by Sarina Bowen
Saturday dawned sunny, promising great weather and a whole lot of tourists.
I left Audrey snoozing in bed after setting her phone alarm for eight o’clock. Then I went home to prepare for the onslaught.
First up—loading the truck for the Norwich market. When that was done, May—returned from her trip to Boston—and Zach drove off together. I was sticking close today to keep an eye on Mom, who was quite put out by her injury.
She’d insisted on scrambling a big batch of eggs for breakfast, which she did with a crutch in one hand and a spatula in the other. After we ate, I set up a table outside the cider house and put the cash register there. Usually we put it on the tasting counter, but I knew she wouldn’t stay seated if I left it there.
By a quarter to nine everything was ready. There were pumpkins piled high—those were grown by the Abrahams down the road at Apostate Farm. It wasn’t just apples and cider that brought tourists to the orchard on a late August Saturday. They came for an experience, and we did our best to provide one.
Mom was in her seat, counting out change as the first cars pulled up, families sliding out of minivans, ready to pick Paula Reds and Ginger Golds. I became distracted by a pair of shapely legs unfolding from a rental car. When Audrey showed her face, she was smiling as brightly as the late summer sun. Damn, my farm looked better with her on it.
“Morning!” she called, swinging her purse.
I met her in the driveway and stole a kiss. She tasted like toothpaste and happiness. “Mmm,” I said, wishing there were time for more of those. “Did you sleep well this morning after I left?”
She blinked up at me as we drifted toward the cider house. “Sure. But what’s the fun in that?”
No kidding.
“Oh, horses!”
Indeed, Dylan and Daphne were arguing feverishly in the driver’s seat of Abraham’s horse cart. They couldn’t decide who would take the first shift driving lazy people the quarter mile through the orchard to the Ginger Gold.
“No,” Daphne said, “we have to switch every hour.”
“That’s ridiculous,” my brother argued. “Stop being such a little bitch about it.”
Meanwhile, the two Percheron horses looked bored. One of them stretched his great neck down to sniff the hem of Audrey’s skirt. She leapt out of the way. “Jeez. You’re a little fresh, aren’t you?”
I shoved the horse’s nose out of the way, but I couldn’t say I blamed him. “Kids, you’re switching drivers every ninety minutes. Dylan goes first, and he’s done at ten-thirty. End of discussion.”
“What?” Daphne argued. “Ninety minutes is forever when you’re driving this thing.”
“Don’t run over any customers,” I added, turning my back to her. “Come on, Audrey.”
She skipped along beside me. Cutest thing ever. “How much should I charge for a bottle of cider?”
“You don’t have to take the money, Mom is doing that. But it’s fourteen bucks if anyone asks.”
“A bargain at any price!” she crowed. “This is going to be fun. I hope some people come inside to taste.”
“Oh they will. You’ll be slammed.”
She gave me a shove. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls. What if there are people who just want to stand there and drink for free?”
“Well…” We reached the door of the cider house where I found Mom standing up without her crutches. “Sit down already!” I barked. “Are you trying to make me crazy?”
Mom gave me a glare. “I can’t sit all day. Who does that?”
“Plenty of people. I’d like to try it myself sometime. Would you please get off that ankle?”
Mom sat down and reached for Audrey’s hand. “Nice to see you, sweetie. Thanks for helping out today.”
“My pleasure.” Audrey smiled. “I always wanted to run a lemonade stand, but my mother thought it was low class.” She rolled her eyes. “This is even better!”
“I’m right out here if you need anything,” Mom said. “Griff will probably tie me to this chair, so I won’t be hard to find.”
“Good to know!” Audrey said brightly. “Come on, Griff. Do I get a uniform?”
“A uniform?” I laughed, and my evil brain served up an image of Audrey dressed in a tiny French maid’s costume. “Just your smile, baby. That’s all you need. The cups are over here. There are two different sizes. I don’t care which ones you use up first. But if you use the big ones, don’t fill ’em to the top.”
“Well, duh! I’m not going to give away the store.” She picked up two different cups and examined them. “The wider mouth will make for a better bouquet. But filling the smaller one to the top might look more generous…”
I opened the cooler and took out four bottles—one of each of the current lineup. “You’ll go through a bunch, but here’s your first batch. Have fun. Chat ’em up. That’s the whole job. And somebody will bring you lunch or relieve you so you can grab some.”
She spread her hands on the countertop. “I got this. Go chop some wood or whatever it is Farmer Griff does on a Saturday.”
“Run around like a crazy man,” I said. “And chase people away from my cider apples. Doesn’t matter how big I make the signs, some numbnut always tries to pick my heirlooms.”
“Those assholes. Do you shoot ’em or just go all Grumpy Griff on their asses?”
Now she was just teasing me. “Hang tight, princess.” I leaned over the counter and snuck another kiss, while she looked at me through wide, silver eyes. “Bye for now.”
“Bye,” she whispered.
I went outside whistling to myself.
All morning a steady stream of cars arrived at the farm. They parked everywhere along our driveway, and when those spaces were taken, they parked on the main road and walked up. Dylan and Daphne made dozens of trips with the cart into the orchard. And mom’s cash register said “cha-ching” over and over as people cashed out their pickings.
Whenever I passed the cider house I could hear Audrey’s laugh, and I wanted in on the joke. No—I wanted a lifetime of having that laugh nearby. Anyone who heard me say that aloud would probably be stunned. I wasn’t exactly famous for long-lasting relationships. But Audrey was under my skin. And she had been since the first time I saw her wander into my frat house in Boston.
You just want me for the sex. Ever since she’d said that a week ago, it had bothered me. I’d started wondering what might have happened if I’d handled the situation differently way back at BU. I’d acted like a punk, or at least a dumb kid, which I had been at the time. If I’d tried to be a better friend instead of just taking her to bed, would we have started a real relationship?
She might have been mine for real.
I was busy thinking about this when I saw a woman in a suit marching up the drive. There were probably thirty customers in view at the moment, but this woman stood out. In the first place, nobody had worn high heels in our gravel driveway since May went to her senior prom five years ago. But the woman also looked grim. That was unfortunate for a sunny day in a gorgeous (if I do say so myself) orchard.
She also looked a lot like Audrey. She had the same shiny hair and beautiful cheekbones. But her expression was hard in a way that I’d never seen on Audrey’s face.
I found myself following her toward the cider house door where my mother sat. I didn’t hear their exchange, but my mother sat up straighter and pointed into the cider house.
By the time I got to the doorway, the woman was yelling. Loudly.
“—a week ago!” she was screeching. “They were waiting for your résumé, young lady. You made me look like a fool!”
“I did no such thing!” Audrey yelped. “I never asked you to put my name down for that job. Or any job. I don’t want your help!”
Customers were scattering. I had to move out of their way before I could step inside. “Is there a problem here?” I asked, holding Audrey’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice low. “My mother drove all
the way here to yell at me. But we can take it outside.”
“No need,” I said, getting closer, bracing my hip against the tasting counter. I faced her so-called mother. “Unless you came here to taste the cider, could you kindly knock it off? Audrey’s busy right now.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Audrey
Griff’s words were calm enough. You’d have to know him as well as I did to see the tense set of his burly shoulders as he studied my mother.
She looked equally explosive. Studying Griff, her lip curled. “Audrey, this is not a job. Someone with your talents should not be hawking cider in a barn.” Her eyes cut my way. “Get in the car. You’re coming home to Boston.”
I had never been so embarrassed in my life.
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “NO! I have a job, okay? A real one at BPG. I’m told you’re familiar with the place?”
My mother’s head jerked back in surprise.
But I kept on swinging. “This”—I spread my arms—“is something I’m doing for fun, and to help people who are good to me. They’re nice. They even like me. I know that’s unfathomable to you, but it’s true. Don’t waste your time. You can’t make me take a job I don’t want. And you just squandered your Saturday to drive up here and make me miserable. Great ROI, Mom. Well done. How will you write off those wasted hours on your spreadsheet, now?”
My mother opened her mouth and then closed it again. Apparently she’d imagined this discussion going quite differently. “Look. I’ll give you back your credit card,” she sputtered. “Just apply for this position at—”
“No. No. NO! You need to understand something.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, I think it was the first time I’d understood it, too. “I would rather wash dishes and live in squalor than go back to letting you criticize all my choices. I am done with that, mother. Just done! You can stop with the emails that remind me to have my teeth cleaned, or tell me to set my clocks ahead for daylight savings. You don’t get to cut me off and also boss me around. It doesn’t work that way!”
The shrieky sound of my voice echoed off the cider tanks, and silence fell again. I could see Griff’s mother peering through the door and Jude, too. My heart was pounding and I was beginning to sweat. I never meant to have a knock-down-drag-out in front of the Shipley clan. But this little eruption had been a long time coming.
“W-well,” my mother stammered, straightening her blazer. “That’s foolish. You’re foolish. But I obviously can’t get that through your head.”
“Then stop trying!” I said, lowering my voice. “Because I’m happier since the day I stopped wasting so much energy trying to please you.” My mother’s body gave another little jerk of shock. An awful silence descended on the cider house.
That’s when I ran out of steam. Telling my mother to fuck off really took it out of me.
I put a shaky hand on the growler in front of me and poured a serving. I was so stressed out I considered chugging the stuff. “Would you like a sample?” I asked my mother. “It’s organic, and it’s about to sweep Boston off its feet.”
She eyed the cup as if it were a venomous snake. “No thank you.” Giving me one last laser glare, she turned on her heel and stepped toward the door. She was leaving.
That’s what I’d told her to do, of course. But if I were honest, the sight of her turning her back on me hurt. A lot.
“Nice to see you too, Mom,” I whispered. I meant it as a zinger, but it came out sounding sad.
My mother put one hand on the doorjamb. I saw her hesitate.
I was sure of it.
But she walked outside and disappeared.
Mom’s little visit was a major buzzkill. I was embarrassed and depressed, and everyone knew it.
That night Griffin took me out to the Whippi Dip, where we ate our weight in hot fudge sundaes. Then we went to the Goat, where Zara made me what she called “my Chase Your Blues Away Margarita.”
“Want to talk about it?” Griff asked as we enjoyed our drinks from the same side of a booth.
“Nope,” I said cheerfully. “There isn’t much to say. She doesn’t get me. She never will.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered in my ear. “The rest of us get you. You’re not that tricky to understand.”
Aw. I gave him a grateful kiss. “I know, right? I’m trying to make it as a chef, not a pornographer. Why can’t she just be happy?”
He shook his ridiculously handsome head. I felt like climbing into his lap and rubbing my face all over his beard. But people would stare, and I’d already caused a scene today.
Damn my mother. She got under my skin. “You know what’s stupid?” I asked suddenly.
“What’s that, princess?”
“Sometimes I picture myself winning the Green Light Project at BPG. And in my head, she’s the first person I tell.” Griff’s eyes went all soft and sympathetic. “Today I said I’d stopped trying to please her. But it wasn’t even true! I can’t stop wishing for her approval even though I don’t value it very highly. I mean—this is a woman who learned to play golf only so she could do business on the weekends, too.”
“That way lies the dark side.”
“And she orders wine spritzers un-ironically.”
“Wow.”
“I know.” I put my head on his shoulder. The beard tickled my cheekbone. So I wiggled a little to feel more of it. It was only a little weird. I’m pretty sure.
“Do me a favor, princess?”
“Yeah?” I mumbled into his neck.
“If you win the competition in Boston, will you tell me first, instead of her?”
I raised my head and blinked at Griffin. “Okay?”
“Thank you.” He palmed my head and put it down on his shoulder again. And it was the highlight of my shitty day.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Griffin
Aside from Audrey’s mom showing up to be a jerkwad, it was a great season. Summer turned slowly into fall. The leaves colored on the trees. The twins went back to high school and May started law classes again. And when Mom’s doctor said she could begin to put some weight on her ankle, I thought everything was looking up.
I was wrong, though, because the next day Audrey was recalled by the imperial forces to Boston.
As if this weren’t bad enough, Audrey didn’t seem to take it very hard. In fact, I only found out about it when I called to ask her out to dinner.
“I can’t,” she’d said quietly. “I’m on my way back to the city. They’ve given me a five a.m. shift on the line at Bostonian Bakery for tomorrow morning.”
It took a second to make sense of that announcement. But no matter how I turned the words over in my head, I came up with the same conclusion. “You left Vermont? Already?”
“Yeah,” she said softly.
Just like that, my happy vibe collapsed. “Thanks for the warning.”
There was a silence on the phone between us, and I wished I could claw back those ornery words. It wasn’t that I minded being a little short with her. But by saying that, I’d made it painfully obvious that her leave-taking was harder on me than it was on her.
I preferred to nurse my wounds in private. What man didn’t?
“BPG didn’t need to keep me in Vermont anymore,” she pointed out. “I already bought everything your neighbors will sell me. And since your guys are doing the deliveries, they don’t need to pay to keep me in Vermont anymore.”
Well, fuck. I wouldn’t have agreed to those deliveries if I’d known it would come to this. “I get it,” was all I said.
“You knew I was leaving. I can’t believe they let me stay as long as they did. Don’t tell me you’re surprised, Griff.”
I was surprised, though. I’d gotten used to having her at my side. And she didn’t sound nearly as broken up about it as I’d hoped she would.
So that stunk.
A lot.
I cleared my throat. “Take care of yourself.”
“You, too. Really.”
And then there was nothing more to say. We hung up. I shoved my phone in my pocket and thought of my never-ending to-do list. Just like every day.
But without the possibility of seeing Audrey later, everything suddenly seemed like more work.
The week that followed seemed to go all wrong. A freakish afternoon hailstorm damaged some of my fruit. What would have been perfect organic Honeycrisps were pockmarked. I wouldn’t be getting top price at the farmers’ market anymore. I told Smithy that I didn’t want to renew my lease, and then I sold off a dozen Jerseys to Mom’s acquaintance from our church. That should have been a good thing, but Dylan moped and spent a long time saying goodbye to the cows. So I felt like a jerk.
Then the dairy complained about my reduced production, saying that they didn’t want to truck out to my farm for the smaller amount. So I spent valuable harvest time calling around looking for a buyer for the rest of that herd.
“Why the long face?” my mother asked me on Thursday night. We were hosting the Abrahams for dinner, as we often did.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Isaac Abraham asked as he helped himself to another slice of Mom’s famous apple cranberry pie. A couple of years ago when Isaac and Leah bought the farm down the road, we’d begun this tradition of hosting alternate Thursday night dinners. They were good people. They’d run away from the same weird religious cult that had kicked out Zach.
“She’s, uh, in Boston,” I said, not even bothering to correct him that she wasn’t really my girlfriend. It had sure seemed like she was for a while there. “She’s been there ten days already.”
“But when’s she coming back?” my mother pried, forcing me to admit to myself that I didn’t think she ever would.
I shrugged like an idiot. Thanks, Mom.
My mother crossed her arms and gave me a glare. “August Griffin Shipley the third, I thought you were smarter than this.”
“Than what?”
She shook her head. “If you care about that girl, why are you sitting here like a big lump? Go tell her.”
