The Apple Orchard

by Susan Wiggs

  Her voice had a subtle tinge of an accent. “I saw that History Channel special about the Kraków Museum. You won an award last month in Poland.”

  “You saw that?” Tess asked, startled to know the woman had recognized her.

  “Indeed I did. You were given a citation for restoring the rosary of Queen Maria Leszczynska. It had been stolen by Nazi looters and was missing for decades.”

  “It was...a moment.” Tess had felt so proud that night. The only trouble was, she’d been in a room full of strangers. No one was present to witness her triumph. Her mother had promised to come but had to cancel at the last minute, so Tess had accepted the accolades in front of a small camera crew and a cultural minister with sweaty hands.

  “The very second I saw your face, I knew you would be the one to find my treasure.” Miss Winther’s words were slightly startling. “And I’m so pleased that it’s you. I specifically requested you.”

  “Why?”

  A pause. Miss Winther’s face softened. Perhaps she’d lost her train of thought. Then she said, “Because you’re the best. Aren’t you?”

  “I try my best,” Tess assured her. She thought the conversation odd, but in this business, she was accustomed to quirky clients. “This piece was with a group of recovered objects from World War II.” Tess fell quiet as she thought of the other pieces—jewelry and art and collectibles. The majority of objects remained in limbo, their original owners long gone. She tried not to imagine the terrible sense of violation so many families had suffered, with Nazis invading their homes, plundering their treasures and probably sending many of the family members off to die. Restoring lost treasures seemed a small thing, but the look on Miss Winther’s face was its own reward.

  “You’ve made a miracle happen,” she declared. “I was just telling a friend on the phone that we’re never too old to appreciate a true miracle.”

  For a miracle, Tess reflected, the task had entailed a lot of hard work. But the expression on the woman’s face made all the research, travel and red tape worthwhile. At her own expense, Tess had paid an expert to meticulously clean every link, baguette and facet of the lavaliere. “This is a copy of the provenance report.” She slid the document across the table. “It’s basically a history of the piece from its creation to the present, as near as I could trace it to its origins in Russia.”

  “It’s amazing that you were able to find this. When I first contacted your firm, I thought...” Her voice trailed off. “How on earth did you do it?”

  Working backward through the provenance report, Tess explained the progress of her research. “This piece was found with a collection of treasures seized in Copenhagen. The lavaliere is pink topaz, with gold filigree embellishments. The chain and clasp are original. It was made by a Finnish designer by the name of August Holmstrom. He was the principal jeweler for the house of Fabergé.”

  Miss Winther’s eyebrows lifted. “The Fabergé?”

  “The very one.” Taking out her loupe, Tess pointed out a tiny spot on the piece. “This is Holmstrom’s hallmark, right here, his initials between a double-headed Imperial eagle. He designed it specifically to foil counterfeiters. This particular piece was first mentioned in his design catalog of 1916 and produced for a fashionable shop in St. Petersburg. It was bought by a member of the Danish diplomatic corps.”

  “My father. He brought the necklace home from a business trip to Russia, and my mother was seldom without it. Besides her wedding ring, it was her favorite piece of jewelry. He gave it to her to celebrate my birth. Though she never said so, I suspect she couldn’t have more children after me.” Her eyes took on a faraway look, and Tess wondered what she was seeing—her handsome father? Her mother, wearing the jewel against her heart?

  The stories behind the treasures were always so intriguing, though often bittersweet. The sad ones were particularly hard to bear. There were some cruelties that were simply inconceivable to normal people, some injustices too big to grasp. Miss Winther must have been tiny when her world was ripped apart. How scared she must have been, how confused.

  “I wish I could do more than simply restore this object,” said Tess. “It wound up with a number of other pieces in a repository in the basement of an abandoned government building. I spent the past year researching the archives. The Gestapo claimed they kept objects for safekeeping. It was a common ploy. The one helpful thing they did was to keep meticulous records of the things they seized.”

  Here was where things got dicey. How much information did Miss Winther really need? Did she have to know what had likely happened to her parents?

  There were facts Tess had no intention of sharing, such as the evidence that Hilde Winther had been seized without authority by a corrupt officer, and probably treated like a sex slave for months before she was put to death. This was the trouble with uncovering the mysteries of the past. Sometimes you ended up discovering things better left buried. Was it preferable to expose the truth at any cost or to protect someone from troubling matters they had no power to change?

  “This piece was taken from your mother after she was arrested on suspicion of hiding spies, saboteurs and resistance fighters at Bispebjerg Hospital. According to the arrest report, she was accused of pretending her patients were extremely ill, and she would tend to them until they conveniently disappeared.”

  Miss Winther caught her breath, then nodded. “That sounds like Mama. She was so very brave. She told me she was a hospital volunteer, but I always knew she was doing something important.” Behind her spectacles, the old lady’s eyes took on a cold glaze of anger. “My mother was dragged away on a beautiful spring afternoon while I watched.”

  Tess felt an unbidden shudder of sympathy for the little girl Miss Winther had once been. “I’m so sorry. No child should have to witness that.”

  Miss Winther held out the necklace, the facets of the large pink topaz catching the light. “Could you...put it on me?” she asked.

  “Of course.” Tess came around behind her and fastened the clasp of the necklace, feeling the old woman’s delicate bone structure. Her hair smelled of lavender, and her dress under the pink shawl was threadbare and faded. Tess felt a surge of emotion. This find was going to change Miss Winther’s life. In a single transaction, the old woman could find herself living in the lap of luxury.

  Miss Winther reached up, cradling the jewel between her palms. “She was wearing it that day. Even as they were taking her away, she ordered me to run for my life, and that is just what I did. I was very lucky in that moment, or perhaps there had been a tip-off. A boy who was with the Holger Danske—the Danish resistance—spirited me to safety. Such a hero he was, like the Scarlet Pimpernel in the French Revolution, only he was quite real. I wouldn’t be here today if not for him. None of us would.”

  None of us...? Tess wondered who she was referring to. Ghosts from the woman’s sad past, probably. She didn’t ask, though; she had other appointments on her schedule and couldn’t spare the time. And knowing the human cost of the tragedy made Tess feel vulnerable. Still, she was taken by the old lady’s sweetness and the air of nostalgia that softened her features when she touched the reclaimed treasure around her neck.

  We’re both all alone, we two, thought Tess. Had Miss Winther always been alone? Will I always be?

  “Well, I’m certainly glad you’re here.” The old lady’s smile was soft and strangely intimate.

  “This is the appraisal on the piece. I think you’ll be very pleased.”

  The old lady stared at the document. “It says my mother’s lavaliere is worth $800,000.”

  “It’s an estimate. Depending on how the bidding goes, it could vary by about ten percent up or down.”

  Miss Winther fanned herself. “That’s a fortune,” she said. “It’s more money than I ever dreamed of having.”

  “And not nearly enough to replace your loss, but it’s quite a find. I’m really happy for you.” Tess felt a glow of accomplishment and pleasure for Miss Winther. In her frayed sh
awl, surrounded by old things, she didn’t look like a wealthy woman, but soon, she would be.

  All the painstaking work of restitution had led to this moment. Tess spread a multipage contract on the table. “Here’s the agreement with Sheffield Auction House, my firm. It’s standard, but you’ll want to go over it with a contracts expert.”

  A timer dinged, and Miss Winther got up from the table. “The scones are ready. My favorites—I make them with lavender sugar. It’s an old Danish recipe for autumn. You sit tight, dear, and I’ll fix the tea.”

  Tess pressed her teeth together and tried not to seem impatient, though she had more appointments and work to do at the office. Honestly, she didn’t want a scone, with or without lavender sugar. She didn’t want tea. Coffee and a cigarette were more to her taste and definitely more suited to the pace of her life. She’d been running since she’d rocketed out of grad school five years before, and she was in a hurry now. The quicker she brought the signed agreement to her firm, the quicker she earned her bonus and could move on to the next transaction.

  However, the nature of her profession often called for forbearance. People became attached to their things, and sometimes letting go took time. Miss Winther had gone to a lot of trouble to make scones. Knowing what she knew about the Winther family, Tess wondered what the woman felt when she reminisced about the old days—fear and privation? Or happier times, when her family had been intact?

  As she bustled around her old-fashioned kitchen, Miss Winther would pause every so often in front of a little framed mirror by the door, gazing at the necklace with a faraway look in her eyes. Tess wondered what she saw there—her pretty, adored mother? An innocent girl who had no idea her entire world was about to be snatched away?

  “Tell me about what you do,” Miss Winther urged her, pouring tea into a pair of china cups. “I would love to hear about your life.”

  “I guess you could say finding treasure is in my blood.”

  Miss Winther gave a soft gasp, as though Tess’s statement surprised her. “Really?”

  “My mother is a museum acquisitions expert. My grandmother had an antiques salon in Dublin.”

  “So you come from a line of independent women.”

  Nicely put, thought Tess. Her gaze skated away. She wasn’t one to chat up a client for the sake of making a deal, but she genuinely liked Miss Winther, perhaps because the woman seemed truly interested in her. “Neither my mother nor my grandmother ever married,” she explained. “I’ll probably carry on that tradition, as well. My life is too busy for a serious relationship.” Gah, Tess, listen to yourself, she thought. Say it often enough and you’ll believe it.

  “Well. I suspect that’s only because the right person hasn’t come along...yet. Pretty girl like you, with all that gorgeous red hair. I’m surprised some man hasn’t swept you off your feet.”

  Tess shook her head. “My feet are planted firmly on the ground.”

  “I never married, either.” A wistful expression misted her eyes. “I was in love with a man right after the war, but he married someone else.” She paused to admire the stone once again. “It must be so exciting, the work of a treasure hunter.”

  “It takes a lot of research, which most people would find tedious. So many dead ends and disappointments,” said Tess. “Most of my time is spent combing archives and old records and catalogs. It can be frustrating. But so worthwhile when I get to make a restitution like this. And every once in a great while, I might find myself peeling away a worthless canvas to find a Vermeer beneath. Or unearthing a fortune under a shepherd’s hut in a field somewhere. Sometimes it’s a bit macabre. The plunder might be stashed in a casket.”

  Miss Winther shuddered. “That’s ghoulish.”

  “When people have something to hide, they tend to put it where no one would want to look. Your piece wasn’t stored in a dramatic hiding place. It was tagged and neatly cataloged, along with dozens of other illegally seized pieces.”

  Miss Winther arranged the scones just so with a crisp linen napkin in a basket, and brought them to the table.

  Tess took a warm scone, just to be polite.

  “It sounds as though you like your work,” Miss Winther said.

  “Very much. It’s everything to me.” As she said the words aloud, Tess felt a wave of excitement. The business was fast-paced and unpredictable, and each day might bring an adrenaline rush—or crushing disappointment. Tess was having a banner year; her accomplishments were bringing her closer to the things she craved like air and water—recognition and security.

  “That sounds just wonderful. I’m certain you’ll get exactly what you’re looking for.”

  “In this business, I’m not always sure what that is.” Tess sneaked another glance at the clock on the stove.

  Miss Winther noticed. “You have time to finish your tea.”

  Tess smiled, liking this woman almost in spite of herself. “All right. Would you like me to leave the contract with you or—”

  “That’s not necessary,” the old lady said, touching the faceted pink topaz. “I won’t be selling this.”

  Tess blinked, shook her head a little. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “My mother’s lavaliere.” She pressed the piece against her bosom. “It’s not for sale.”

  Tess’s heart plummeted. “With this piece, you could have total security for the rest of your life.”

  “Every last shred of security was stripped from me forever by the Nazis,” Miss Winther pointed out. “And yet I survived. You’ve given me back my mother’s favorite thing.”

  “As you say, it’s a thing. An object you could turn into comfort and peace of mind for the rest of your days.”

  “I’m comfortable and secure now. And if you don’t believe memories are worth more than money, then perhaps you’ve not made the right kind of memories.” She regarded Tess with knowing sympathy.

  Tess tried not to dwell on all the hours she’d spent combing through records and poring over research in order to make the restitution. If she thought about it too much, she’d probably tear out her hair in frustration. She tended to protect herself from memories, because memories made a person vulnerable.

  “You must think I’m being a sentimental old fool.” Miss Winther nodded. “I am. It’s a privilege of old age. I have no debt, no responsibilities. Just me and the cats. We like our life exactly as it is.”

  Tess took a sip of strong tea, nearly wincing at its bitterness.

  “Oh! The sugar bowl. I forgot,” said Miss Winther. “It’s in the pantry, dear. Would you mind getting it?”

  The pantry contained a collection of dusty cans and jars, its walls and shelves cluttered with collectibles, many of them still bearing handwritten garage sale stickers.

  “It’s just to the right there,” said Miss Winther. “On the spice shelf.”

  Tess picked up the small, footed bowl. Almost instantly, a tingle of awareness passed through her. One of the first things she’d learned in her profession was to tune into something known as the “heft” or “feel” of the piece. Something that was real and authentic simply had more substance than a fake or knockoff.

  She set the tarnished bowl on the table and tried to keep a poker face as she studied the object. The sweep of the handles and the effortless swell of the bowl were unmistakable. Even the smoky streaks of age couldn’t conceal the fact that the piece was sterling, not plate.

  “Tell me about this sugar bowl,” she said, using the small tongs to pick up a cube. Sugar tongs. They were even more rare than the bowl.

  “It’s handsome, isn’t it?” Miss Winther said. “But the very devil to keep clean. I was not in a terribly practical frame of mind when I picked it up at a church rummage sale long ago. It’s been decades. Rummage sales have always been a weakness of mine. I’m afraid I’ve brought home any number of bright, pretty things that just happened to catch my eye. Once I get something home, though, it’s anyone’s guess whether or not I’ll actually use it.”

&nbs
p; “This is quite a find,” Tess said, holding it up to check the bottom, and seeing the expected hallmark there.

  “In what way?”

  Could she really not know? “Miss Winther, this bowl is a Tiffany, and it appears to be genuine.”

  “Goodness, you don’t say.”

  “There’s a style known as the Empire set, very rare, produced in a limited edition. I’d have to do more research, but my sense is, this could be extremely valuable.” Not that it would matter to the old lady, who preferred her artifacts to cash. “It’s a lovely piece, regardless,” Tess conceded.

  “What a surprising aspect of your job,” Miss Winther said, clasping her hands in delight. “Sometimes you stumble across a treasure when you’re looking for something else entirely.”

  Tess watched the sugar cube dissolve in her cup. “It keeps my job interesting.”

  “Tell me, is this something your firm would sell?” asked Miss Winther.

  “It’s possible, though even with the sugar tongs, a single piece—”

  “I didn’t mean just the bowl. I meant the entire set.”

  Tess dropped her spoon on the table with a clatter. “There’s a set?”

  Two

  Seated at a view table in San Francisco’s best bar, Tess was drinking a dirty martini, salty with olive brine. The olives were the closest thing she’d have to dinner. As always, she had worked right up until happy hour.

  She worked. That was who she was and what she did with herself. She worked...and she counted herself lucky to have a job she loved. Yet meeting Miss Winther, seeing the old lady all alone with her cats, had unsettled Tess. The encounter tapped into her most secret fear—that she would go through life alone and end up surrounded by treasures with no one to share them with. Working kept her from thinking too hard about how alone she was.