Family Trees (12 page)

Once the elevator doors closed and he was alone, he pushed the button for the basement level and leaned against the railing of the brightly lit compartment. Then he removed a cell phone from his pocket. Tapping out a brief text to Brad and Pete, he could feel his shoulders begin to relax:

C
HAPTER
13

I
t was the first weekend in October, which meant Bayfield's annual Applefest celebration was in full swing. Everywhere Shelby looked, people crowded together along Main Street eating a gastronomical hodgepodge of smoked turkey legs, kettle corn, and sausage. The crisp air was ripe with a pungent blend of charcoal and fry bread, brown butter, and cinnamon.

And then there were the apples. Thousands of them. Cara-meled and quartered. Candied and spiced. Pies, sundaes, streusel, and brats. Transient vendors peddled apple bakers, peelers, corers, and dippers. And in the center of it all, the Big Top Chautauqua band played bluegrass from a flatbed truck.

As Shelby unloaded fruit at the Meyers Orchard stand, she considered the apple's resilience. It was once believed that apples should be stacked with their cores in a horizontal position, so that the stalk of one apple would not pierce the one above it. Today, farmers knew that even the slightest amount of pressure would permanently bruise an apple that was left on its side. An upright apple, however, could be bumped and jostled and still come out unscathed.

Excitement over Will Chambers had waned since the Duluth newspaper article came out. Both for the town and for Shelby. She had put aside her pride, stood tall, and resumed her life with as much resilience as the unscathed apple.

“How many people do you think we'll get this year?” Ginny called out to Olen while stirring a kettle of melted caramel.

“Considering how busy it is already, I'd say more than forty, maybe even fifty thousand for the weekend,” Olen answered before giving their inventory another check. Their modest booth was painted barn red and shelved with bushels of Honeycrisp, Haralsons, Cortland, and McIntosh. Although no one said it aloud, they were all concerned about turning a profit. The few storms in August hadn't produced enough rain to make up for the dry summer; the weather had taken its toll on the orchards and production throughout the county was low.

“You should have seen this event fifty years ago. Just a handful of farmers and some out-of-town buyers,” Ginny marveled, directing her comments to Shelby. “Just imagine what this will look like when you're working this booth with
your
daughter someday, Shel!”

Daughter?
Shelby kept her thoughts from Ginny.
I have no intention of getting married, let alone having children—or grandchildren—to carry on the business. Besides, at this rate, there may not be anything left to pass on.

“Shel—grab the customer down at the end, would'ja?” Olen asked Shelby as she was arranging pie boxes on a tableside display.

“You bet,” she replied, seeing the man standing near their cider jugs with his back to her.

“Can I help you?” she asked while readjusting her Badgers cap. She raised her voice to be heard over the Big Top's amplified, nimbly strummed rendition of “Dueling Banjos” just down the street. “We have samples, if you'd like to taste anything. . . .”

Shelby bent down to grab a small stack of disposable sample cups from a lower shelf when the man spoke.

“I'll take a bag of Honeycrisp,” the man said above the blaring music. “And a pie.”

“Got it!” she called out over her shoulder. Shelby was reaching into the crates behind her to grab a bushel for the man when she heard him speak again. This time she recognized the sunny lilt of his voice.

“Actually, I'll take three,” he said.

She spun around with a bag of apples held tightly to her chest. “Ryan?”

“Hey,” he replied with a dimpled grin. She had forgotten about those dimples.

“What are you doing here?” she stumbled, rising slightly on her toes to peer around his shoulder. She expected to see his friends, but he appeared to be alone.

“Buying apples, of course.” Ryan helped himself to one of the single apples in the basket that sat atop the counter between them and shined it on the front of his cable-knit sweater.

“I don't understand.”

“I actually came to ask you out for dinner,” he answered matter-of-factly before biting into the apple with a full, mouthwatering crunch, juice dripping down his hand.

“Dinner.” Still holding the apples tightly against her body, she shifted her weight to one hip. Shelby shot a glance at her grandparents, who were trying to appear busy and unaware of Ryan's surprise appearance. They were terrible actors.

“Are you free?” He casually sucked the juice from the apple before taking another bite.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I wouldn't have driven here from Chicago if I was kidding.”

“Miss? Can you help me?” interrupted a man dressed in a red flannel shirt and jean jacket, flanked by two young boys who were eagerly eyeing the caramel apples.

“Yes, of course. I'll be right with you,” Shelby answered. Turning back to Ryan, she said, “It's a bit crazy right now. And, I . . . well, frankly I didn't expect to see you again.” She shook her head, trying to make sense of it, set the bag of apples in front of Ryan, and then made her way toward the new customer.

“Is that a no?” He walked opposite her and then stopped to stand behind the customer's boys. “I shouldn't have surprised you like this.”

“What? No—I mean . . .” she faltered while grabbing hold of the counter's edge so tightly that a splinter of wood broke off and pierced her skin. “Damn it!” She jerked her hand up to inspect the fragment that was now embedded in the throbbing palm of her hand.

“I didn't think you'd react so harshly,” Ryan said curiously.

“It's not that. It's . . . I don't know what to say to you right now.”

“Miss? The apples?” the man with the children persisted.

She smiled weakly at the customer and tried to regain control of her voice. “I'm sorry—which variety would you like?”

“Two caramel apples, and my wife asked me to buy baking apples,” said the man as he surveyed his options. “I really have no idea which ones would . . .”

“Haralsons. Definitely.” She grabbed a bag for the customer, who fumbled with his wallet while simultaneously keeping his boys from poking their fingers into a pie.

“You have to work. This is bad timing,” Ryan apologized. “I'd like to talk. What time do you wrap up?”

“Five?”

“Can I meet you somewhere?”

The man paid Shelby for his purchases and looked curiously at Ryan, before ushering his children back into the bustling crowd.

“My truck is parked up by the library.” She could feel heat flushing her cheeks, and was uncertain which emotion was causing it—nervous excitement or unresolved anger.

“Then I'll see you at five.” Ryan flashed her the same charismatic grin that he displayed in the newspaper photograph. “And Shelby?”

“Hmm?”
Please leave before this village idiot says something she'll regret!

“It's good to see you.” And with that, Ryan stepped into the crowd and disappeared.

Shelby wasn't sure how long she stood there looking after him. The festival's noise seemed to soften to a dull hum. It was replaced by Ryan's voice echoing in her head.
Drove here from Chicago. . . . Are you free . . . Good to see you . . .
Lost in her thoughts, she jumped when someone put an arm affectionately around her shoulders.

“Shelby! How's it going so far?” John asked. He had just arrived to help, wearing a Meyers Orchard apron over his black jacket and a concerned look on his face. After discovering Ryan's identity, she had gone to John to talk about it all. He supported her, as he had done so many times in the past. If she told him that Ryan was back in town and interested in seeing her, she knew exactly what John would say to her.
Run.

“John. You're sweet to come down to help us.”

“No problem. Everything okay?” he asked, looking at the way she was holding her right hand.

“Splinter,” she said with a slight shake of her head. She pushed down on her palm until the end of the offending splinter appeared and she could remove it. “I just can't get over these crowds. It's going to be a crazy couple of days.”

“That's why I'm here.” John sounded pleased while giving her a hug and a warm kiss on the cheek. “Now come on—let's get rid of these apples!”

 

John was always so good to her. Too good. He didn't have to volunteer his day off to help her family, and yet he gamely pitched in. Later, she felt guilty declining his invitation for an impromptu dinner back at his place. Nevertheless, she said good night and headed toward her truck alone.

Shelby felt more anxious with each passing block. She was angry. And curious. And filthy. She wiped her hands on the sides of her jeans and then stopped to take off her baseball cap and hold it between her knees. After running her fingers through her hair and rebinding a messy ponytail, Shelby positioned the hat back on her head. Realizing there wasn't anything else she could do to make herself more presentable, she turned the corner and continued uphill. One more block to go.

Then Shelby saw Ryan. She couldn't miss him. He was leaning casually against her truck, wearing dark sunglasses and a bright green knit hat that was clearly too big for his head. She wondered if the family of five who were passing him knew that the guy with the ridiculous hat was Will Chambers. Probably not. That would be like expecting to see Prince pull up at a drive-thru and order a Big Mac.

Ryan watched the family make their way down the street before he noticed Shelby approach. A smile warmed his face as he took steps away from the truck to greet her.

Keep cool,
she reminded herself.
Let him do the talking. Then walk away.

“Shelby!” he said, reaching his arms out wide in welcome. She sidestepped his embrace and made her way to her vehicle, then leaned against the tailgate for support.

“Hey, Ryan. Or . . . should I call you William?”

“What?”

“William Chambers Jr., to be exact,” she said flatly, folding her arms across her chest.

“Right,” he started. “About that.”

“Yeah, about that,” she replied. “Congratulations. You fooled me.”

“I wasn't trying to fool you.”

“Mmm.” She pressed her lips tightly together.
Hold your ground,
she told herself. “So, what's going on? Why are you here?”

“To see you.”

“Come on, you and I both know that's not true.” She eyed a round stone by her boot and gave it a swift kick down the street, watching as it skipped and rattled away. “Listen. Nothing lasting is ever built on a lie—so you're off to a lousy start. Why don't you cut to the chase?”

“Shelby, I—” he stumbled.

“Nice hat, by the way,” she interrupted, looking up at his bright green knit cap.

“You like it?” He tipped his head down far enough that she could see the embroidered message:
Rotten to the Core.
“I couldn't pass it up.”

She smiled in spite of herself. He looked ridiculous. And handsome.
God, he's handsome.
“It suits you.”

“Ryan isn't a false name, by the way,” he said, returning to their conversation. “If I want to use an alias, I usually go by Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“Long story—the point is, my friends call me Ryan. My parents call me William. And everyone else calls me Will.” Ryan leaned his body to rest his hip against the truck so he could face her.

“But you didn't know me. Shouldn't you have introduced yourself as William—or Will?”

“Definitely not.”

“Why . . . ?”

“Because you aren't one of my parents, and I know you could never fit into the ‘everyone else' category.”

“And why is that?” She rapped the toe of her boot against the asphalt in agitation. “Because I'm some hick off the farm? Because I don't run to my mailbox for the weekly tabloid so I can read up on the
exciting
lives of people like you? Or, better yet, search all of those online gossip sites? I'm sure this has all been quite amusing for you and your friends.”

“Don't you get it?” Ryan asked. “Because I knew you were special from the start.”

“Right.” She was exhausted and, considering how hard she had worked that day, probably smelled like an old gym sock.
Oh yeah, I'm real special.

“I'm sorry about the whole name thing,” Ryan continued. “You're right. I should have been straight with you from the beginning. I'd like to talk to you about all of that.”

They were interrupted by the sound of a car engine and muffled music with a banging bass beat coming over the hill. A silver Jeep then stopped beside Shelby's truck. When the back passenger door opened, blaring music and two teenaged girls tumbled out.

“Thanks for the ride, JT—see ya 'round,” said one of the girls with curls of black hair.

“Later, guys!” echoed the young man's voice from inside the Jeep before the second girl slammed the car door shut and the Jeep sped off down the hill.

Still questioning Ryan's words and motives, Shelby peered down at her soiled boots with their bright red laces to think.

“Can I ask you something?” asked Ryan. “Be honest. Would you have spent time with me if you had known who I was?”

Still looking down, she considered his question and shook her head. She would never have followed her grandfather's advice and gone to meet him at The Inn on that first night.