by Luanne Rice
Uncle Dylan had let Chloe pick the colors, so she was painting the stand itself blue, a delicate shade of teal, the color of eggs laid by Araucana chickens. The shelves were going to be yellow, as bright as buttercups.
Chloe wore denim overalls with a blue T-shirt underneath, and old gym sneakers. Silver hoop earrings snagged in her dark hair, which fell in her face. She should have worn a cap. Not being an expert painter, she was kind of making a mess. Paint took forever to cover the splintery old wood. Chloe’s hands were both blue, and somehow paint had sprayed finely across her right cheek.
Her parents were acting very “no comment” about the whole operation. Her father had grown up on the farm, of which this orchard occupied about forty acres, and he considered working on the farm stand to be a big step backward. He had gone to Roger Williams College and become an actuary and then a successful insurance agent, just to get his family’s hands out of the soil.
A couple of years ago, for her parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary, Chloe and Mona had gotten Uncle Dylan to let them have a barn dance. They had wanted it to be a surprise, but being only thirteen, they had needed help. Uncle Dylan was too much in mourning to do much, so Chloe had had to ask her mother.
She had been so happy. Chloe remembered how her cheeks had turned bright pink, as if she was a young girl. She had hugged Chloe so tight. Together they had made the guest list: Chloe’s two grandmothers; her mother’s brother and his wife, who lived in Portland, Maine; her father’s friends from the Rotary; her mother’s friends from the garden club.
Her mother had made beautiful invitations showing the barn, all decorated with streamers and little white lights. Then, in real life, they had set out to make the barn look just like the picture. It was a magical night—and hardly cost anything! Chloe’s mother made lots of casseroles. They had plenty of apple cider. One of her dad’s Rotary friends was a DJ in his spare time, and they got him to do the music for free. People danced all night. When Chloe and Mona got tired, they just climbed up to the hayloft and fell asleep.
Chloe wished that memories like that would make her parents like the orchard more. They were so wonderful in some ways, but very frustrating in others. They had a modern vision of the land: Sell it, develop it, say good-bye to it. While Chloe and Uncle Dylan loved it too much for that.
Right now, Uncle Dylan was working in the orchard. She could hear him, hauling the young trees to be planted. Once he drove by, riding high on his green tractor, the huge yellow wheels peeking at Chloe like big eyes. Uncle Dylan waved, and she laughed. He wore sunglasses, and he looked like a spy playing farmer.
He didn’t smile back. Uncle Dylan used to be the funniest grown-up Chloe ever knew, in spite of the fact he had a badge and a gun. Both Chloe and Isabel thought he was cooler than any uncle or dad had a right to be. Neither of them would have, in a million years, expected to see him working the land.
Chloe wished she’d worn her watch, but after school yesterday she’d gotten paint on the face, and now it was sitting on her bureau. Mona was supposed to come over. Chloe hoped she’d hurry. The sound of her own paintbrush slapping the wood was driving her truly batty. It was talking to her; was that weird? Not in voices, or anything, but just in a rhythmic little singsong: I’m bored, are you bored? Will the cats appreciate all you’ve done to buy them nice food? Araucana chickens eat corn and lay pretty eggs.
Chloe really needed someone to talk to.
And just then, in the strangest twist of fate possible, an old blue car came down the road, slowed as it approached the stand, and stopped.
Chloe craned her neck, to see who it might be. A lady, alone in the front seat. Like Uncle Dylan, she wore sunglasses. She had on a black leather jacket—very cool. And she had dark hair with a long blue scarf tied around it, to keep it out of her face. Chloe really loved the look. The lady stared at Chloe for a few seconds.
Chloe tilted her head. Did she know this person? It seemed as if she did. Chloe wondered: Is she an old teacher, or a friend of my parents? She continued painting, while preparing to smile in recognition the minute the lady told her her name.
The lady got out of the car, carrying a basket.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Chloe said back.
“Nice day for a ride in the country,” the lady said, walking closer. She was medium height, thin, wearing black jeans and a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt under her black leather jacket. Around her neck was a silver disk hanging from a black cord. She held the basket with two hands; the contents were covered with a flowered cloth napkin.
“Yeah, I guess so.” Chloe smiled. “Though, when you live in the country, it feels like a nice day for a ride in the city.”
“Oh, you like the city?” the woman asked, brightening. “I live there!”
“Providence?” Chloe asked.
“New York City,” the woman said.
“Oh, wow,” Chloe said. She lowered her paintbrush. No one she knew lived in New York. She had loved visiting Isabel there. Aunt Amanda would take them to see the butterflies at the Museum of Natural History, then for hot chocolate at Sarabeth’s. And Uncle Dylan would come home from work and take everyone out to dinner at that restaurant high above the city, with views of all the jeweled buildings and bridges, that made it feel as if they were eating in a plane, the one that was gone now . . .
“Do you like New York?” the lady asked.
“I used to go, when I was little,” Chloe said. “Is that zoo still there?”
“The one in the Bronx or the one in the park?”
“The park, I think,” Chloe said. “The one with that clock on the arch, with the bronze animals that strike the bell.”
“The Delacorte clock,” the woman said, beaming. “In Central Park. You’ve been there . . .”
Chloe nodded.
“That zoo’s still there. Actually, they both are. Did you like going?”
“I didn’t like seeing those seals in the city,” Chloe said, frowning. “Their pool is nice and all, but they belong in the ocean.”
“That’s a very compassionate attitude,” the woman said.
Chloe nodded, starting to paint again. “That’s my downfall,” she said.
The woman seemed to be holding back a smile. “Really?”
“I care about everything.”
Chloe concentrated on covering the next board with blue paint. Her chest heaved with a wave of emotion. She didn’t understand it, and she didn’t want the woman to see. Maybe it was thinking about Isabel; or maybe it was picturing those seals.
“Certain creatures belong in certain places,” Chloe explained after a minute. “It’s just the way it is. People always think they can move nature around, but it never works. Seals need the cold ocean, lions need the Serengeti, my cats need this orchard.”
The woman cleared her throat. Chloe glanced up. Why was she looking away?
“You okay?” Chloe asked.
“I’m fine,” the lady said. “It’s just that I feel the same way.”
Chloe nodded. Just then, she realized how odd it was to be having this conversation with a total stranger. “Um, we’re not open yet,” Chloe said, gesturing at the half-painted stand. “I have to give it one more coat, and then we have to figure out what to sell.”
The lady smiled. “You’re doing a great job.”
“Thanks.”
“Your uncle said you were helping him. You must be Chloe.”
Chloe nodded and smiled.
“I’m Jane.”
Chloe felt a slight thrill: How cool to have a grown-up introduce herself by her first name. Who was she? Could she be Uncle Dylan’s girlfriend? Chloe had heard her parents speculating on when Uncle Dylan might begin dating again. It had been four years since the tragedy. And Chloe knew, even though it was never talked about, that he and Aunt Amanda had been separated at the time it happened. . . . Just in case, Chloe sized this woman up.
“Do you know Uncle Dylan from New York?” Chloe asked.
“No,
” Jane said, looking a little confused. “Doesn’t he live here?”
“Yeah, but before Isabel . . . Never mind. Yes, he lives here.”
Jane let it pass, and Chloe was relieved. She didn’t like to talk about what had happened to her cousin.
“I met him the other night, at the Educators’ Potluck.”
“Oh, right—he drove my grandmother. Are you a teacher?”
“No,” Jane said. “I’m a baker.” She lifted the basket, and then handed it to Chloe. Chloe hesitated. Her hands were totally covered with blue paint. Jane saw, smiled, and helped out by lifting the napkin.
“Apple tarts!” Chloe exclaimed. She peered inside at the sweetest, prettiest, darlingest apple tarts she’d ever seen. There were four of them, golden brown, each of them decorated differently: an apple, a tree covered in blossoms, a tree with leaves and apples, and a bird’s nest. “I love them! Are they for Uncle Dylan?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “And you. Since you’re doing all the hard work, I think you deserve one.”
“I want the bird’s nest,” Chloe said. She looked up into the woman’s clear blue eyes. “See, I love birds. And animals. That’s what I’m known for. In fact, it’s why Uncle Dylan gave me this job. Because I need money to buy special food for all the orchard cats.”
Jane nodded, smiling, and Chloe thought of her saying “compassionate” earlier.
“Thank you,” Chloe said. She scanned the orchard, for a sign of Uncle Dylan. Although she heard his tractor, she couldn’t see him. Jane followed her gaze.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “With all the trees getting ready to bloom. Look at those blossoms! By tomorrow, the orchard will look like a white cloud. I can actually feel it—”
Chloe’s hair tingled, as if there was lightning in the air. Which was ridiculous; the sun was shining brightly. But she knew what Jane meant. “It’s like that in the spring,” she said. “Something’s always about to happen.”
“Like what?”
Chloe thought. “Like eggs about to hatch. And the apple blossoms . . .”
Jane nodded. “Anticipation.”
“Yeah.”
They smiled at each other, and Chloe felt the funny lightning again. It sizzled through her hair, across her forehead, through her body, and out her toes. Just then another car came down the street. Jane jumped—she looked so startled, and she stared intently at the car, as if she expected to know the person getting out. But she relaxed when she saw Mona—obviously someone she didn’t know—getting out of her parents’ Volvo. Chloe, distracted by Jane’s reaction, almost missed taking in the full spectacle of Mona, ready for work.
“Looks like you have a helper,” Jane said.
“Oh, my God,” Chloe said. Here came Mona, covered from head to toe in a plastic rain poncho, hood pulled over her hair, and safety goggles over her glasses. She was pulling on one pair of rubber gloves, and handing another to Chloe.
“Too late,” Chloe said, wiggling blue fingers.
“Darling, paint is hell on your hands,” Mona said. Then, smiling at Jane, held out the spare pair and asked, “Want to join the party?”
“I think I’ll leave you girls to it,” Jane said, backing away.
“No, don’t go!” Chloe said, surprising herself. “This is my best friend, Mona. Mona, this is Jane.”
“Hey,” Mona said.
“Oh, I’d better get home,” Jane said. “I need to spell my sister—she’s home with our mother, and she needs a break . . .”
“Granny-sitting,” Mona said solemnly, giving Chloe a knowing glance through the safety goggles. Chloe winced, hoping Jane wasn’t offended by the comment.
“Both our grandmothers had strokes last year,” Chloe explained. “We’ve seen them go through a lot.”
“Well, they’re lucky to have granddaughters who care so much,” Jane said.
Both girls nodded. Chloe heard Uncle Dylan’s tractor getting closer. She pointed, but Jane was already climbing into her car. She got behind the wheel and just sat there for a moment, waving at Chloe through the windshield. Chloe waved back. She had the strangest lump in her throat, almost as if she was standing dockside, watching someone getting ready to embark on an ocean journey.
“What’s in the basket?” Mona asked, lifting the blue flowered napkin.
Before Chloe could reply, Mona gasped. “Teeny tiny little pies!”
“Apple tarts,” Chloe corrected.
“And a business card,” Mona said. She lifted it out, between the fingers of her rubber-gloved hand. The glove was quite amusing. It was gaudily adorned with huge fake diamond rings and an emerald bracelet.
Chloe, heedless of her own paint-sticky fingers, took the card. She read it:
Calamity Bakery
512 West 22nd Street
New York, NY 10011
917–555–6402
“Is that hers?” Mona asked.
Chloe stared, nodding. “I think so.”
“‘Calamity Jane,’ do you think that’s what the name means?” Mona asked.
“I’ll bet . . .” Chloe said, smiling.
“Cool for an older person,” Mona said. “I liked her leather jacket, too.”
“What’s going on here?” Uncle Dylan called, roaring over on the tractor. He idled the engine and climbed off. “Break time?”
“Your friend came by,” Chloe said, gesturing at the basket and showing him the card. He leaned down to read the print, starting to take the card from her hand, but Chloe didn’t let it go.
“Oh, wow,” he said, glancing into the basket, still tugging on the card. “I didn’t know she was from Calamity . . . best place in New York. And I told her my niece was crazy about apple tarts.”
“Crazy for apple tarts,” Mona said, doing a spastic little dance. Chloe forgave her; she knew Mona had a significant crush on Uncle Dylan.
“You seem to want her card,” he said to Chloe.
“Yeah,” she said. “For a souvenir. The first person to stop at the new stand. You know how some places hang the first dollar bill? Well, I’m going to hang the first card.”
“Where’s a nine-one-seven area code?” Mona asked. “Did she come all the way from freaking Alaska?”
“New York City,” Chloe said, feeling proud for some reason.
“Nine-one-seven is for a New York City cell phone,” Uncle Dylan amended. “Or a beeper.”
“Huh,” Mona said. “A baker on the move. So, do you want me to paint, or what?”
“Here’s the brush,” Chloe said, reaching for her own private tart, the one with the bird’s nest on it. She offered the others to Mona and Uncle Dylan. He reached for the tart with the flowering tree on it, and Mona ignored the question, dipping her brush into the paint. Chloe bit in and closed her eyes. The crust was so flaky and light, and the apples tasted as if they’d just been picked off the tree.
“Whoa, it’s good,” she heard Uncle Dylan say.
“Yeah. It’s good,” Chloe said, her eyes still closed. She wondered what Jane was doing in Rhode Island. She wondered when she was going back to New York.
She hoped it wouldn’t be soon.
Jane drove to the edge of the orchard, where the country lane met the main road. She knew she should turn left and head for home, but she couldn’t. She stared at the white lines on the black tar. Her hands were shaking.
She had just met her daughter.
Chloe had her eyes. She had the same pale, almost-gray, blue eyes as Jane. And she had a raven’s wing of dark hair, falling across her finely sculpted cheekbone. Jane looked in the rearview mirror, saw the same straight dark hair, the same facial bones.
She raised her left hand from the steering wheel, smelled the blue paint on her fingers. It was just a tiny bit; she had brushed the top of the stand as she had walked away.
Her hands were small, just like her mother’s and sister’s. When she was young, she had wished for beautiful hands with long fingers and long nails. Elegant hands for playing the pian
o, wearing rings, gesturing expressively. She knew that Sylvie had wished the same thing. Before the days of nail salons, the two sisters had made themselves fake nails out of cardboard, just to see what it would look like.
But right now, she loved her hands. They were the same as Chloe’s. Jane had seen: the thin wrists, small hands, short fingernails. Chloe had the Porter hands, the same as her mother, aunt, and grandmother.
Jane sat in her car, unsure of what to do next. She knew she had to go home, to stay with her mother while Sylvie went out to dinner with John Dufour. But she didn’t want to leave the orchard.
With the car windows open, she smelled flowers and new leaves. It was the scent of the color green, chlorophyll, sharp on the back of her throat. Birds sang in the trees; she watched them fly from branch to branch, blurs of blue and brown.
Questions swirled in her mind, and they all seemed so big, so impossible. What did Jane hope for? Why had she come here today? Why had she come home to Rhode Island with no immediate plans to return to New York, with a sign on her door and a forwarding message on her cell phone?
She couldn’t answer; all she knew was that she had a pressure in her heart. Something between heaviness and an ache, as if an old injury had suddenly resurfaced, as if an old scar wanted to remind her it had never quite healed.
Suddenly, after fifteen years of mostly staying away, Jane had known it was time to come home. Right now she didn’t seem able to shift into drive, step on the gas, turn on her signal, and drive onto the main road, to arrive on time so that Sylvie could go out. Jane was frozen in place, unable to leave the orchard.
And of all the questions she was asking herself, all the things she had to wonder about, that was the only thing that made perfect sense.
Chloe was here.
CHAPTER 9
On Saturday night, Margaret lay in bed, surrounded by books. They were her friends and companions. She knew them, and they knew her: Dickens, Austen, Christie, Wodehouse, Colwin, Updike, McMurtry, Godden. Their covers comforted her: some old and cracking, others bright and barely opened. She enjoyed reading the more modern books’ dust jackets: editorial descriptions, quotes offered by other authors; she took particular interest in the author’s photograph.
