The Orchard at the Edge of Town

by Shirlee McCoy

  Daisy must have figured it out herself. She dragged a cell phone from a pocket in her oversized sweater and glanced at it. “In a half hour. It’s a seven-minute drive from here.”

  “You timed it?”

  “Of course I did,” Daisy snapped. “I needed to know how much time I could spend helping Simon if he needed it.”

  “Does he usually need your help?” Apricot was just curious enough to ask.

  “I help him all the time,” Daisy responded, dropping into a rickety white chair that had been there the first time Apricot visited with her aunt and would probably be there long after both of them were gone. “I watch his girls. Evangeline and Aurora. They’re eight.”

  “Their mother can’t—”

  “My sister is deceased. She passed away very unexpectedly a year after the girls were born.” Daisy sniffed and used the edge of her sweater to dab at her eyes.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Apricot wasn’t sure if she should pat Daisy’s hunched shoulders or keep her distance.

  She kept her distance.

  Grandma Sapphire had always warned the kids in the commune to stay away from rabid animals and to stay even farther away from rabid people. She’d never explained what that meant, but Apricot had had plenty of time to learn.

  “Yes. Well, she is missed, but the girls keep me busy,” Daisy murmured.

  “Glad to hear it,” Apricot responded, her gaze on the pot of water.

  Please, hurry and boil.

  Please.

  Because Daisy wasn’t the kind of person Apricot liked spending time with. As a matter of fact, she reminded her of Lionel’s mother. Mary embodied the meaning of her name—bitter. Apricot had spent five years trying to impress the woman.

  It hadn’t happened.

  It probably never would have happened.

  Even if she and Lionel had made it down the aisle and produced the grandkids Mary wanted—one boy, one girl, and maybe a spare—Apricot would never have been more to her than that woman Lionel married.

  She opened a couple of cupboards and finally found the small stash of mugs Rose always left there. Two blue. One yellow. All three chipped and well loved.

  Apricot opened the purse and took out the tea bags and the tincture. All of them were A Thyme to Heal products, the little thyme-leaf emblem on the bottle and on the tea bags designed by her sister Plum.

  “What do you have there?” Daisy suddenly asked, jumping up from her seat, her muddy-brown eyes wide. “Some kind of drugs?”

  “Herbs. They’re as good as drugs, though. Lots of people are using them to heal all kinds of ailments.” She dropped the last bag of chamomile into a mug and poured hot water over it. The sweet, fruity aroma drifted into the air, and she smiled. Nothing like good quality German chamomile. The scent was as soothing as the tea.

  “Well, I don’t have any ailments.” Daisy huffed, turning her pert nose up in the air.

  “That’s okay. Herbs are good for lots of things. Anxiety. Nerves. And, like I said, chamomile is great for the skin. I have a wonderful lotion that I’d be glad to—”

  “I’m not even sure I want to drink the tea!” Daisy frowned, but she took the mug that Apricot offered. The yellow one, of course, because Daisy needed a little color in her life.

  She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. “It smells . . .”

  “Good?”

  “Different.” She took a tiny little sip, frowned again. “It’s not half-bad.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” Apricot responded, figuring that not half-bad was Daisy’s equivalent of fantastic. “If I had honey, I’d put a dollop in there for you. That really adds to the floral notes.”

  “It’s tea. Not some fancy wine,” Daisy muttered, staring into the light brown brew.

  Apricot bit her lip to keep from commenting.

  The fact was, none of her teas were just teas. She’d spent years finding just the right leaves, just the right herbs, just the right combinations to create teas that could soothe, excite, relax, invigorate. She’d traveled the world tasting and sampling. She’d trained as a tea sommelier, worked with some of the finest in the world.

  Yeah. No. Her tea was not just tea!

  “It’s very good tea,” she said lightly. No sense throwing pearls to swine, but she wasn’t going to pretend the tea wasn’t something special.

  “Excellent tea,” Daisy conceded, taking a long swallow. “I appreciate you brewing me a cup. Last night was long. I love staying with the girls, but they’re at that age.” She sighed, plopping into the rickety chair again.

  Dang-it!

  Apricot hadn’t given her tea so they could sit and socialize; she’d given it to her because she’d owed Deputy Baylor for the ride, and he’d looked like he’d had about all he could take of his taciturn sister-in-law.

  No good deed goes unpunished, Grandma Sapphire seemed to whisper in her ear.

  Obviously, she was right!

  Apricot grabbed a ginseng tea bag, plopped it into a mug and poured water over it. She needed energy, lots of it, if she were going to deal with this Daisy.

  “It’s not that I mind being a mother to those poor little things,” Daisy continued. “It’s what Megan would have wanted.”

  “Megan was your sister?”

  “My older sister. By nearly seven years.” Daisy took another long sip of tea. “When the babies were born, I was just starting my job at the library. It’s amazing that I’ve been able to keep it, what with the hours that I spend with the girls.”

  “Aren’t they in school during the day?” she asked.

  Big mistake. Daisy scowled, her eyes flashing. “They are when school is in session. Holidays, snow days, summer—who do you think takes care of them then?”

  “I’d assume their father. Or a nanny, if he hired one.”

  “Would you want a stranger raising your children?”

  Apricot didn’t suppose she would. Since she wasn’t going to ever have them, it was a moot point.

  “Would you like me to top that tea off with some hot water?” She’d sidestepped the question, and Daisy frowned, pulling out her cell phone and checking the time again.

  “I need to get going. I wouldn’t want to be late.”

  “No.” That would be a travesty. “Would you like to take my sleep tincture with you?” She grabbed the bottle, but Daisy shook her head.

  “No. Thanks. I sleep just fine.” She stood, her jean skirt completely at odds with her fancy heels, the oversized fall sweater even more discordant.

  Not that Apricot was judging. She was, after all, wearing a wedding dress that she was convinced had been someone’s prom gown in the eighties. “If you change your mind, let me know. I have plenty in my trailer. I’ve also got plenty of chamomile tea.”

  “I’ll keep that in—” The floorboards above their heads gave a loud, old-house groan, and Daisy’s eyes widened, her face losing every bit of color it had. “What was that?”

  “The house settling.”

  “Since when do houses settle that loudly?”

  “Since forever, I’d guess,” Apricot replied. She’d grown up in a house that was falling down more than standing, and she’d heard much louder sounds.

  “I don’t think that’s what it was,” Daisy whispered, grabbing Apricot’s arm and dragging her out of the room, through the living room and straight out the front door. “It’s him,” Daisy hissed as soon as they stepped onto the porch. “He’s in there.”

  “Who?” Apricot glanced through the open doorway. The curved staircase was empty. So was the landing at the top of it.

  “Malachi Shaffer,” Daisy said, glancing into the house and then away. “He’s in that room upstairs.”

  “What room?”

  “The room where he died.” Daisy moaned.

  Apricot laughed.

  She couldn’t help herself.

  There were a lot of things to fear in the world. A ghost wasn’t one of them.

  “It’s not funny!” Daisy cried.
“He died in this house, and he’s stayed in this house. People have seen him!”

  “What people?”

  “I . . .” She scowled. “People. Okay? There’ve been stories about this place for years!”

  “And you believe them?”

  “You heard the floor creak!”

  “I heard the house set—”

  “I don’t have time to discuss it. If you’re interested in the history of the property, we have several books at the library. Once you read them, you’ll realize that I’m right.” Daisy hurried down the porch stairs. She probably would have run if not for the fact that her heels kept sticking in the mud.

  She peeled out of the driveway in a sporty black Ford SUV, the tires spewing dirt and gravel. Apricot watched her go, offering a wave she knew Daisy didn’t see.

  Maybe she would visit the library. Not because she worried about Malachi Shaffer’s ghost, though. She’d always wondered about the history of the property. The first time she’d visited with her aunt, she’d been fascinated with the old house and all the things that had been left behind in it.

  She hadn’t had time to explore the closets that had still been filled with clothes or to study beautiful old furniture that was still in every room. She’d been too busy learning herbs and teas and tinctures. Too busy making soaps and candles that smelled like everything wonderful that nature had to offer. She’d learned a lot during her summers with Rose, but she’d never learned anything about any of the houses her aunt owned.

  Now she had some free time. Plenty of it, and she thought that is exactly what she’d do. She’d go to the library and the historical society. She’d find books and journals and old pictures. She’d figure out everything there was to know about Malachi Shaffer and his orchard.

  Because that was so much easier than figuring out everything she needed to know about herself and about where she wanted her life to go after she went back to LA.

  She walked inside, closing the front door against the late September chill and standing still in the foyer, listening to the soft creaks of the old house, the quiet groans of settling wood. It didn’t sound scary to her. It sounded like home and family, and something warm and wonderful that she’d been missing out on for a lot longer than she wanted to admit.

  Sometimes life punched you in the face, knocked you off your feet, and dared you to hop back up again.

  That’s what Grandma Sapphire always said.

  Apricot had been sucker punched and knocked off her feet. Eventually, she’d hop back up and make something great out of the mess she was in.

  For now, she’d just go back in the kitchen, sip her tea, and wait for the tow truck to come.

  “You’re in big trouble, Baylor,” Emma Baily said as Simon walked into the sheriff’s department.

  “And that’s news?” he asked, grabbing a cookie from the plate on her desk.

  “Well, no,” she responded with a smile. “But I thought you’d like to know.”

  “I guess Dusty called?” he asked, biting into the cookie and glancing at his watch. If the lecture he was about to get from his boss lasted less than twenty minutes, he could still get his report written and be home before the girls got on the school bus. Otherwise, he wouldn’t see them until after school.

  He hated those kinds of days.

  “He called about fifteen times. Cade got sick of it after the third time and called a meeting.”

  “With?”

  “Max. He thought it was vitally important that they discuss security at the Apple Valley Fall Festival.”

  “Since when is there organized security at the festival?” Usually deputies volunteered to provide help with parking and crowd control. Other than that, the Apple Valley Sheriff’s Department simply enjoyed the festival like the rest of the town.

  “Since Dusty called fifteen times, and Cade wanted an excuse to not take his calls,” Emma said drily.

  “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

  “A good plan except that Dusty is mad as a hornet.” She swiped back a strand of golden-blond hair and tucked it behind her ear. Her gray eyes were deeply shadowed, her skin pale. She’d spent the last couple of years caring for her widower father, and her life seemed to consist of work and that. No dates. No movies. No girls’ nights out.

  “Isn’t Dusty always mad as a hornet?” he asked, snagging another cookie.

  “He’s usually more like a bumblebee, kind of buzzing around without much malicious intent. Of course, he’s always willing to sting if someone swats at him.”

  “Kind of hard to swat a bee if it doesn’t leave the hive.” As far as Simon knew, Dusty rarely came to town.

  “When his wife was around, he was happy enough and came to town all the time.”

  “That lasted . . . what? A couple of weeks?” Simon had heard the story plenty of times—poor Dusty marrying a woman who’d left him to pursue her dream of becoming a movie star.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I was about three when all that went down, so I’ve just heard that Dusty used to smile. I’ve never seen it.”

  “Maybe he’ll return to his old habits if Rose Devereux agrees to marry him and live in Apple Valley permanently. If that happens, it should be enough of a distraction to stop him from calling here every day with a dozen complaints,” he suggested because he thought it would make her smile.

  She laughed and shook her head. “There you go! The answer to all of Dusty’s problems and most of mine.”

  “How are yours going?” he asked.

  “You mean Dad? Same as always. He’s grumpy. I’m tired.” She rubbed the back of her neck and looked way more exhausted than a woman her age should ever be. “Alzheimer’s is a vicious taskmaster, I can tell you that for sure.”

  He resisted the urge to ask if he could help. She wasn’t the kind of person who wanted to look weak or who enjoyed the pity of others. She’d muddle through until she couldn’t anymore, and then Simon and Cade would find a way to help without letting her know that’s what they were doing.

  Like the meals that had been provided for the past couple of months. Ostensibly from the Apple Valley Community Church ladies’ auxiliary, the meals had been the product of a late-night brainstorming session between Cade, Max, and Simon. Emma had no idea, and she never would if anyone involved in the covert operation had anything to do with it.

  Help from the church her mother had once attended was something Emma couldn’t refuse.

  Help from her coworkers?

  No way would she take that.

  He snagged a third cookie, knowing it would annoy her and take her mind off her father.

  “Hey!” she said, slapping at his hand just like he’d known she would. “Those are for the customers.”

  “Customers? The ones having a spa day in our rooms without a view?”

  She laughed again, waving her hand toward the back of the building. “Go!”

  He went, because time was ticking away and the girls were probably hunched over their cereal bowls complaining that they had to eat puffed rice instead of the sugary flakes Daisy usually bought for them. He’d snuck three boxes of those into Riley Park and fed the ducks and fish with them. He’d figured they’d needed a little extra sustenance before winter arrived. As for the girls, with the amount of sugar Daisy was constantly pumping into them, he didn’t think they’d be missing out.

  He walked down the hallway that led to Cade Cunningham’s office, the cream-colored paint barely covering old brickwork. It was a cool building, probably built sometime at the turn of the last century. He hadn’t actually intended to work there. It had just kind of happened.

  Megan had wanted to be buried near her parents. She’d told him that while she was pregnant with the twins, because she’d been sure that giving birth to them would kill her. By that time, she’d spent three years struggling with chronic back pain from a car accident that had chipped a vertebra and broken her pelvis. She’d been terrified that carrying twins, giving birth to them, would make the pa
in intolerable. Simon had been scared too, but he’d watched her bloom during her pregnancy, listened to her talk about the twins and all her dreams and hopes for them, and he’d thought that the pain had diminished, that she was physically healthier than she’d been in years.

  She’d seemed so happy after the birth, so content, Simon had allowed himself to believe that the pain she’d been dealing with had been forgotten.

  He’d been wrong.

  She’d been becoming more and more reliant on prescription drugs to dull her pain and get her through the day. That addiction had cost Megan her life, the bottle that he’d assumed was always full because she wasn’t using it, refilled by constant supplies of painkillers prescribed by a half-dozen different doctors. She’d lied to them and to him. More than once, he’d asked her why she didn’t just toss the old bottle of medication. Each time she’d told him she wanted to keep it—just in case. He wasn’t sure he’d forgiven her for that.

  He sure as hell hadn’t forgiven himself for not realizing how many lies she’d told.

  He’d done what she’d wanted, though. Buried her near her parents’ graves in the cemetery at Apple Valley Community Church. He’d planned to go back to Houston after that, raise his girls there, but Apple Valley had an almost magical appeal, the quiet a balm to his soul. He’d spent a week there, then two, staying with Daisy because there wasn’t a hotel nearby. She’d made meals for him and for the girls, showed them around town, told him how much help she could be to him if only he’d move to Apple Valley.

  His home had been in Houston, and he’d told her that.

  She’d planted a seed, though, and it had grown when he’d returned to the house he’d shared with Megan. He’d hired a nanny, tried to fill the girls’ life with love and security, but he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that they’d be better off living close to their aunt in a community where everyone had known and loved their mother.

  It hadn’t been long before he’d made the decision to move.

  He’d been in Apple Valley ever since.

  Megan would have liked that. She’d have enjoyed knowing that the girls were growing up in the same little town she had.

  He knocked on Cade’s door, stepped into the small office. Max Stanford was still there, perfectly pressed uniform and overly shined shoes a little out of place in the functional room.