Reminding himself not to fuss at her, which only made things worse, he sauntered into the kitchen aiming for the coffee pot. “Morning all.”
“Hi, daddy.”
“Hey, pet. Did you sleep well?” He snatched an apple slice from the bowl. Predictably his aunt swatted at his hand. He held it out to Emma but she wrinkled her nose and shook her head so he popped it into his mouth and winked.
She giggled.
“You, kiddo,” he said after swallowing, “need to get changed so we can enroll you in school.”
“No way! It’s Friday.”
“What does Friday have to do with it?”
“Nobody starts school on Friday. Besides, Aunt Mary said I can help make apple pies.”
Ryan turned to his aunt.
“Before you say anything I’m not undermining your authority. I didn’t say anything about her helping until after she said she was being home schooled.” She raised a brow and together they turned to look at Emma.
“Well, I am,” she insisted.
Ryan knew that tone of voice. His daughter used it whenever she wanted something. It had taken him a long time to train his ears not to listen and his heart not to give in to her every whim.
“You’re doing school work at home,” he replied. “That’s not the same thing. You don’t have to stay but I think the principal and your teacher would like to know what you look like.”
“Fern Potts,” Mary said.
“Who?”
“That’s who is principal now. Your fifth grade teacher.”
“But she’s got to be a hundred,” Ryan said. “Hell, she was old when I was in her class.”
His aunt tsked at his language. “She’s only retiring this year. I wonder if she remembers you.” She gave him a smile that said you’d better hope not.
“Oh, great,” Emma said. “Am I going to be profiled because my dad caused trouble in school?”
“I didn’t cause trouble—”
“Ha!” Mary interrupted.
“I was just a little rambunctious,” he finished.
When Emma looked as though she’d say more, he pointed a finger at the door. “Go get dressed. If I go to school by myself, I’ll ask for the hardest teacher.”
“She seems very alert this morning,” Mary commented after Emma left the room.
“She usually is in the morning. That’s why I want her in school, for at least half a day. Once she takes her medicine at noon, she gets pretty groggy.”
“Can’t they give her something less strong?”
Ryan poured a cup of coffee before answering. “Not if she’s going to make any progress. What’s with all the apples anyway?”
He followed his nose to the oven, cracking the door open to inhale the rich cinnamony smell of apple pie.
“Have you been gone so long you’ve forgotten the Apple Cider Festival?”
“You’re kidding? Old man Larsen still has the apple orchard?”
“At least through this year. Every year he says he’s moving south but never does. I do know he’s not been the same since his wife, Eva, died, and that old orchard just doesn’t produce like it once did.”
Ryan recalled sneaking to the orchard to steal apples with his friends, but Mr. Larsen never minded. In fact he had help yourself, boys signs posted all over. It was probably a better deterrent than if he’d yelled at them. It simply wasn’t fun if the element of danger was gone.
“If the apples are just now ready, why do you have a sink full and already baking?”
“The festival is this weekend. The Methodist Church got the bid for the homemade ice cream stand and when the Women’s Auxiliary decided to add pie to the menu, George gave us some of the early variety. Everyone that comes to pick apples enjoys their taste. That’s why they come. Having products like pie and apple butter and the recipes makes people buy even more apples.”
“Making Larsen even more money,” Ryan added, although he was all for entrepreneurship.
“You know how Snow is, Ryan. We help each other. All the different organizations in town have booths for crafts and produce at no cost, and George gives ten percent back to the town’s community chest. We all benefit.”
Ryan glanced at his watch. It was only nine and he wondered how long his aunt had been up. “So you’ve retired from the bakery in favor of making pies once a year?”
“Heavens, no. I was there at three, like always. Greta comes in at seven to take over.” She tsked again, brushing past him with hot pads in hand. “I don’t know what I’ll do soon, though, because Greta’s daughter is ready to have her babies and Greta’s leaving for Boston the minute she does. She always said whenever her only daughter had a baby, she’d be a full time grandma. Since her daughter is having twins, she’ll need the help.”
Ryan grabbed the bundle of clothes he’d brought downstairs with him. “Well, I’m here now so we’ll work something out.” He headed for the bathroom to shower. “It’s been a long time since I made cookies but I think I can remember how.”
His aunt laughed. “You always ate more than you made.”
“That too,” Ryan replied with a smile.
* * * *
Saturday dawned clear and crisp, the promise of fall heavy in the air. Ryan helped his aunt load the pies, along with paper plates and plastic forks before driving her to Larsen Orchard at the edge of town.
He had truly forgotten how small Snow was; how everything was within walking distance on nice days. Or bike distance, he recalled, having pedaled all over with his friends in his youth. It was a good place to raise a family, he thought as he listened to his aunt greet her friends while he unloaded pies from the back of his car.
“And how’s your job with NASA?” A grey-haired lady with a cardinal on her sweatshirt pulled at his sleeve.
Ah, yes, Ryan mentally sighed, if you didn’t mind everyone knowing your business. “Just fine.” He smiled, not about to add to the gossip mill.
Once the last of the food was unloaded and Ryan had helped arrange the tables, he promised his aunt he’d be back later with Emma. He wanted to wait until it warmed up because at the moment it was a rather chilly fifty-two degrees.
He took a circular route back to the house on Maple Street. The car window was down, the crisp morning air smelling faintly of wood smoke and the ever present coal. Still, it didn’t detract from the scenic beauty of the town and surrounding area. Leaves were changing colors; everything from yellow to red to rusty brown lay scattered across the lawns or drifted toward the ground in the breeze. The foothills were visible in the distance to the east, their crests still dark green with the abundance of evergreens covering the slopes. Somehow this area west of the Appalachians had been spared the worst of the forest harvesting and timber was abundant. As he pulled into the drive he heard geese honking overhead. He scanned the sky. They were heading west, probably to Piper Lake.
“Emma?” he called as he came in the front door and closed it behind him. They had left her sleeping but he didn’t find her when he peeked into her room.
“Emma?”
“Back here.” He followed her voice to the bathroom which was off the side of the kitchen.
She came out dressed, but with her hair wrapped in a towel. She maneuvered quite well on the crutches, he thought, as she swung along to the table where he saw her brace on the floor by her chair. She was only supposed to take it off to bathe and even then she couldn’t put pressure on her leg, which made giving her a bath awkward.
“You already took a bath? You know you’re not supposed to do that alone.” He hadn’t intended to shout but the thought of her slipping and falling, hurting herself when he wasn’t close by, always made him panic.
“Dad, I’m ten years old,” she shouted right back, standing straight and tall, despite the crutches.
“Yeah, so?”
She didn’t say anything; simply stared at him with narrowed eyes. She reminded him of his wife – stubborn and defiant – with blonde hair and snapping gre
en eyes. She would be beautiful when she grew up. When she…
Oh, God, he mentally groaned. Don’t tell me she’s gotten to that age? He studied her from head to toe. She crossed her arms over her chest.
He opened his mouth but she forestalled his question.
“Don’t ask. Don’t even think what you’re thinking.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“Because you’re my dad and you think you know all about things.”
“I do.”
“Even if you do, I don’t want to hear about some things from my dad.” She scowled.
Ryan suddenly wasn’t at all sure what they were talking about. Did he need to have Aunt Mary talk to her? She couldn’t be ready for a hormone-sex-boy-girl talk. She was only ten.
She sat on a chair and he bent to slip on her socks. He took her brace, already attached to her shoe, and set it in place, buckling it securely. Once again he realized how hard it was to be a single parent.
“Okay, do it your way, only promise me you’ll do it when I’m here in case you need help.” He was hoping do it encompassed all the things she might be talking about.
She narrowed her eyes.
“When your Aunt Mary’s here,” he amended.
“Okay. Now, if you are done embarrassing me, can I finish my hair?”
He tweaked her nose. “Go,” he said, shaking his head. As she left the kitchen he called to her, “Get your hair dry if you want to go to the apple festival. I don’t want you getting a cold on top of everything else.”
“Dad.” He heard the exasperation in her voice.
“Hey. I’m the parent. It’s my prerogative to give orders.”
* * * *
Ryan drove Emma around the town square, and past the lake, pointing out places of interest, or so he thought.
“That’s where you rode your bike and went swimming every day,” she said. When he pulled into the parking that edged Larsen Orchard, she said, “And this is where you stole apples with your friends.”
Ryan laughed. “You know all the stories?”
“About a hundred times.” She rolled her eyes.
Ryan didn’t say anything else, but unbidden memories came rushing back of childhood years spent picking apples, having rotten apple fights with his friends, and in later years, the annual Apple Cider Days Festival. He didn’t, however, remember it being such a huge deal.
Bright colored awnings and tents littered the road on both sides. Cinnamon and popcorn and other scents converged in the crisp autumn air to tantalize his senses.
From where he stood, the orchard wasn’t even visible. There were hundreds of people strolling along the roadway, stopping to look at the items for sale, most of which had an apple theme.
“Wow!” Emma exclaimed, stopping to look around. “Do they do this every year?”
“I thought you knew all the stories,” he said and they laughed. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from picking her up, wanting to help…too much sometimes. “Do you want to go find Aunt Mary?”
“Dad, I’ll walk as long as I can walk, then I’ll go sit. Quit worrying.”
“Wait.” He touched her shoulder and maneuvered them around some people to one of the booths. Handing the woman behind the table two dollars, he took one of the souvenir pins and bent to pin it on Emma’s shirt.
“What’s that?” She looked at the small red apple pin.
“It means you’re the apple of my eye and let’s everyone know you’re special.” He grinned.
“Oh, brother. This is one of those cornball things, isn’t it? I mean, what happens for the snow festival that you told me about. Do they give everybody a snow pin and tell them they’re a flake?”
“Hmm, that might catch on.” He laughed, and realized he hadn’t been doing that much lately.
A petite blonde popped her head around the corner of the next tent. “Ryan Diantelli, is that you?” She scurried over and gave him a hug.
“Corin Grant?” Even though it had been fifteen years since high school, his friend and classmate looked the same.
“Well, it’s Parker now; although that’s the only thing that idiot left me before he moved out. My god, I can’t believe you’re back in town. Visiting Mary?”
“Actually, we moved here, for a while at least.”
Corin glanced at Emma. Her smile widened. “Hello?”
Emma stuck her hand out. “Hi, I’m Emma Diantelli. I’m ten.”
“Wonderful! My son, Charlie, is ten. I bet you’ll be in his class at school.”
“My dad won’t let me go to school.”
Ryan felt his mouth drop open in surprise. “I never said she couldn’t go; only that it wasn’t the right time now.” He shook his head as Corin laughed.
“Don’t you just love them at this age? Anytime they can get their parents in a dither, they do it. Hey, look, I have to get back to the booth; we’re trying to raise money for a children’s drama program, but a bunch of us are meeting over at Butch’s Bar-b-que tent about one. Why don’t you stop by?”
“You mean you’re not the only one from our class still living here?”
“More like you’re the only one who moved away.” She laughed as she walked away and Ryan wondered if the old adage you can’t go home again would be true here. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see old friends. He only wondered, after being in a high pressure job at NASA, having a marriage fall apart and moving back home, he wouldn’t be looked on as an anomaly.
Following after Emma as she made her way carefully along the dirt path, he figured there was only one way to find out, but it meant handling Butch’s spicy hot wings for lunch.
“Dad, where’s the orchard? Are we going to pick apples?”
“Emma, why did you tell Corin I wouldn’t let you go to school?”
“Because if I say I’m home schooled or I can’t go because of my leg, all the kids will think I’m different.”
“And different is bad?”
His little girl shook her head and sighed. “I have to remember to ask Aunt Mary if you were ever ten years old.”
They finally came to a path between the tents that led further off the road and toward the orchard. When they rounded the curve past the last colorful canopy, Ryan was shocked to see what had become of his favorite childhood haunt. Oh, the trees were there and plenty of apples were still high in the branches, but it didn’t look the same. Some of the trees had apparently been damaged by storm and branches bowed low to the ground. Others had only a few leafy branches; the rest were bare broken limbs. For an orchard to remain successful, new trees needed to be planted continually, and it didn’t look as though George Larsen had done that.
“Hi, I’m Charlie.” A young boy came barreling to a stop in front of them. He was about Emma’s size, with red hair and freckles. He had one hand clutched in the fur of a dog half as tall as him – a husky from the looks of it. “This is Wolf.” He flung his arm around the dog’s neck and hugged him. The dog wore a harness attached to a wagon with wooden sides. It had several sacks of apples in it.
Ryan might have wished for a dog all those years ago when he came and picked apples for people. When he was a kid, he had had to lug the heavy sacks back to the barn for weighing. This young man would go far.
“Can I pet him?” Emma asked and at Charlie’s nod, she reached out, totally unafraid. When she quit stroking him, the dog nudged her with his head, almost knocking her down. She just laughed.
“You’re the new girl at school, aren’t you? I saw you in Principal Pott’s office yesterday. Who did you get for a teacher? You’d better hope it wasn’t old Mr. Jensen. He’s the meanest teacher in school.”
“I’m in Miss Michaels’ class, fifth grade.”
“Super, that’s my class, too.”
Ryan watched the interaction between the two kids, thinking this must be Corin’s son. It would be nice for Emma to know someone, because as soon as her leg healed, she’d be attending school full time.
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“Did you pick those apples for anyone?” Ryan gestured to the wagon.
“Yeah, Mom always freezes tons of applesauce and apple butter every year. Do you want some apples? As soon as I get these weighed and Wolf hauls them home, I’ll come back and pick you some.”
Ryan smiled. “Well, you can come back and help, and I know Wolf will be useful, but I’m sure Emma wants to try her hand at picking.”
“She can’t climb a tree with that brace on her leg,” Charlie said with all the tact of a ten year old boy.
“Can, too,” Emma chimed in immediately.
“Bet you can’t.”
She stuck her tongue out at the boy.
Ryan quickly defused the situation. “We’ll all help, as soon as you and Wolf get back, we’ll be over that way.” He pointed to a tree where the branches were low to the ground, figuring Emma could pick without having to climb.
“He’s stupid,” Emma said when Charlie and Wolf had moved on.
Ryan started to reprimand her before recalling how dumb he had thought girls were when he was in fifth grade. And the most stupid were the ones he liked, but they hadn’t like him. Ah, no amount of money would make him want to be ten again.
About The Author
Barbara was born in California and now resides in the Midwest. She loves to travel and explore new places, which usually means each of her novels is set in a different locale. She has been published in formats from poetry and short stories to full-length fiction. She wrote and co-produced a documentary on state history which won state and national awards, but she really loves writing romance, whether it be contemporary, historical or time travel. Just for fun, each year she writes a Christmas short story for family and friends—some heartfelt and others whimsical — but always a gift from her heart. She has an MA in Communication, has taught at the college level and has made over 100 presentations at state and national conferences. She also loves to create art through pottery and fused glass, candles, baskets and quilts. Visit her website at http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin.
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