Susan Wiggs - The Apple Orchard

Ah, Nana, she thought. You’d be so excited for me today.

Back when Nana was alive, Tess would have bubbled over like a pot, spilling the news about the treasures she’d found and her excitement about the sparkly, shiny possibility of a big career move. She and Nana had been thick as thieves, to hear Nana say it. When Tess was growing up, it had been Nana who raised her while Shannon Delaney traveled for work.

To be fair, Tess acknowledged that Shannon had tried to bring her daughter along on her travels. Tess knew this because one of her earliest memories was of flying with her mother. She was five years old and miserable with an earache, but by the time she reported this to her mom, they were airborne. Her eardrum burst at thirty thousand feet, trickling blood and pus while she wailed for the next four and a half hours. It was then that Shannon had decided that trying to raise a child while constantly on the go was impossible.

Tess remembered a powerful feeling of relief upon being delivered back to the Dublin flat. Of course she’d missed her mom, but Nana had been the home port, in her colorful apartment and a magical shop she owned in Grafton Street, called Things Forgotten. The establishment was famous for antiques and collectibles, and as a gathering place for aficionados. While Shannon was on the road, Tess used to spend hours there, even as a tiny child, hiding amid the vintage washstands and armoires, or under Nana’s massive proprietor’s desk in the middle of the shop.

Nana had left the desk to Tess, an impractical but utterly beloved legacy. The piece had gone into storage until Tess finished college and settled in a place of her own. She’d attended Berkeley, where her mother had gone, and went to the ridiculous trouble of transporting it. Now the desk rose like a man-made atoll in the middle of the main room, gloriously ornate with carved flourishes.

Tess’s earliest and fondest memories revolved around the massive piece with all its drawers and cubbies. She used to set up housekeeping for her dolls in the kneehole. She would swaddle them in blankets while listening to the murmur of Nana’s voice as she talked with clients or on the phone. The game of make-believe never varied. Her dolls didn’t go on adventures or travel the world in search of pirate treasure. Instead, they played a game Tess called “Family.” The siblings squabbled, the moms and dads scolded them and put them to bed. In Tess’s world, this sort of thing was high fantasy, something that couldn’t possibly exist. She didn’t have a family, not in the traditional sense. She never had.

At a young age, Tess had learned that it was not normal for a mother to come and go, in and out of her child’s life. She’d heard her teachers and sometimes the mothers of her friends speculating about it, exclaiming over Shannon Delaney’s work schedule and what a shame it was she couldn’t stay home with her child.

Tess vividly remembered a day when her mother was packing for another trip. Tess could still picture the paisley lining of the suitcase, and the gray webbing of the compartment that held all her lotions and makeup. There was a little wind-up clock attached to a picture frame, which held Tess’s school picture from second grade, her silly grin displaying a huge gap where her top front teeth had come out, both on the same day.

“Mommy, tell me about my dad.”

“You never had a dad. The man who fathered you was not a dad. He was just...someone I once knew.”

“Mirabelle says I’m a barstid.”

“Mirabelle is a mouthy little brat,” said Tess’s mom. “And her mother is a mouthy big brat.”

“Is it bad to be a barstid?”

“No. It’s bad to be a brat. It’s good to be who you are—Theresa Eileen Delaney, the first and only.”

“Then why would she say something mean?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Is it because I don’t have a father?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Sometimes when I see kids with their fathers, I want one in the worst way.”

Mom hesitated, then said, “Fathers are overrated.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means... My goodness, you ask a lot of questions.”

Nana was the one constant in Tess’s life. The two of them spent hours together in the shop. Whenever there was a lull in the day—and there was always a lull—she and her grandmother would have tea together, often brewed in an heirloom Wedgwood or Belleek china pot, and perhaps served on a silver tray. Nana loved old things and treated them with respect. However, she never kept them at arm’s length.

Filled with the warmth of memories, Tess set down an imaginary tray. Perfectly replicating the lilt in Nana’s voice, she said, “Put the music on, a stór. The quiet, slow music will make shoppers want to linger.” That was Nana’s pet name for Tess; it was Gaelic for “my treasure.”

Maybe it was the music, or perhaps some other magic; Things Forgotten had a special atmosphere that drew people in and kept them coming back. Travel magazines, guidebooks and even the New York Times advised tourists and collectors alike to pay a visit. The unlikely little shop turned into a success.

Another gift of Nana’s was her judgment. She had a shrewd head for business and nearly always made her margin. Yet every once in a while, she would let something go for a song, watching her profits walk out the door with a delighted new owner.

“Sometimes the true value of the piece is how much a person loves it.” Tess quoted her grandmother aloud as she rummaged in the desk, now thousands of miles and many years distant from the Dublin shop. She was looking for Nana’s ancient leather agenda to take to her meeting. Her planner and calendar were both on her phone now—her life was on her phone now, or so it seemed—but she still made notes in the agenda and transcribed them later.

A glance at the clock jolted her into action. She checked email and messages on her phone one more time; not a word from her mother. Typical. She shrugged it off; she didn’t have time to talk, anyway. She slowed down while passing the polished burl framed picture of her grandmother, which sat atop the desk. “Wish me luck,” she said, then dashed out the door, walking along as she sent a text message to Brooks, telling him she was on her way.

A half hour later, she arrived at the office, standing in front of a plate glass window, fixing her hair while trying not to act as if she had spent the past ten minutes in a taxi, yelling at the driver that her life depended on getting to this meeting on time.

It was the Irish in her. A flair for drama came naturally to Tess. Yet in a sense, her urgent need was no exaggeration. Finally, she was about to reach for her dream, and this meeting was a critical step in the process. She couldn’t afford to be late or to be seen as a flake, or unreliable in any way.

The San Francisco fog had done a number on her hair, but the reflection looking back at her was acceptable, she supposed. Dark tights and a conservative skirt, cream-colored sweater under a gray jacket, charcoal-gray pumps. She wore a tasteful necklace and earrings. They were vintage 1920s Cartier, a gold, crystal and onyx set on loan from the firm.

She shook back her hair, squared her shoulders and strode toward the entrance to the glassy high-rise that housed Sheffield headquarters. Checking her watch, she saw that she was actually five minutes early, a huge bonus, since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Oh, yeah, the olives from last night’s martini, the one that had preceded her elevator meltdown. Before heading inside, she stopped at a street cart to grab a coffee and a powdered donut, her favorite power breakfast. That way, she wouldn’t have to show up at the meeting with Mr. Sheffield on an empty stomach.