Sour Apples Read online

  “I guess if Lauren’s around, we’ll find out,” said Bree.

  “I guess,” said Meg. “So, what’s up for today?”

  “This is your so-called day of rest, so enjoy it while you can. Michael and I have plans for today, and we’ve got spraying to do next week, so I’m going to make sure the equipment is ready to go. I’ll be back for dinner. Come on, Michael!”

  Michael docilely followed Bree out the back door, leaving Meg alone in the kitchen, trying to sort out the undercurrents in what she had witnessed. She’d been bang on the night before, classifying Rick as a politician, and Lauren was right: he definitely fit the mold. Which kind of set her teeth on edge. She was surprised at Lauren’s willingness to jump onto the political bandwagon, but Lauren lived to work, and when a juicy opportunity like this had presented itself, she had probably grabbed on to it as a lifeline. But Meg was mostly surprised by Seth’s unexpected antipathy toward Rick and his campaign—in general Seth was so laid-back. Something was not right.

  With a sigh, Meg stood up and started collecting the dirty dishes.

  4

  Meg managed to keep herself busy until midafternoon, catching up on some much-needed sorting and tidying and dabbling in a bit of online genealogy. But she realized she was impatient: it was spring, and there was an apple orchard to be tended! It had been a long hard winter, and to her own surprise she found she wanted to be outside, doing the things she knew needed to be done. Her appetite for work had been whetted a month ago when they’d done the pruning, before the trees even thought about breaking buds, although Bree hadn’t let her near a tree until she’d demonstrated over and over the right way to do things. Meg had itched to get working but had bowed to Bree’s superior knowledge, understanding that each misplaced cut meant fewer apples in the end, while each well-placed one would result in more. Mistakes at this point, even in something as minor as cutting a twig, could cost her real money in the long run. The process was further complicated because, as Bree had informed her, different apple varieties required different pruning techniques, so Meg had had to learn how to recognize a specific variety without either leaves or apples to go by. Once again she had been reminded of how much she still had to learn about owning an orchard.

  But novice or not, Meg still wanted to spend part of each day in the orchard. She often climbed the hill early in the day, startling rabbits and the occasional deer, and once she thought she saw a fox. Sometimes a flock of turkeys wandered through. Small flowers that she couldn’t identify had begun to make themselves known, scattered through the grass under the trees. Day by day her micro-landscape changed, and she didn’t want to miss anything. Maybe once the newness of it all wore off she’d be more blasé about it, but right now Meg wanted to enjoy any part that she could.

  So she closed the genealogy website she’d been aimlessly roaming around and headed outside. She wandered past the goats’ pen and out to the barn to see what Bree was doing and found her working on the sprayer they used for pesticide application, cursing colorfully. After admiring the clean holding chambers, where only a few crates of hardy apples lingered, Meg asked, “Do we need to replace any crates?”

  “Can we worry about that later?” Bree said, scrubbing. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. If you’re looking for something to do, you want to clean the carburetor on the tractor?”

  “Uh, not my area of expertise,” Meg said, backing away. “I’ll go check on the goats.”

  The goats, Dorcas and Isabel, were reveling in the spring weather and frisking like lambs. Or, more accurately, like kids. Meg leaned on the fence and watched them for a while, as they ignored her in favor of playing with each other. Apparently nobody needed her at the moment. Why did she have such trouble just relaxing? She should know by now to seize moments like these, because they were few and far between. Didn’t she have a book or twelve that she’d been meaning to read? Oh! She could go get Lauren’s room ready for her…Energized to have a task, Meg turned and headed back toward the house—laughing inwardly that she could actually be excited about doing more housework.

  Two hours later, the guest room was polished from floor to ceiling, with clean linens on the bed. Meg had even scrubbed the shared (and only) bathroom and put out some fancy soap. She was downstairs in the kitchen contemplating baking something before starting dinner when she saw Seth’s truck pull in. She waved but he didn’t return it, and when he stopped the engine, he continued to sit in the truck. Meg felt a prickle of concern. She dried her hands and went out the back door. Seth still hadn’t moved from the driver’s seat.

  She made it all the way to the truck door before he noticed her. She rapped on the window. “Hey, there. What’s going on?”

  “Joyce Truesdell is dead. Art Preston just called to tell me.” His voice was flat.

  Joyce Truesdell? The dairy farmer she’d only just met? “Oh no, that’s awful! What happened?”

  “Her husband was away on business last night. He came home today and found her in a milking stall, with half her skull crushed. The cow Joyce was milking was apparently skittish—she’d just had her first calf—and probably lashed out. Either a hoof caught Joyce in the head, or maybe she fell when the cow kicked her.”

  “That’s terrible. Her husband must be devastated.”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah, I know. It’s a tragedy. I really liked her. Ethan, too. I admired what they were trying to do. Not too many people go into farming these days—most of them give up. Even the ones who do get into it this late, a lot of them are kind of starry-eyed romantics who have no idea how much work it is, and how dirty. But Joyce knew what she was doing, and she knew what she wanted. And we needed her in Granford—we’ve got far too many people leaving and not enough moving in.”

  “I understand. I wish I’d had a chance to get to know her. I’m sorry, Seth. Do they have kids?”

  “No, it was just the two of them. They married late.”

  “You want to come in?”

  “No, I just don’t think I’d be very good company right now.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  He managed a smile for her. “No, but thanks for asking. Actually I think I’ll just go home, maybe take Max for a walk. What idiot was it who said that things always look better in the morning?”

  “My mother, among others. You go on, then. Oh, before I forget to tell you—I asked Lauren to stay here as long as she’s in the area.”

  “So Sainsbury is going to be around for a while, too?”

  “Probably at least a week.” Why did Seth look less than thrilled by that prospect? She’d have to get to the bottom of that—but not now.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Meg,” he said, then started the engine and backed out of the driveway, leaving Meg wondering when she’d last seen him this down. Of course, Joyce’s death was a shame. And what a sad way to die, kicked in the head by her own cow. As Meg went back to the kitchen, she wondered how that would appear on the death certificate—blunt force trauma, cow? She almost grinned, then caught herself: death was not something to be made fun of.

  Inside Meg pottered around the kitchen, putting together a cake and then starting on dinner. Bree came in, still grumbling, and headed straight for the bathroom to scrub up. So much for tidying up the bathroom, Meg thought. At least she’d left some clean towels on Lauren’s bed, so Bree wouldn’t run through all of them. She wondered when Lauren would reappear. She didn’t count on seeing her for dinner, but she was making plenty, just in case.

  Meg was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for the cake to finish baking and reading the Sunday paper while sipping a glass of wine, when Lauren rapped at the back door. Meg got up to let her in. “Hey, you’re back earlier than I expected. Remind me to give you a house key, so you can come and go when you want.”

  Lauren pulled off her jacket and tossed it at a hook. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. I used to think I liked traveling, but I guess I got spoiled by nice hotels and expense accounts
. There’s no thrill to tacky little motels, but the campaign can’t look like it’s throwing money around—that sends the wrong message to voters. Now, if you’d like to count room and board here as an in-kind contribution to the campaign, I could arrange to give you a receipt?” Lauren looked hopeful.

  Meg laughed. “Look, I’m just putting up an old friend. I’m happy to have you here, and you’ve picked as good a time as there is—things are just getting rolling in the orchard, so it’s a bit slow. But I don’t assume you have time for long lunches and shopping these days anyway, so I won’t expect to see much of you.”

  “You’ve got that right. Is there any more of that wine?”

  “Sure is. Just the one bottle, though.”

  “Hey, that’s more than fine! My wine consumption during my last visit was not typical, I promise. I hadn’t realized how depressed I was, about my job and just about everything else.”

  “At least you had a job,” Meg said, more tartly than she intended.

  Lauren held up both hands. “No excuses. You got a raw deal, but hey, look how well it turned out! I still had the job and the salary and all, but I hated getting out of bed in the morning. Why is it we always want what we don’t have?”

  Meg handed her a glass of wine and sat down again. “I have what I want. For now, at least. I’ve survived my first year as a farmer, the house is still standing—”

  “—and you’ve got a steady guy. That happened fast.”

  Meg shrugged. “We’re taking it one step at a time. He’s around a lot, though, because he’s renting the space in back for his office and storage.”

  “Handy, unless things go sour.”

  “True. You staying for dinner?”

  “Sure. Rick’s got a meet and greet with some of the local power brokers, and he didn’t need me tonight. Actually it’s kind of a guy thing and I’d just get in the way.”

  “How big is your staff?” Meg asked.

  “Tiny right now. There’s me, and a data coordinator who keeps track of contributions and issues reports, and a volunteer recruiter—we’re looking for somewhere between five and ten more volunteers. We’re still in the exploratory phase, trying to build up the cash before we go public. We’re paying for some polling, and we’ll be adding a publicity person in a month or two.”

  “What about those two guys I saw you talking to at the event last night? The ones who were making a fuss at the door?”

  Lauren made a disgusted face. “Oh, them. They’re volunteers—old buddies of Rick’s. I’m not sure if they aren’t more trouble than they’re worth, but it’s not a good idea to turn away supporters, and besides, Rick likes them.”

  “I can see that, especially if you’re new to politics. Sounds like Rick is pretty committed, for someone who’s just exploring.”

  “He’s got a good sense of how the wind is blowing, and voters are ready for some fresh faces. This recent redistricting and the incumbent’s retiring have been a big boost. And”—Lauren’s voice dropped—“he’s got some solid backing from some of the party’s old guard, which helps.” When Meg looked blank, Lauren said, “His wife’s father was a state senator. So Miranda knows the ropes, too, which is a real plus. Would I have signed on with a loser?”

  Actually, Meg thought, Lauren had a boundless supply of enthusiasm, but sometimes her judgment fell short. Not that Meg was going to point that out. Lauren was her friend, and she was happy to be supportive—up to a point, at least. Still, if Seth had reservations about Rick Sainsbury…She definitely needed to find out more about that. “You said you aren’t seeing Detective Marcus anymore?”

  “Bill? We went out a couple of times, but the long-distance thing just got too complicated. Besides, he’s pretty straightlaced, by the book, et cetera, not to mention a good bit older than I am.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Glad you came around. I thought you two were sworn enemies.”

  “We’ve gotten past that.” Meg decided to change the subject. “Hey, remember Gran’s, that great new restaurant in town?” Meg realized that was probably the last time she had seen Lauren, at the restaurant’s grand opening.

  “Sure—since it’s the only decent restaurant in town, as I recall. What about it?”

  “They’re emphasizing local foods, and they’ve been doing really well since they opened last fall.”

  “Great, good for them. Maybe we can squeeze in a lunch. Or, wait—maybe we could hold an event there? Can they handle that kind of thing?”

  Belatedly Meg realized that Lauren’s enthusiasm for her new job was going to color everything she did. Meg was sure that Gran’s young owners, Nicky and Brian Czarnecki, a pair of Boston transplants, would welcome the business if the Sainsbury campaign wanted to rent out their restaurant, but she had no idea what their political convictions might be. She wasn’t going to commit to anything without checking with them first. “Maybe. You can ask. What else are you planning around here?”

  Lauren ticked off points on her fingers. “Let’s see…Get the filing papers in order. Solidify the Granford base. Talk to as many of the town committee chairs in the district as possible. Find out which local issues resonate. You know, this district is pretty big, though the population is kind of scattered. Plus with the redistricting, a whole lot of people haven’t been part of this district before, so we’re going to have to get them focused on Rick. It’s going to be a different kind of race than it might be in, say, MetroWest outside of Boston—although even that’s changed.”

  “You certainly picked an interesting time to get involved. I can’t say that I’ve paid a lot of attention to state politics since I’ve been here. I didn’t think you were that into it either.”

  Lauren laughed. “You’re right—I wasn’t. And I know what you’re thinking: oh, there she goes again, Lauren’s got a new cause. But working from within the political system, I feel you can really make a difference. And I think Rick is a solid guy and a smart candidate.”

  Meg held up her hands in surrender. “Enough! I’m glad you’ve found something you’re so enthusiastic about, and I’m glad that it brought you out this way. So, you ready for dinner?”

  5

  Lauren retired shortly after dinner, pleading a slew of meetings the next day that she needed to prep for. Meg had left a spare house key on the kitchen table before she went upstairs, but it was still there when she came down in the morning around 8 a.m. Meg fed Lolly and then herself, leafing through the daily paper at the kitchen table, waiting for Bree or Lauren to appear, wondering what the day would hold. If Bree wasn’t already downstairs, there couldn’t be anything too urgent.

  Meg saw Seth’s truck drive in and park at the back; Seth emerged and went straight to his office, business as usual. Fifteen minutes later, though, an unfamiliar truck also pulled in and parked outside the kitchen door. The driver jumped out and hurried over to pound on her door.

  Meg opened it quickly. “Can I help you?” she asked. She didn’t recognize him, and she noted that he hadn’t identified himself.

  “I’m looking for Seth Chapin. I was told his office is around here?”

  “He’s in that building at the end of the drive.” She pointed. “There’s a staircase inside the bay. He’s there now—I saw him go in.”

  The man gave her a perfunctory nod, then turned and hurried toward the outbuilding. Odd, Meg thought. Who was he, and what could he want with Seth? Still, that was their business, not hers.

  Bree came clattering down the stairs and helped herself to coffee. “You’re up late today,” Meg said mildly.

  “Hey, I’ve been awake for a while, but I was working on something in my room. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about why and how we should expand the orchard.”

  Meg silently refilled her coffee mug and sat down. “Okay,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. “Why? Give me your reasons.” And she settled back to listen.

  Bree gave her an odd look, as if surprised that Meg hadn’t immediatel
y protested. “Okay. Point one, we’ve lost a number of trees to storms, pests, and age. That’s normal. Some of the remaining ones are still producing, but less and less, and they’re putting out poorer-quality apples. It’s not the best use of the space we have.”

  “You want to pull out the dead and dying ones and replace them?”

  “Some, yes. That’ll have to be on a tree-by-tree basis, but I’ve made up a chart of what we have where, and how much we’ll have to replace in each area.” Bree shoved a colored printout across the table at her, and Meg studied it. She was impressed: it was color-coded, clear, and simple. While she looked at it, Bree went on. “You’re lucky that the university used this orchard for so long, because you have complete records on what’s there and, in some cases, when they were planted. There are no surprises, nothing to worry about, with the ones that are failing—they’ve just reached the end of their useful life.”

  “Do you want to replace those trees with the same varieties?” Meg asked.

  “In most cases, yes. A lot of those are our bread-and-butter varieties, the ones for which there’s the most demand, that sell the best. And replacement stock is easy to get, so that’s not a problem.”

  “Then I approve. But I take it there’s more?”

  Bree flashed her a brief grin. “Of course. I’m taking the long view. Now, this area”—she used a pen to point at one of the smaller shaded sections on the chart—“these are the heirlooms. They sold really well this year, and I’d like to see some more of them in the orchard. Not a whole lot, because who knows what the market will want in a few years, but at least some, and some different varieties. Maybe recreate a group of the varieties that would have been here in 1800 or something like that—it would be a good selling point, and maybe you could milk it for some publicity, you know? Wave an American flag and proclaim it a patriot’s orchard? Get the Daughters of the American Revolution to put up a plaque for a historic orchard?”