with Angelo as her parents followed. Their long shadows were cast behind them, as if Sam were walking alongside their ghosts. All at once, Sam felt overcome with emotion. While no one was looking, Sam reached out and grabbed Angelo’s shadowy hand with her real one, as though this were their orchard and they were on their morning walk. As if he could feel her invisible touch, Angelo turned and smiled at Sam.
Twenty-three
The aqua-and-white ski boat sliced through the water of the bay.
“Hold on!” Sam yelled to Angelo.
The boat hit a wake that had been produced by a large boat headed in the other direction and suddenly took flight. The boat landed with a thunk, Sam bouncing in the captain’s seat. When she turned to check on Angelo, he was white-knuckling the seat of the boat, and his sunglasses had bounced down his nose, his eyes wide with surprise.
Sam laughed.
“It’s like a pothole, but in the water,” Angelo yelled. Sam laughed, nodded, and headed the twenty-seven-foot fun boat through the middle of the open bay.
The bay is, essentially, like a watery interstate, Sam thought as she steered the boat, her blond hair swirling all around her head in the wind.
Sam used to Jet-Ski with her mom, dad, and brother over to Elk Rapids, another resort town across the bay, and have weekend brunch. She used to anchor the boat at Old Mission Peninsula and have lunch at a winery. And the harbor was packed with beaches—public and private—where she could either party with friends or sneak away to tan and read a book.
Michigan was a boater’s paradise. “Longest freshwater coastline in the continental U.S.,” Willo always told customers from out of state, “and second longest next to Alaska.”
Though Sam was surrounded by water in New York, she felt a bit removed from it. But now that she was back home and driving a boat, a sense of calm returned.
Angelo smiled as he watched Sam behind the wheel, her skin shining, her hair a whip of blond.
She looks so at home here, he thought. As if she dropped the shell and persona she wore in the city.
The boat slowed, and Angelo finally noticed that the water was as flat as glass.
“Over there,” Sam yelled, pointing and wagging her finger. Angelo scanned the distance and squinted through his sunglasses to try to distinguish the blue water from the blue horizon, the world drenched in sparkling light. As the boat continued to motor forward, Angelo finally was able to make out a densely treed island, wide and round, surrounded by what looked like hundreds of boats. As Sam steered closer, Angelo could see it was a virtual party cove of boats, all anchored around the island, people swimming, tanning, drinking. Music, screams, and laughter echoed over the water and the boat’s engine.
“Power Island,” Sam yelled to him. “Thought it would be a fun place.”
Sam slowed the engine even more and checked the depth gauge: ten feet, five feet, three feet. She killed the motor, stood, and peered over the front of the boat and then both sides, carefully steering the boat over the shallow waters, the sandy bottom now clearly visible. Sam found a spot near a group of bigger boats and dropped anchor, giving herself a wide enough berth so that her boat could swing in the wind. She turned on the radio and pop music filled the air. Sam flipped up one of the seat cushions and pulled out a cooler, freeing two Oberons and handing one to Angelo.
“I think you’ve done this before,” Angelo said.
“A time or two,” Sam said with a wink.
She pulled off her tank top and wriggled out of her jean shorts, revealing an electric-yellow bikini. Sam opened the little door on the back of the boat that led to the swim platform, took a seat, and hopped into the water with a yell, all while holding her beer.
Wow, Angelo thought, unable to avert his eyes from Sam’s lithe body and tan skin.
Sam turned and busted him staring.
“I’ll repeat what I just said,” Angelo said, trying to cover.
“Summer in Michigan,” she said. “You wanted to experience it. This is what it’s all about. You getting in?”
Angelo set his beer down in a cup holder, pulled off his T-shirt, and stepped out of his board shorts to show off a pair of orange box cut swim trunks covered in miniature Mets baseball team logos.
This time, Sam couldn’t avert her eyes. Angelo wasn’t just in good shape, he was ripped.
That’s not a six-pack, Sam thought, actually counting the muscles in his stomach. That’s an eight-pack. His body might be better than Zac Efron’s.
Angelo’s skin was golden and, in the sun, he looked almost like an animated movie hero.
And his dimples are bigger than Mario Lopez’s, Sam thought.
Angelo caught Sam staring and smiled, his dimples widening.
“You can take the boy out of New York, but you can’t take New York out of the boy,” Sam said, taking a sip of her beer and nodding at his swim trunks, trying to cover this time around.
Angelo grabbed his beer and hopped into the water. He took a drink and teasingly splashed Sam, which elicited a little yelp.
“Water’s cold in Michigan, Michigan,” he said, laughing.
“Just like the beer,” she said. Sam reached out her beer in salute, and Angelo clinked her bottle. “Cheers. Welcome to Michigan, Jersey.”
“What is all this?” Angelo asked, nodding at all the boats surrounding the little island.
“This is Power Island,” Sam said. “It’s where all the locals come. The island was once owned by Henry Ford. Has a little bit of a party history, which is why I think people like to come here. Fun is in the air.”
“Really?” Angelo said, staring at the island. “Tell me about it.”
“Well,” Sam started, “the island used to have a giant dance pavilion, and steamships would bring out an entire orchestra to play for these crazy dances that lasted all night. Ford purchased the island in the early 1900s, and he used to dock his yacht in Grand Traverse Bay and bring friends like Thomas Edison here. Legend has it that Ford kicked Babe Ruth off the island following a drunken night.”
“Wow,” Angelo said. “I bet he could put down some liquor.”
Sam continued, “Native American legend has it the island is haunted, but that never seemed to stop Michiganders from f
locking to it. Now the island has some campsites, but it’s completely undeveloped. Quite a history.”
Sam took a sip of beer and stared intently at the island. “My grandma used to bring me out here and tell me all the legends,” she said. “I dreamed of what it must have been like to be a Ford, or one of the socialites who came over to dance on the island.”
“Have you always dreamed of being someone else?” Angelo asked, watching Sam closely.
Sam turned and cocked her head. Suddenly, she sank into the lake, holding her beer above the water, before coming up for air. She ran her hand through her hair, slicking it back, and took a sip from her Oberon as water dripped off her face and body.
“I guess so,” she finally said. “You live so long in the shadow of a family like mine. The orchard has a storied history just like this island.” She stopped and looked at Angelo. “But sometimes you feel like you need a new script, or you just want to be a character in a different story for once. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” Angelo said. “I mean, that’s what my grandparents did. They set out for a new life in America in order to rewrite their lives. They weren’t unhappy, they always told me, they just felt like they wanted … more.”
“That’s how I’ve always felt,” Sam said.
“They wanted opportunity and freedom,” Angelo said. “What do you want?”
“I want to make my mark in the world, but I don’t want to be tied down the same thing every day.”
“Or the same guy?” he asked.
Sam looked at him, took a sip of her beer, but didn’t answer.
“I get it,” Angelo said, “but life—no matter where you are—is largely routine.”
“No, it’s not,” Sam said.
“What did you do in New York?” Angelo asked. “You got up, you went to work, you worked out, you went home.”
“That’s not fair,” Sam said. “I had the entire world at my feet when I wasn’t working.”
“Or tired,” Angelo asked. “How many times a month did time and money allow you to go out and explore the city?”
Sam took a sip of her beer and shot Angelo a dirty look. “You don’t need money to explore the city.”
The Recipe Box Page 19