Heat rose up her neck. Breaking her window was no laughing matter. In a few efficient moves, she swept the broken glass off the counter to the floor, careful not to step in it, and mopped up the ruined blend of juice before it made the counter sticky. She squeezed the apple in her fist, its flesh still too immature to give more than a few drops of juice where the skin had broken on impact. In a righteous fury, she left the barn that still smelled of sawdust from the recent remodel.
As she approached the threesome, the man and boy stopped talking. Einars smiled wider when she halted in front of them. He was the only man she ever had to look up to, and right now his pale eyes twinkled. He was planning something. Her own crisp blue eyes squinted in suspicion. His thin and transparent hair lifted off his head in the soft, early-summer breeze. The boy stepped shyly behind his father as she held up the orb of destruction to accuse.
“This apple broke my window,” she said, her lips tightened to clip the words short.
Einars ignored her, instead holding open his arms. “Sanna, come meet Isaac Banks. He’ll be helping at the orchard this season.”
Helping? Sanna was confused. They never took on extra hands until the harvest, which was months from now—and even then it was generally one or two neighbors they’d known for years. Perhaps she had misunderstood her father.
Isaac held out his hand in greeting as his eyes took in all six feet three inches of her. Sanna girded herself for the comments, switched the apple to her other hand, and shook the offered palm out of habit, realizing only when they touched that she hadn’t bothered to wipe off the few drops of apple juice. His big hand encircled hers and was warm and dry, like it had been buried in the sand. His deep brown eyes, fringed in lush lashes, sparkled under strong brows. His olive skin already had a bronze glow, countering the silver flecks in his thick, dark beard. His temples crinkled as his lips curved into a warm, homey smile. Sanna’s mouth went dry. This man sparkled, brightening everything around him, too. If her window hadn’t just been broken, she might have tested her very rusty flirtation skills. Instead, she pulled herself a little taller.
“Hi, Sanna, pleasure to meet you.” He said her name like the sounds were new and he was rolling them over his tongue, learning and liking the way they felt. The warmth of his hand nearly burned on hers, which was still cool from an afternoon in the chilly barn, and sticky from the juice drying on her skin. Even though neither of them had moved, she seemed closer to him, or maybe she wanted to be closer to him. Her focused ire threatened to scatter, and she maintained contact with him for a second longer. She pulled her hand back, their skin briefly sticking together from the apple juice.
Sanna nodded briskly, pulled her eyes away from where they lingered on his smile, turned to her dad, and held the apple in front of her.
“What are we going to do about this?”
Isaac’s lips thinned as Einars plucked the apple from Sanna’s grip and tossed it into the orchard.
“Calm down, Sanna-who.” Sanna cringed. Her dad—who liked to joke they were “Scanda-whovians”—had been calling her Sanna-who ever since she was a barefoot, sun-bleached child running through the orchard. She didn’t mind it when they were alone, but in front of strangers? Too personal. “The boy was just being a boy. It’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“That carelessness broke some of my equipment and ruined a batch I was blending.”
With Isaac’s eyes watching her every move, she struggled to maintain her anger, even though she was in the right. She knew she was coming off harsh, but she didn’t dare speak more words than were necessary.
Einars took a moment to look at Sanna, then at the boy. “Then he’ll have to help you until the equipment and window are paid for. He’ll be your assistant,” Einars said.
That brought her back to her senses. He may as well have slapped her, the impact was the same—bracing and immobilizing. She couldn’t even manage a gasp, though her eyebrows stretched up toward her hairline. Spending time with this whelp of . . . she couldn’t even tell how old he was. Eight? Twelve? All kids looked the same to her. Dirty and noisy and annoying.
“That won’t be necessary,” she finally said. She expected her father to respond, but instead Isaac spoke up.
“No, I insist. Einars is right. Bass needs to take responsibility for his actions.”
Sanna squinted at him, not sure she’d heard correctly. He had his hands on his son’s shoulders, sturdy and guiding, making it clear where his priorities were.
“Bass? Like a fish?”
The boy snorted, then covered his mouth to hide a giggle. That wasn’t the response she had hoped for.
“His name is Sebastian, but that’s a bit of a mouthful. He responds to most fish names, don’t you, Trout?” Isaac ruffled Bass’s moppish curls, and he mumbled “Dad” as he stepped out of reach.
Isaac’s face glowed as he looked at his son, now kicking at the rocks in the orchard’s parking lot, then he shifted back to her—obviously expecting her to object again. She couldn’t work with someone who had the attention span of a gnat—but she’d make her objections clear to her father at dinner. Having spent time with her spoiled nieces, Gabby and Sarah—Anders had completely ruined those girls, they didn’t even know how to climb a tree—she didn’t want to spend any more time with Fish-Boy than she had to. She’d just lie low and her father would forget about it. Besides, he never made her do things she didn’t want to.
“Fine. I’m heading back to work.” She turned to go back to the barn without another word—avoiding making eye contact with Isaac.
“Sanna,” her father said, “don’t clean up the mess. That can be Bass’s first job.” She gave a little wave to acknowledge she had heard him and kept walking to the barn. What would she do to keep a kid busy all day—assuming she could keep it together in front of his dad? Before she opened the side door closest to the stairs, she paused to look over Idun’s Orchard. The straight lines of trees, cocooned in fresh green leaves that hid the small apples in various states of growth. She couldn’t quite see the trailer behind all the trees, the place where Isaac and Bass—what an absurd nickname—would be living while they stayed on. There was no way to avoid working with Isaac—and she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to, which bothered her—but with some strategic planning, she could avoid the kid.
Behind her, on the other side of the gravel driveway, was the Lund family home, an enormous two-story farmhouse in the shape of an L, covered in white painted wood siding. They could shelter a small village in the large home, and practically had in the past when generations of Lunds had lived there together. Now it was only the two of them.
Sanna could still hear Isaac and Einars talking from around the corner, Isaac’s loud, unbridled laughter competing with her father’s boisterous voice. She could even hear the skittering of rocks as Bass continued to kick them. While intrigued by the appearance of this undeniably handsome man, she was unsettled by all these changes in one day. Hired help before harvest? What would this do to their finely tuned routines? Was there even enough work to make the help worthwhile? All the uncertainty blocked her usual confidence and command. She sighed, letting her shoulders slump as she climbed the stairs to the loft.
The season was only five months long, she told herself bracingly, then everything would go back to normal.
• • • • •
Sanna walked up the four steps from the back door into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind her as she reached the top. The kitchen was half of the airy great room that made up the heart of the house. A long counter hugged the wall, housing the sink, stove, and cabinets, with a window overlooking the giant oak tree, patio, and the orchard’s barn and parking lot. A massive island served as both countertop and eating spot—six inches taller than a traditional counter to accommodate the generations of tall Lunds. Separating the kitchen from the great room was an ancient farm table that could easily seat ten, worn from years of family dinners, frequent scrubbings, and dropped ob
jects. Like with so many pieces in the house, she could recall the history in each scratch and dent. Each held a story that had been told to her by her father as she grew up, like the half-inch divot where her grandfather dropped an entire cast-iron pot on the table when his wife went into labor, or the crayon scribbles on the underside of every piece of furniture—she herself had scrawled the entire alphabet on the coffee table.
Sanna pulled off her boots and tucked them into a wooden cubby, one of many lining the wall at the top of the steps. Above the cubbies hung the range of all-weather gear she and her dad needed—raincoats and pants, wide-brimmed hats, thick leather gloves, and warm winter jackets. Weather didn’t stop work on a farm. She slipped into her indoor clogs made of boiled wool and lined with soft lamb’s wool and strode across the bright room to the bathroom she shared with Einars.
Since it was just the two of them, they only used a small part of the sprawling house. They had converted the office and den near the great room into bedrooms, leaving the rest of the house closed off to conserve energy. The closed-off wing contained bedrooms full of sheet-covered furniture—it was where Sanna had spent her early years, when her grandparents were still alive and the Donor and Anders had rounded out their family, but she preferred the central part of the house now. She loved that instead of building a traditional second floor, they had left the loft open, amplifying the airiness of the space. A spiral staircase of pale-gray painted wood led to the large open room. On one side of the loft, she could look down on the activity in the great room and kitchen, or she could sit on one of the squashy couches or chairs that faced the large windows overlooking the northern side of the orchard. From up there, she could see her favorite tree—one of the oldest in the orchard—a meandering Rambo with sweeping arched branches that sat in the center of the Looms, rising above all the other trees. When she was a child, it was her favorite to climb. She could scramble higher because its center limb was never trimmed back but allowed to grow straight. From its branches, she could see over the tops of all the other trees, the way she towered over the other kids at school.
Perhaps she’d read in the loft tonight, but for now she needed to clean up for the dinner her dad would have on the table at six fifteen sharp. With efficient movements, she showered and swapped her sturdy work clothes for comfortable cotton men’s pajama pants and a soft, worn T-shirt. As she went through the familiar motions, she pondered how to bring up the issue of the new residents with Einars. With her hair still wet and sending a few errant drops down the back of her neck, she joined her dad in the kitchen with five minutes to spare.
“Hey, Pa, what’s for dinner?”
Einars pulled a square, white dish from the top oven and set it on a blue and white ceramic trivet. Sanna grabbed two plates and a serving spoon, preparing to start scooping.
“Let it cool. You can pick out the veg.” He pointed his oven-mitted hand to the freezer. She opened the door and grabbed the bag on top—green beans. She tossed them into the microwave and turned back to her father as he pulled a second dish out of the bottom oven; this one scented the room with cinnamon and apples. Einars had long insisted on an apple dessert every day, their reward for tending the orchard so carefully, or so he told her. She thought he just wanted a sweet every night.
“Cheesy chicken noodle and cobbler?” Sanna pointed her chin to the potato chip–topped casserole and toasty brown pan.
He nodded. When their veggies dinged, they scooped out servings and poured drinks in a synchronized routine, ending with them sitting at the table in silence, Sanna’s mind wandering to the fresh bottles waiting to be filled with a new batch. Between bites, Einars cleared his throat and pulled her back to dinner.
“Anders called today,” Einars said.
Sanna kept chewing—she didn’t trust herself to not make snide comments about her absentee brother.
“He invited us to Thanksgiving at their house this year.”
Sanna swallowed before she choked on her food, gulping it down with her milk. She couldn’t contain a small cough, which her dad interpreted as intentional.
“He’s trying to stay in touch. It wouldn’t kill you to reach out to him, too.”
“Pa, I’m not going to argue about him. You know how I feel.”
Sanna took a big bite so she could avoid saying more about her brother.
“I told Bass he’d start with you, tomorrow.”
But this was not the topic change she was hoping for. Sanna stopped chewing and took another drink of her milk.
“I’m not dealing with him. He can help you or his dad. I don’t want him near the cider stuff.”
“You will deal with him.” Einars pointed his fork at her. “He broke your equipment and he needs to work it off.”
“I don’t like kids.”
“You don’t know any. Besides your nieces, who are, frankly, pretty spoiled. Not all kids are like that—you were an okay kid, once. He’s working with you, and that’s final.”
Einars went back to scooping forkfuls of chicken and noodles into his mouth, ignoring Sanna’s blinking. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d issued a direct order. Maybe never.
“Fine. I’ll teach him curse words. Even the really bad ones.”
“At ten, he’ll probably be teaching you a few.” Einars snorted a laugh. “And you’ll need to cancel any plans you might have for tomorrow, Isaac and Bass are going to have dinner with us here.”
Sanna shrugged. Thad wouldn’t care if she canceled. Their mutual apathy was one of her favorite things about their weekly outings.
“Besides, since when do we hire help in June?”
Einars looked quickly at his plate, trying to spear a green bean on his fork. “I’m not so young anymore. I can’t do what I used to.”
Ridiculous. Just last week she’d seen him install her new fermentation tanks. This was absurdity. There was no reason for him to mess with their routine. It had worked great for a decade, and there were no grounds to change it now.
She cleared their plates when they were done and set them next to the sink. Their deal was he would make dinner and she would clean the dishes—though he cleaned while he cooked, so her job was easy. With a quick peck on his cheek, she shooed him from the kitchen with a plate of cobbler in his hands, set her own plate next to her journal, then filled the sink with steaming water and fluffy bubbles—doing the dishes by hand gave her time to think.
The journal itself was one of many bound notebooks she had. This one had a faux lizard cover and a ribbon placeholder. Each one was a little different, wide lines, no lines, leather bound. Whenever she found one she liked, she bought it. They were the place where she scribbled every thought, every experiment, every success, and every failure of her cider making. The early ones overflowed with more failures than successes, but lately the drawings had evolved. She pulled out her colored pencils and started layering colors, stopping long enough to turn off the water and set the dishes in the water to soak.
She wasn’t particularly artistic, but without thought she knew the combination that would get her the color she wanted. Last night she’d arrived at a rich royal made up of layered cobalt blue and indigo, and she knew exactly what it would taste like. Dry, but not bitter, with a bold apple finish. Not shy of what it was, but proud and majestic.
Tonight the greens she sketched spoke to her of gentle whispers and a soft sweetness, with just a lilt of apple, but very refreshing. She’d need to finish her orchard chores with Bass early if she’d get a chance to play with this. She’d met him for two minutes and was already annoyed by the little beast. Frustrated, she slammed the journal cover closed, causing a scrap of paper to escape and flutter to the floor. She had a routine, a life, and babysitting a little boy did not fit into it. Giving up on her journal, she scooped a bite of her dessert and turned to the dishes in the sink, taking regular breaks for another bite of cobbler—leaving a trail of water from the sink to the counter. As the sun took its last few breaths before night, the a
nswer to the Bass problem hit her.
Kids didn’t like her! Her nieces had made it abundantly clear that her short hair and mannish clothes made her a loser, as did her lack of knowledge of any current movies or shows. Not to mention, on more than one occasion she’d made them cry with her blunt opinion on their spoiled behavior. She’d just be her normal self, and the kid would most likely beg his dad to get away from her.
Standing at the counter, solid with her decision, she scraped the last of the cinnamon sauce from the plate and set it in the deflating bubbles. Just being herself was the perfect solution. She picked up her dad’s empty plate from the end table next to where he shuffled through orchard paperwork, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. She finished washing their dishes, retrieved her novel, and curled into a chair, confident tomorrow would put an end to needless disruptions.
CHAPTER FOUR
The key turned in the lock easily; a sheen of WD-40 glinting in the afternoon sun revealed the reason why. Isaac expected a waft of stale air to assault his nose when he swung open the door to the trailer, but was greeted with fresh air with a hint of bleach. A quick glance to the windows explained why—they were all open, letting the evening air circulate. With Bass’s hand clutching tight to his, he led them both into their home for the next few months.
The trailers of his youth were musty, dingy hovels, but the temporary worker housing at Idun’s was crisp and efficient, with a palette of pale wood trim, whites, and grays. They stood in a small entry—directly in front of them was a closet with a stacked washer and dryer. To the right of that was the door to the bathroom—the source of the bleach scent—complete with an actual tub. The toilet didn’t even have rust stains. Farther right was a walk-through kitchen; the cupboards already housed a few dishes. He dropped the keys onto the white counter and opened the fridge, smiling to see a fresh jug of milk, a few cold waters, and some apples. He tossed one to Bass and took one for himself, biting it with a crunch, sucking the juices so they didn’t dribble into his beard—the hazards of facial hair. A peek into the pantry revealed a few boxes of cereal and cans of soup. He couldn’t imagine the brisk Sanna stocking the cupboards, so it must have been Einars—or Sanna on Einars’s orders. Though he had trouble envisioning Sanna taking orders from anyone.
The Simplicity of Cider Page 3
