Susan Wiggs - The Apple Orchard

Stepping into the shelter of the darkened doorway, she rummaged in her bag for the red-and-white package. Then the challenge—a match. As always, her bag was a mess, a repository of makeup, receipts, ticket stubs, notes to herself, bits of information about things she was working on, business cards of people whose faces she’d forgotten. She also carried tools of her trade, like a jeweler’s loupe and a penlight. There was even a small bag filled with lavender scones from Miss Winther, who had insisted on sending Tess home with a supply.

Finally, she hit pay dirt—a box of matches from Fuego, a trendy bistro where she’d gone on a date with someone. A guy who, for whatever reason, hadn’t called her again. She couldn’t remember who, but she recalled that the salad made with Bosc pears and Point Reyes blue cheese was amazing. Maybe that was why they hadn’t gone out again; he was not as memorable as the cheese.

Flipping open the box, she discovered she was down to her last cigarette. No matter. Maybe tomorrow she would quit. Putting the filter between her lips, she struck a match, but it flamed out in the breeze. She took out another match.

“Excuse me.” A woman pushing a battered shopping cart uphill stopped on the sidewalk near Tess. The cart was piled high with plastic bags filled with cans, a rolled-up sleeping bag, bundled clothing, a hand-lettered cardboard sign. In the front of the cart was a small, scruffy dog. Its beady eyes caught the yellowish glow of the streetlamp as the woman angled the cart cross on the hill.

Tess was trapped in the doorway. She couldn’t very well keep walking, couldn’t avert her eyes and pretend she hadn’t seen.

“Spare a smoke?” the woman asked in a voice that sounded both polite yet exhausted, slightly breathless from the uphill climb.

“This is my last one.”

“I only want one.”

Resigned, Tess put the cigarette back in its box and handed it over. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” said the woman. “Gotta light?”

“You bet.” She gave her the box of matches.

The woman’s hands shook with a tremor as she tucked away the cigarette box and matches.

“How about some homemade scones?” asked Tess, holding out the bag from Miss Winther.

“Sure, thanks.” The woman took one out and bit into it. “Did you make them yourself?”

“No, I’m useless in the kitchen. They were made by a—” Friend? “A client.” She tried not to dwell on the fact that she had more clients than friends.

“Well, it’s mighty tasty.” She gave a morsel to the dog, who acted as though it was manna from heaven. “Jeroboam thinks so, too,” the woman said, chuckling with delight as the dog stretched out to lick her chin. “Take care.” She angled her cart down the hill. “And God bless.”

Tess watched her go, pondering the irony of the homeless woman’s words. Take care.

She felt a fresh thrum of discomfort in her chest, rolling back through her with new vigor, and she started walking quickly, nearly running, to...where? And why the hurry?

“Take it easy,” she whispered in time with her breathing. She repeated the phrase like a mantra, but it didn’t seem to help. She fled to the door of her walk-up, fumbling with the key at the top of the stairs. Her hand shook as she unlocked the door and rushed inside, up another flight of steps through the faint smells of cooking and furniture polish.

“You’re home,” she said, ducking into her apartment and looking around her messy, familiar domain. There were suitcases and bags in various stages of unpacking, laundry in transition, piles of reading material, crossword puzzles and work documents. Busy with travel and work, she was seldom home long enough to neaten things up.

Still, she loved her home. She loved old things. The brown-brick place was a survivor of the 1907 earthquake and fire, and proudly bore a plaque from the historical society. The building had a haunted history—it was the site of a crime of passion—but Tess didn’t mind. She’d never been superstitious.

The apartment was filled with items she’d collected through the years, simply because she liked them or was intrigued by them. There was a balance between heirloom and kitsch. The common thread seemed to be that each object had a story, like a pottery jug with a bas-relief love story told in pictures, in which she’d found a note reading, “Long may we run. —Gilbert.” Or the antique clock on the living room wall, each of its carved figures modeled after one of the clockmaker’s twelve children. She favored the unusual, so long as it appeared to have been treasured by someone, once upon a time. Her mail spilled from an antique box containing a pigeon-racing counter with a brass plate engraved from a father to a son. She hung her huge handbag on a wrought iron finial from a town library that had burned and been rebuilt in a matter of weeks by an entire community.

Other people’s treasures captivated her. They always had, steeped in hidden history, bearing the nicks and gouges and fingerprints of previous owners. She’d probably developed the affinity from spending so much of her childhood in her grandmother’s antiques shop. Having so little in the way of family herself, she used to imagine what it might be like to have siblings, aunts and uncles...a father.

Tonight, she found no comfort in her collected treasures. She paced back and forth, wishing she hadn’t had that extra glass of champagne, wishing she hadn’t given away her last cigarette, wishing she could call Neelie or Lydia, her best friends. But Lydia was busy being engaged and Neelie had a new boyfriend; Tess couldn’t interrupt their happy evening with a ridiculous cry for help.

“Yes, ridiculous, that’s what you’re being,” she said to her image in the mirror. “You don’t have a single thing to worry about. What if you were really in trouble? What if you were like the Winthers in Nazi-occupied Denmark? Now, there’s something to fret about.”

Then Tess thought about the panhandler, who probably had her worries as well, yet she seemed to face the world with weary acceptance. She seemed content with her scones and her dog. Maybe I should get a dog, thought Tess. But, no. She traveled too much to take responsibility for even an air fern, let alone a dog.

Yet no matter how much she tried to ignore the hammering in her chest, she couldn’t escape it. That was the one thing she’d never figured out how to run from—herself.

Part Three

My dear, have some lavender, or you’d best have a thimble full of wine, your spirits are quite down, my sweeting.

—John O’Keeffe, A Beggar on Horseback, 1798

LAVENDER SCONES

2 cups flour

½ cup rolled oats

1 tablespoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon sea salt

1/4 cup butter

1 ½ tablespoons lavender flowers, fresh or dried

1 egg, beaten

1/3 cup honey

½ cup buttermilk

1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Combine flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Cut in butter and add lavender. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture. Pour in the egg, honey, buttermilk and vanilla. Stir just until combined. With floured hands, pat the dough into a round about 1 inch thick and cut into eight wedges. Bake scones for 12 to 15 minutes, or until lightly browned. Serve with butter and honey.

(Source: Adapted from Herb Companion Magazine)

Three

Archangel, California

“I found him wandering down the highway,” said Bob Krokower, indicating the gangly shepherd-mix dog struggling at the end of the leash. “Fay and I thought Charlie would be a nice companion for us in our retirement, but...uh...turns out it’s not exactly a match made in heaven.”