Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees

by Janie DeVos

  Sometimes, in the later hours of the evening, when the boarders had either gone to sleep or found a quiet corner to read, Prescott and I talked about our options with the mill, and the reality that we’d be forced to close up soon if things didn’t turn around, and turn around in a big way. “I think I might be on to somethin’, Rach,” Prescott said one evening. “I have some ideas about the mill.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sakes share them with me, Prescott. We need to do something and fast.” But before he could explain, Sam walked in from the back porch with an armful of firewood. After laying the wood by the fireplace, he returned to the kitchen and asked if we minded him joining us.

  “Prescott,” he began, after we’d told him we’d be glad for his company, “what would you think about me comin’ with ya to the mill in the mornin’? I’ve been wantin’ to see it, and waitin’ for you to invite me over, but since it looks like I’ve got to invite myself, well, then . . . how’s about it?”

  “Sam, you know you could have come by anytime. I never figured there was a need to give you any invitation. I just figured you didn’t care about it,” Prescott said, looking both surprised and a little embarrassed.

  “Well, then, I’ll be ready at seven sharp. See you in the mornin’.” And with that, Sam bid us both goodnight and retired to his room.

  Early the next morning, Sam and Prescott left for the mill. While they were gone, Grandma and I washed and ironed clothing that the boarders were wearing for the party that night. We also took a couple of hours in the middle of the afternoon to indulge in long baths and wash our hair. Years before, Papa had added a bathroom onto our house in another attempt to please Mama. The truth was that everyone was pleased about it, especially when nature called in the middle of the night, in the dead of winter.

  By four o’clock that afternoon, Sam returned from the mill and quickly cleaned up. “How did it go today?” I heard Grandma ask as they sat in the living room waiting for Merry and me to finish getting dressed.

  “My Lord, Willa—” Sam began just as I walked into the room. All conversation ceased when I did, and Sam immediately stood up in respectful gentlemanly fashion. He let out a soft whistle of approval. “Rachel, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was lookin’ at your grandma more ’n forty years ago. I swear! It’s like seein’ a ghost!”

  “Well, she ain’t my ghost,” Grandma said, “’cuz I’m still here and breathin’!” Then directing her attention back to me, she continued, “Rachel, honey, you do look beautiful. You’re all growed up.” And she looked at me as if that was truly hard to fathom. “The dress is just perfect on you.”

  Feeling a little awkward but also very pleased, I mumbled thanks to them both, then took a seat in one of the chairs near the fire. “So go on, Sam,” I said. “How was it at the mill today? With all I’ve had going on, I haven’t been down there for some weeks now. Not since I went to straighten the books out, and then I was just in and out of the office.”

  “And you haven’t been down either, Willa? You don’t know what Prescott’s been doing?” he asked, looking surprised. Her brows knit together in a perplexed frown, and she shook her head in answer as Sam continued. “Ladies, we’ll be going right by there on the way to the party. What say we leave now? What I need to show you won’t take long.” We tried to hurry Merry along, but she said wasn’t ready and would ride over to the orchard with Prescott when he got home and cleaned up. He was late coming in from the mill, but was due at any moment, so the three of us piled into the buggy and headed down the sawmill road. We wondered if we’d pass him as he headed home, but he was obviously still at work for we could see dim light shining through the transom windows of the building when we pulled up.

  We walked in through the front door and called out to Prescott, but found that the main part of the building was empty and fairly dark. We walked by the log carriage and the saw, then went deeper into the building—past the mill’s office, the bathroom, and the room where employees ate—until we came to a large warehouse-sized room where our inventory of cut logs was stored. The door to it was open and this was where the light seen through the transom windows was coming from. Sam stepped aside, allowing Grandma and me to enter first.

  The sight that opened out before us caused a collective gasp to issue forth from Grandma and me. There, filling the room, was furniture, all beautifully crafted and carved. There were chairs, tables, nightstands, and end tables. And the most beautiful, elaborately carved fireplace mantle I’d ever seen. At work on a small chair was Prescott, and as he saw us walk in, his hand froze in mid-air just as he was bringing down a mallet to pound a wooden peg into the seat. Toward the back of the room was Salvatore Lupari, smoothing down a freshly cut table leg with a piece of glass.

  “Prescott! Oh, my God. When did you start building these pieces?” I asked, walking through the maze of furniture and touching the simple yet exquisitely worked pieces. Although they were predominantly colonial in design with the expected turnings and scallops that were so characteristic of that style, there was also some added flair to many of the pieces. Scrollwork and carvings, depicting scenes of birds in flight and flowers adorned some, while other pieces had beautiful inlays of various types of wood. These magnificently unique additions brought the old and respected colonial design to a different level.

  “Salvatore taught me how to make the furniture, Rachel. A couple of other fellas who Salvatore knows help us some, too. They’re from the old country—Italy and Germany—and they’re really skilled craftsmen. They come in the evenings sometimes. That’s when we do all of this,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “And they work for as long as they can, but it ain’t often, and it ain’t enough. I haven’t been able to pay ’em and won’t be able to until we can start sellin’ this stuff.” When I didn’t say anything, he misconstrued my silence as a sign of disapproval and quickly said, “Hell, Rachel, we have so much unused and unsold material from the mill here that it’s a shame to let it go to waste.”

  “It’s wonderful, Prescott.” I said in an awed whisper. “I had no idea. I’m sorry I didn’t know about all of this. It never occurred to me to come back into the warehouse to see what was going on.” I shook my head in continued disbelief.

  “Prescott,” Grandma began, “you’ve got a talent that would be a crime and sin not to use. We’ll help you in any way we can to get this furniture makin’ of yours off the ground. What are ya lackin’ ta do that, son? What is it you need?”

  “Before anything else, I need to pay Salvatore, and them other fellas, not to mention regular and overtime pay for poor ol’ Nathan. Now that we have quite a few pieces, I need to get word around about what we’re doin’ so we can sell this stuff.”

  “If you paid ‘em by the piece, Prescott, what do you figure you’d be owin’ by now?” Grandma asked. It was an odd question, and I wasn’t sure where she was going with it. She was standing close to Sam, and they kept whispering to each other, but I was out of earshot.

  “Dunno, Grandma,” Prescott said, looking down with furrowed brows as if trying to mentally calculate it, but there were too many figures to add up without an adding machine.

  “Well, figure it out, son. Sam and I are going to help you. We’ve got some money—it’s Sam’s actually.” Sam jumped in, disagreeing with her, but she immediately told him to hush and continued. “We’ll pay the workers, and figure out some way of getting the word out.”

  “I can do that,” I piped in. “I can take care of that part of it.” I had an epiphany that came out of the blue like a bolt of lightning on a clear day.

  “Well, then, that’s all taken care of. Now c’mon, let’s go dancin’,” Grandma said and turned to leave. Sam followed her around the maze of furniture and out the warehouse door.

  “Where ya s’pose they’re gettin’ the money?” Prescott asked with a look of absolute disbelief on his face. Actually, he looked almost pale. But I knew it was just the result of finally letting us in on his well-kept secret, an
d being thoroughly amazed and relieved that we not only approved, but already had ideas about how his vision could be realized.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “but I have a feeling that a satchel beneath some floorboards from a long time ago has something to do with it.” At his confused look, I just laughed and told him to hurry home to fetch Merry, and meet us at the orchard. Then I ran through the mill to catch up with Grandma and Sam outside, and as I did, I thought about a letter I needed to write first thing in the morning to a very important future customer: Calvin Coolidge.

  CHAPTER 39

  Moon Shine and Moonshine

  By the time we got to the orchard, the spring dance was in full swing. The building that housed the gift store had plenty of space for a band, as well as chairs that people had brought or the orchard had provided. Along the north and south walls bordering the dance area were long tables filled with everything from coconut cake and fried chicken to deviled eggs. I brought a buttermilk pie and set that, along with a bowl of potato salad, courtesy of Grandma, on one of the tables. The floor literally vibrated as Edgar and Arthur Pritchard played the fiddle and mandolin, respectively, while Curtis Hurley’s fingers plucked the strings of his five-string banjo in wonderful accompaniment to Matthew Glen on guitar.

  They were in the middle of playing a reel called “Geese in the Bog,” and I immediately spotted Ronnie Coons dancing with Patricia Truman. He looked like an eager little puppy trying to impress her, while she seemed rather bored, or did, at least, until she saw me and realized that Prescott was most likely there, as well. Suddenly, Patricia came alive and threw herself into the reel, weaving in and out with Ronnie and the other dancers as they completed another figure-eight pattern on the well-worn oak floor. Each time she turned toward Grandma, Sam, and me, she craned her neck to see if Prescott was among our group. By the time the song ended without Prescott’s appearance, she literally seemed to droop, and Ronnie seemed to take it as an indication that she was worn out from dancing because he headed for the refreshment table. Patricia made a beeline to where we were standing near the gift store’s counter saying our hellos to Harriet and Lydia, as they waited to show any potential customers their knitted caps, gloves, or doilies.

  “Prescott here tonight?” Patricia asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Not yet, but he should be along any minute.” My answer brought renewed animation to the bland-faced girl. Only tonight, as I took a good look at her, I saw that she had grown into her spindly, awkward body and become a softly attractive young woman. Her wheat-colored hair was darker than it had been as a child, which took away that washed-out look she’d always had. Gone were her round black-rimmed glasses, and in their place were gold wire ones. And the rose-colored dress she wore seemed to add a soft glow to her fair skin and hazel eyes. “You look pretty, Patricia. That’s a nice dress, and I like your hair done up like that. Prescott’ll like it, too.” She lit up and blushed, and the shade was identical to that of her dress. Suddenly, Ronnie appeared at her side. “Here’s yer punch,” he slurred, and it was obvious he’d had more than punch.

  “Mr. Coons!” Patricia began, “Have you lost yourself and indulged in the drink ’o demons,” she accused, her choice of words sounding suspiciously like some from Pastor Dukes’ sermon two weeks before.

  “Ah, sugar,” Ronnie started to explain, but as he did he lost his balance and stumbled into her with enough weight to push her back against the counter.

  “Go home, Ronnie,” Grandma said, “before you make a real fool of yourself.”

  “Too late for that,” Ronnie laughed. “I been one since I was born. C’mon, honey,” he began again, reaching for Patricia’s arm, “let’s have us another dance.”

  Suddenly a large hand reached between Patricia and me, grasped Ronnie’s upper left arm and pulled him away from Patricia. “You need to go home, Ronnie,” Jack Harris said firmly. “You’ve had enough of both the drink and the dance. Go on home.” The look he gave Ronnie Coons left no room for argument, and Ronnie swore under his breath, then staggered out the side door near the band.

  “You alright, Patricia?” Jack asked, genuinely concerned.

  “’Course I am,” she answered with a look that was a mixture of both embarrassment and delight at being the center of attention with two handsome young men.

  “Good. Evenin’, Rachel, Miz Holton,” he nodded, then looked at Sam a little awkwardly. Suddenly I realized that they hadn’t met.

  “Oh, Jack, forgive me. This is Sam Harold. He’s a friend . . . a friend of our family,” I quickly finished. As the men shook hands, the band began playing a waltz.

  “Dance with me, Rachel?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t dance, Jack. You know, my foot . . .” I said softly, looking down self-consciously.

  For a moment, Jack seemed to not understand, then understanding dawned on his face. “Rachel, you can dance as good as anybody. C’mon, I’ll show ya.” And without giving me an opportunity to protest again, he pulled me out onto the dance floor. Instead of holding me away at arm’s length as was customary, Jack held me close and firmly. At first I thought he wasn’t familiar with the proper positions that dancers always took in a waltz. But then I realized, as we began to move in rhythm to the music, that he held me as he did so that we moved. I moved—fluidly and smoothly. I danced without a limp. With ease and grace, we circled the dance floor. “You look beautiful, Rachel,” he whispered against my ear. “Let’s take a walk in the orchard after our dance. The moon’s full, and it’s not too chilly out.”

  After a glass of punch, we wove our way through the crowd to the backdoor and out into the orchard. The moon cascaded through the gnarled trees, lighting them in a soft blue-gray haze. Somehow, they seemed warm and welcoming, instead of sinister and forbidding, and we wandered among them as just a hint of the first apple blossom perfume touched the air.

  “I’m glad you came,” Jack began. “I wasn’t sure you would, since you didn’t come to the one in the fall. I figured maybe you thought it was better not to have anything to do with us.

  “I don’t resent you or any of your family, Jack. I know now that our fathers did what they had to do. They loved us more ’n the law, you could say. It took me some time to come to terms with it all, but I have. Grandma helped. I didn’t come to the fall dance ’cause I couldn’t. The boarders take a lot of our time, and adding to that, Sam came to live with us and he was real sick.” I went on to explain much of what had taken place during the last six months, and finished with our discovery at the sawmill earlier that evening.

  “So, what’re you gonna do to get the furniture business started?” Jack asked after quietly listening to my story.

  “I’m gonna have Prescott and Salvatore build the most beautiful, elaborately carved walnut bench to send to President Coolidge in memory of his son, who died of blood poisoning several years ago. Did you know that? His son, Calvin, Jr., played tennis without socks and his shoes gave him a blister that got infected. He died from blood poisoning from a blister! Anyway, I’m gonna get Prescott to start on it tomorrow.”

  “I hope something good comes of it, Rachel. I really do.”

  “How goes it with the orchard, Jack? How’re your trees doing?”

  “There doing all right, really. Comin’ along better ’n better. Naturally Maybree Lomax is pleased. But I need to get an edge on the competition. I need to do more than sell some bushels here and there, and to more than families. The business needs to grow just like the trees, Rachel, and I’m trying to figure out the best way of doing it.” As he finished, we reached the edge of the orchard and I began to step out of the dimness of the trees and back into the light that spilled out from the gift shop’s windows.

  “Wait,” Jack said, grabbing my hand while we were still hidden in the shadows. “I need to ask you something.” I took a step back toward him, standing nearly as close as when we waltzed. “Rachel, would you let me court you?” he asked, and his penetrating, dark eyes reflected the
light from the windows, making them seem to emit a golden light of their own.

  “Jack, I-I . . .” I awkwardly began. “I don’t know. Didn’t you and Merry have a . . . ? Weren’t you two . . . ?” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it. I wasn’t quite sure what to ask. I had seen the flirting between them, and I knew that if I’d seen that, there was likely much more that I hadn’t seen—things that took place in private.

  “As God is my witness, Rachel, I never touched her. Not in that way, anyway. I know she wanted to, but I knew I’d regret it. As tempting as she is, there’s something . . . well, there’s something about her that stopped me. I know she’s your sister, Rachel, and I don’t mean to say anything against her, or that would hurt you, but there’s something not quite right about her sometimes. I don’t know.” I nodded in understanding. “She just gets this look in her eyes that’s really far away, almost wild-like, and then, at other times, almost empty. There never was anything serious going on with us.”

  “All right then, Jack,” I said.

  “All right then, what?” he asked. But before I could answer he narrowed the small gap between us, putting his left hand on the small of my back and pulling me close to him. Then lightly taking my chin between his thumb and index finger, he pulled my face to his and gently ran his tongue around my lips until I naturally responded to him by opening my mouth and meeting his tongue. It was a moment of joy and excitement for me, and, oddly enough, unexpected comfort. I realized then that this was something I had always felt would happen, from the moment I first saw Jack in town after the confrontation with Ray. It just felt right. Tonight we had danced together, moved together, and kissed as intimately as if we’d done it through many lifetimes. Finally, I pulled away from him, telling him that I needed to get back inside before anyone grew concerned. But I knew better. I knew that should my wise and wonderful grandmother realize that both Jack and I were nowhere to be found, she would know that I was exactly where I should be.