The Apple Orchard

by Susan Wiggs

  A Condition.

  Five

  In the bleak light of the emergency room, Tess put herself back together as best she could. A nurse came into the curtain area with some forms and more literature. His gaze took in her scattered belongings, the now-quiet monitors. She didn’t bother trying to find a mirror; she knew without looking what she’d see—a wrung-out woman with donut powder on her clothes, bed-head and no makeup. Who wanted to see that?

  “Is someone coming for you?” asked the nurse.

  “What, for me?” Tess frowned. “Nope, don’t think so.” Jude had come along with that guy, with...Dominic. She hadn’t seen either of them since she’d been wheeled into the curtain area next to a guy with matted hair, raving about the apocalypse.

  “Maybe you could call someone,” the nurse suggested.

  “A taxi,” she said. “That’s all I need.”

  He regarded her for a second, then drew the curtain aside. “Good luck. Call if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.” She felt slightly dazed, or maybe disoriented. In the waiting area, anxious people sat in molded plastic chairs or paced the tiled floor, clearly anxious for news of their loved ones. A quick scan confirmed that neither Jude nor Dominic had stuck around.

  On the one hand, it was a relief to get out of this place. Yet on the other hand, she couldn’t deny the fact that it was kind of depressing, having no one to bring her home from the ER.

  Shouldering her heavy bag, she looked for the exit, feeling resolute. She didn’t need anyone. She needed a cigarette in the worst way.

  No more smoking. That was in bold type on the doctor’s list.

  The hell with him. She was going to find a convenience store. She was going to buy a pack of the nastiest cigarettes she could find and—

  “Everything all right?” Dominic Rossi appeared before her. His coat was unbuttoned, his hair mussed, as though he’d run his hands through it repeatedly.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Why would you wait for me?”

  He regarded her with complete incomprehension. “I brought you here. I’m not about to ditch you.”

  She was startled to hear this from a complete stranger. Even Jude had taken off when it was clear she wasn’t knocking on heaven’s door.

  “Oh. Well, okay, then. I’m supposed to pick up something from the hospital pharmacy.”

  “It’s this way.” He gestured down a gleaming corridor. “I’ll wait here.”

  “You don’t—”

  “But I will,” he stated simply.

  Surrender, Tess, she told herself. For once in your life, let somebody help you. “Be right back,” she mumbled, and went to the pharmacy counter. A few minutes later, laden with more literature and pamphlets, she rejoined Dominic in the hospital lobby. It was hard to believe that only a short time ago, her heart was beating out of her chest. Seeing only concern in his eyes, she felt obligated to explain herself to him. “So it turns out I wasn’t on the verge of dying. I don’t know what came over me. Or rather, I suppose now I do. The doctor says I had a panic attack. I just thought it was an adrenaline rush. But it turns out it’s some kind of...disorder. How embarrassing.”

  “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “I totally overreacted. I feel like a hypochondriac.”

  “Those symptoms looked pretty real to me.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Is beating up on yourself part of your therapy?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then go easy on yourself.”

  It was odd—and a little depressing—to find compassion from a virtual stranger. Odder still that she found his words comforting. “That’s what the doctor said. He said a lot of things, like I’m supposed to learn what my triggers are, like what caused the symptoms, and try to avoid them.”

  “And this was triggered by...?”

  “By you, in case you hadn’t noticed. Therefore, you are to be avoided,” she concluded. Yes, that felt right. Wildly attractive guys tended to cause trouble—in her experience, anyway. “It’s not every day someone tells me the grandfather I’ve never known is in a coma, and on top of that, there’s a sister I had no idea existed.”

  “Sorry. I thought you knew about Isabel.”

  Isabel. She tried to get her mind around the idea of this whole hidden family, people she might have known in her life, if she’d been let in. Questions came in waves—how much of this did her mother know? Did these people know about Tess? “So I’ve just got the one sister?”

  “That’s right.”

  Isabel. What kind of name was that? The name of the favored child, raised in the sun-warmed luxury of a California estate, basking in her family’s adoration. Tess felt a quiver of anxiety. Apparently she and the sister shared the same father. Erik Johansen had been a busy dude before he died.

  “And she knows about me.”

  “Yes. She’s eager to meet you.”

  I’ll just bet she is. “Are you the one who told her?”

  He hesitated for a single beat of the heart. “The doctors advised Isabel to make sure Magnus’s affairs were in order. She found a copy of the will.”

  “So I’m guessing...she was surprised.” Tess found a sign for the exit and made a beeline for it. “I bet she didn’t freak out like I just did.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then how did she react? What did she say?”

  “She baked a pear and ginger tart,” he said. “It was epic.”

  Tess could still barely get her mind around the notion that she had a sister. A blood relative. She tried to imagine what such a person might look like, sound like, yet no image would form. All she could picture was a woman making a tart. “So what is she, a compulsive baker?”

  “She’s an incredible cook.”

  “Is that what she does for a living?”

  “The exit’s over here,” he said, and she wondered if he’d deliberately ignored her question. He led her to an automatic revolving door, and she crowded into the space with him, breathing a sigh of relief as they escaped together.

  “I feel better already,” Tess said. “Not a fan of hospitals.”

  “When you need one, you need one.”

  There was something in his tone. She wondered what his experience with hospitals was. She was filled with questions about him but stopped herself from asking. “I don’t intend to make a habit of falling apart for no reason. According to the people here, I’m supposed to find a physician and make lifestyle changes.”

  She patted her giant bag. “It’s all in this brochure about my condition. Shoot. I hate having a condition.” She started walking across the street.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To work. I’ve got a zillion things to do.”

  “I told your colleague...that guy...”

  “Jude.” Jude the Disloyal.

  “I said he should let everyone know you wouldn’t be back today.”

  She felt a flash of...something. Annoyance? Or was it relief?

  “I am going back to the office. There’s no way I can miss this meeting—”

  “It’s been canceled. Your assistant asked me to let you know.”

  “What? You canceled my meeting?”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  She pawed through her bag until she found a phone. Sure enough, there was a text from the office, informing her of the cancellation. Her heart flipped over. Had Mr. Sheffield canceled the meeting because she’d stood him up? Should she call Brooks and ask? No, there was probably enough gossip and speculation about her already.

  “Now I need a coffee,” she said, then eyed him defiantly. “And a cigarette.”

  “Just what the doctor ordered?”

  She bridled. “You’re probably one of those Mr. Healthier-Than-Thou types, aren’t you?”

  “Just your average non-smoker.” He took her arm, steered her into a coffee shop. “Have a seat. I’ll be
right back.”

  She tried to resent him for looking after her, but he’d been nothing but kind to her. None of this was his fault. She sat at a small round corner table and took out the information packet from the doctor. What a day. A crazy, terrible day.

  Dominic returned with a large, steaming mug, which she gratefully accepted. As the scent wafted to her, she frowned, wrinkling her nose.

  “Herbal tea,” he said.

  “It smells like grass clippings.”

  She sniffed again, ventured a small sip. “Yikes, that’s foul. I’d rather drink cleaning fluid.”

  “It’s supposed to be good for the nerves.” He showed her the menu description: lavender, chamomile, Saint-John’s-wort, Valerian.

  “Witch’s brew,” she said, and gave a shudder. “My nerves are fine.”

  He said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes. She found herself focusing on his hands—large and strong-looking, a big multifunction watch strapped to one wrist. Discomfited to feel yet another nudge of attraction, she added, “Anyway, I’m going to be fine. I have a whole program here.” She showed him the information packet from the doctor. “Go ahead, take a look. After the ER, everybody in earshot knows all my secrets.”

  “Says here the effects of untreated anxiety can be harmful, not to mention unpleasant.”

  She shuddered, remembering the blinding sense of panic. “And people go to medical school for years to figure that out.” She looked across the table, seeing compassion in his eyes. “Sorry. I doubt whining is helpful.”

  “After this morning, you’re entitled to whine. A little.” He consulted the booklet she’d been given. “The good news is, there’s plenty you can do. Step One: breathing exercises.”

  “Okay, if there’s one thing I could do without practicing, it’s breathing. Hell, I was born knowing how to do that.”

  “Breathing exercises are done lying down.” He showed her a series of diagrams.

  “Otherwise known as sleeping.”

  “Meditation is recommended. I don’t suppose you meditate.”

  “How did you guess?”

  He consulted the checklist again. “Yoga?”

  “Noga.”

  “Regular exercise of any kind?”

  She scowled at him. “Running through airports. Power shopping.”

  “‘Cognitive behavioral therapy,’” he read from the list.

  She chuckled. “Every day. Doesn’t it show?”

  “Sense of humor,” he said. “That’s not on the list, but it can’t hurt.”

  She inadvertently took a sip of her tea and nearly gagged. “This stuff can’t possibly be on the list.”

  “Here you go—foods to avoid.” He turned the page toward her.

  “Let me guess—refined sugars, alcohol, caffeine....”

  “Good guess.”

  “Those are my major food groups.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not going to do any of that stuff. It’s just not me.”

  “Look, I don’t know you,” he said. “But I’m going to take a wild guess—if you do what the doctors say, it might help.”

  She heard an inner echo of the doctor’s dire warning about her blood pressure and stress on her heart. You’re too young to put yourself at risk. You need to take it easy.... Parking her elbows on the table, she regarded him through eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do I get the feeling you’re experienced with doctors and hospitals?”

  He shrugged. “Must be your uncanny insight. Here.” He placed the information in front of her. “Start small. Pick one thing on the list and commit to it.”

  His baritone voice and whiskey-brown eyes drew her in, more persuasive by far than the geeky resident in the ER. Dominic Rossi. Who had a right to be that good-looking? It almost distracted her from the fact that he hadn’t answered her question about doctors and hospitals.

  “So much to choose from,” she said with exaggerated drama, perusing the list. Diet, lifestyle, breathing, yoga, cardio... “Tell you what. You pick one.” She pushed the notes back at him.

  “You mean I get to pick something, and you’ll do it?”

  She folded her arms on the table and regarded him steadily. “I’m a woman of my word.”

  “Excellent. Quit smoking.”

  “I love smoking.”

  “You’re a woman of your word. And excuse me for saying this, but you are way too beautiful to smoke.”

  His words had a ridiculous effect on her. “Wow. You are good.”

  When they left the coffee shop, he asked, “Shall I call you a cab?”

  “No, thanks. I can walk from here. The walk’ll do me good, right?” She still felt unsettled by the crazy day.

  “I’ll walk with you. Make sure you get home okay.”

  “It’s not necessary. I know my way around. Besides, don’t you have something to do? Like...banking?”

  “I have backup.”

  She adjusted the strap of her handbag. “Suit yourself. You’re not, like, an ax murderer or anything, right?”

  “Not an ax murderer.”

  “Cool.” They walked along through the rushing traffic, along Hyde Street, the shop windows flashing their reflection. The two of them looked like a couple, she caught herself thinking. He was in his thirties, she guessed. Tall and good-looking, he moved with a certain confidence that garnered glances from passing women and even a few guys.

  “You all right?” Dominic asked.

  “Fine.”

  “You were looking at me funny.”

  “I was just wondering what he’s like,” she said, her gaze skirting away. “Magnus Johansen, I mean.”

  “Kind,” Dominic said immediately. “Steady. He takes care of people. Any of his friends and neighbors would tell you that.”

  “And how do you know him?”

  “I barely remember a time when I didn’t know him. My parents emigrated to the United States from Italy. They were seasonal workers when they first arrived in Archangel, and Magnus gave them a place to stay.”

  Migrant workers, she thought. His parents had been migrant workers. Suddenly she had to rearrange her image of Dominic Rossi as a spoiled, overprivileged finance major. “So Bella Vista is a working farm?”

  “Orchards,” he said. “Best apples in the county. I met Magnus when I was maybe seven or eight years old, when he caught me working at Bella Vista.”

  “What do you mean, he caught you?”

  “He didn’t want to be in violation of child labor laws. Anyway, to make a long story short, he took my sister and me under his wing. Helped us with everything from our parents’ green cards to getting us into college.”

  “My grandfather sounds like a saint.” She turned into her neighborhood of brickwork sidewalks lined with wrought iron fences and trees with their leaves just beginning to turn dry and crisp around the edges.

  “I don’t know about sainthood. When you come to see him—”

  Her heart surged, a frightening reminder of the trauma that had landed her in the ER. “I’m not going. This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Sorry to argue, but it’s got plenty to do with you.”

  “Am I expected to just drop everything and go haring off to Archangel to do what? There’s nothing for me to do. And if there was, he’s got another granddaughter. Did Isabel...? Does she live with her grandfather?”

  “Yep. She grew up at Bella Vista. Magnus and Eva—his late wife—raised her.”

  “Then Magnus doesn’t need me,” Tess said, feeling a strange sense of hurt swirl through her like poisoned tendrils. “Seriously, this situation is awful, but I simply can’t get involved.”

  “I understand. It’s a lot to digest.” He had the most amazing eyes. She felt an urge to keep talking to him, but she had no business doing that. “Here’s my number.” He handed her a card. “Call me if you change your mind.”

  * * *

  “Her name is Isabel,” Tess said to her mother’s voice mail. “Did you know I had a sister? Not to mention a gr
andfather? And if you did, why the hell did you never bother to tell me? For Pete’s sake, Mom, call me the minute you get this message. I don’t care what time it is. Just call me.”

  Tess set the phone aside and looked around her apartment, filled with her old things, Nana’s desk in the middle like a slumbering giant. Was it only this morning she had put herself together, racing into work to meet Mr. Sheffield? She felt as though she’d been away on a long trip.

  Although the doctor’s orders were for her to relax, she had paced up and down, worried and fretted. She’d searched Dominic on Google, as well as Isabel, Magnus, everyone he’d mentioned, to no avail, uncovering only frustrating bits and pieces about them, nothing helpful. There were things only her mother could answer. Her mother had never been good about answering hard questions.

  The phone rang and she leaped for it, but the call was from Neelie. “I’m coming over,” she said without preamble.

  “But I don’t need—”

  “Too late. I’m here.”

  Tess heard the downstairs door buzz—Neelie knew the code—and footsteps on the stairs. Tess held the door open. “Hey, you.”

  Neelie brandished a large shopping bag from the local gourmet deli. “I’ve got chicken soup, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  “Bless you. I was just about to nuke a frozen burrito.”

  Neelie clucked her tongue and busied herself in the kitchen. “Jude said you went to the ER. What the hell is that about?”

  Thank you, Jude, thought Tess. “I’m fine.”

  “I knew you’d say that. But no healthy twenty-nine-year-old goes to the ER. Tell me everything.”

  Tess felt a small measure of relief, telling Neelie about her day. Neelie was her heart friend, someone who listened without judgment. She made all the appropriate oohs and aahs as Tess described the meeting with Dominic Rossi and the stunning news he’d delivered.

  “Wait a minute, so this grandfather—this guy you’ve never heard of—is about to kick the bucket, and he’s leaving you his estate in Sonoma County.”

  “Half his estate. Apparently I have a sister.”