Poison Apples (38 page)

“I never remember her name, anyway, Colm, you know that. It’s some kind of flower. I don’t suppose she used that name when she was in the circus. Wrap up these carrots and celery in a baggie, would you? I want them kept fresh. The Jamaicans are fussy about what they eat.”

“Circus? No kidding?” Colm Hanna said.

“Sure, she rode elephants, Pete says. It was one leap from there onto the stage. But she never was big time. I mean, the only role she had was that small part in the film they made here in town. Hi, Em, you coming with us?”

“Yeah, but not this minute.” Emily was on her way upstairs. She had just thought of something—something she’d found in the pasture a week ago, something she’d put away in her top drawer.

“Mom, can I take the pickup?” she called down. “You can ride with Colm, can’t you? I need to go downtown. I need to see somebody about homework.”

“Now? Friday night? With that bad ankle?” Her mother sounded skeptical.

“Please, Mom,” she said, coming down. “It’s my left ankle, not the right. And I’m a careful driver. Why’d I get my license anyway if I can’t drive the pickup? I learned on that old junk, Mother!”

Colm laughed, and her mother made a face. “You’re talking about the vehicle I love,” she quipped. But she fished in her pocket, handed over the keys. “The supper’s at six. Moira will need your help.”

“I’ll be there, Mom, I said.” She went to hug her mother, stopped short. She couldn’t seem to hug anybody lately. It was like she was out in the lake in a small boat, cut adrift, without oars. She shut the door quickly before her mother could change her mind.

She drove to Branbury Inn. Her father was there, with that woman. They were drinking wine, watching TV “Dad, I need to talk to you. Alone.”

“Sit down and have a glass of wine with us,” her father said in a jolly voice. She knew that voice so well. It would override her mother’s when he wanted the floor, when he wanted his way. She used to love the sound of that voice.
.
..

“No, thank you,” she said to the wine. “I have to go to a party.”

“Ooh,what fu-un,” said the woman, looking glamorous, looking phony in black tights and long silky caftan—something oriental. It was really too delicate for her large frame. She wasn’t fat, Emily noted, just big. Maybe six-feet-tall, almost her father’s height. Emily hadn’t known till tonight that she’d been in the circus. Why hadn’t they told her things like that? But elephants! You needed muscles for that.

“A new boyfriend?” the woman asked.

Even her father squelched that one. “Violet,” he warned; he knew about Adam. He got up, put an arm around his daughter. “It was a tough thing,” he said. “Tough thing,” he repeated, not having the words to describe what she hoped he felt. He looked at the woman for support. Her father always shied away from feelings, from psychological thoughts.

“Oh yes, sweetie, I’m so sorry. But it was all for the best, wasn’t it? In the long run?” The woman stood up. In her black satin heels she was taller than Emily’s father.

“All for the best,” her father echoed, and took another sip of wine. But she knew he was concerned. There was something about the way he frowned, his pale blue eyes searching hers. He was worried about her, but he didn’t know how to express it. She was sorry for that.

But she needed to talk to him, alone. “Would you mind?” she told the woman. She couldn’t bring herself to say
Violet.

“Okay,” the woman said brightly. “Dads and daughters have to talk. I understand. I’ll go back in the lobby bar, have a drink there. Give you fifteen minutes, all right, Emily, dear?” Her smile glittered. Emily nodded. That was all the time she had anyway. Moira Earthrowl needed her help.

The woman left. Her father looked hard at Emily. “Em, we have to talk about this. Violet and I, well, we plan to be married. She’ll be your stepmother. You have to get over this
.
..
this
.
..”
He couldn’t think of the right word, but she knew what he meant.

She was worried now, she had to make her father aware. At first when she’d found the brooch she wasn’t sure, she thought it belonged to Opal. But Opal hadn’t recognized it when she wore it one day in front o
f
her, and now she was certain it wasn’t Opal who came through the fence that night. But the woman. She could have done it. She’d want Emily’s mother to sell. She’d want houses all over their land that would bring in money. She’d want money, period, and all the luxury it would bring. Trips to Paris. To London.
T
o the circus?

Of course, they could have been together that night, her father and the woman. She didn’t want to think her dad had been there, but she’d never have thought of Adam hurting anyone, either.
.
..

“I found this, Dad,” she said, pulling the brooch out of her pocket. It was a gold brooch, with an elephant overlaid in ivory.

Her father appeared to recognize it. Her heart lurched. “Hey,” he said, “Violet was looking all over for this. It was me gave it to her. Where in hell’d you find it?”

She took a breath. Then looked her father in his watery blue eyes. “By the fence, Dad. In the pasture where the cows were the night they were slashed. Does she have a survival knife, Dad?”

He didn’t answer. His ruddy face paled; there was a slight ticking in his cheek. She knew the answer.

“She just keeps it for defense,” he murmured. “I mean, she lives in New York City. She wouldn’t use it to ... my God, I can’t imagine she would ...”

“Well, try to imagine, then, Dad. Imagine her coming a second time, and fooling around with the John Deere. Does she know anything about tractors? You don’t, Mom knows that. Our tractors and cars were always breaking down and she had to take them in town to be fixed. Till we got Tim. Your girlfriend ever take a course in mechanics? Some women do. Mom always means to, she hasn’t found time.”

She was taking a chance; she felt nervous and bold at the same time. She despised this woman. She didn’t want her for a stepmother. For that matter, she didn’t know that she wanted her father back, either. That is, with her mother. At least Col Hanna’s voice didn’t override her mother’s. He wouldn’t make her sell her farm. Pay a hundred thousand dollars for the land.

“I’ll talk to her,” her father said. “I’ll find out. I can’t imagine ...”

“Okay, Dad. Dad, I need to go. I just wanted to know if she did it, that’s all. Just to be sure she doesn’t do anything like that again. It’s not fair to Mom. Vic drives that John Deere sometimes. He’s not supposed to, but he does.”

Her father seemed bewildered, then angry. He got up and phoned the bar. He told the bartender to send Violet back to the room. Emily didn’t want to be there when she got back.
“
‘
Bye Dad,” she said, and put a hand on his arm. He was her father, after all; he’d had a setback, a disillusionment. Emily could understand that.

She limped out to the pickup, feeling strangely exhilarated. The tears were wetting her cheeks. It wasn’t Adam. It wasn’t Adam! a voice shouted inside. He wouldn’t have hurt her animals. They could have had something together, it just hadn’t been the right time, that’s all. He had too many other things on his mind, heavy things that weighed down on his very soul. He was sick—she realized that now.

She went straight to the orchard. Her mother and Colm were already there. Ruth cried out in surprise when Emily flung her arms around her. Emily hadn’t meant to do that, she just did it, that’s all. Moira and the twins were coming out the farmhouse door, carrying trays of food: salads, corn on the cob, cheeses, fruit. Emily relieved Moira of a casserole of apple pan dowdy; it looked delicious. Even before she and the twins arrived at the bunkhouse she breathed in the fragrance of curry, garlic, spices she couldn’t recognize but that smelled heavenly. Heavenly, she thought, remembering the story Colm told her mother about why the church wanted the orchard.

Derek was out on the grass, grinning, stirring an enormous pot of goat stew. He was wearing a red and purple hand-woven scarf around his neck. “Tek it, eet it, girl, dee-lee-cious!” he told Emily. Don Yates and the other men were crowding about the pot, smiling and chattering. Desmond, in a pink and yellow scarf, was playing a harmonica, Zayon was setting up the drums. Derek held out a bowl of curried stew. She shook her head.

“Come on, Em, we have to try it. You eat beef, don’t you?” her mother said. “The old law of hospitality?”

“Break goat together,” Colm said, and Ruth said, “Honestly, Colm.” He had his arm around her mother’s waist, but Emily didn’t mind.

She accepted the bowl Derek was holding out. It was more a soup than a stew, but it was warm, it smelled savory. “Ole goat he sacrifice for us,” Zayon said, whispering in her ear, and she nodded, tipped up the bowl, and she drank.

……..

For Joan and the late Dr. Ted Collier and their wonderful Windfall Orchard

Acknowledgments

For help on this novel I owe thanks and gratitude to the following:

Aerial sprayer Doug Daugherty for his time and invaluable information on spraying, insecticides, apple predators, et al.

The late Dr. Ted Collier for generous apple expertise, and his wife, Joan, for the loan of reference books, including
Apples
by Peter Wynne and
The Apple Book
by Rosanna Saunders.

My daughter, Catharine Wright, and farmer Bob Piggott for reading early drafts of the manuscript with a critical eye.

Barney Hodges Jr. and T. Tall for allowing me to visit their apple trees and to interview their delightful Jamaican pickers.

Mike Brinkman and Bob Pannozzo for a dramatic spraying demonstration in Bob’s Cornwall orchard.

Apple growers Ruthven Ryan, Art Blaise, and Dick Bates for good talk about their experience on the former Edgewood
Orchard.

Eric Neil and Spence Wright for sharing their adventures with tractors.

Burlington Free Press
reporter Sally Pollak for her delightful piece on the Rattlesnake Show at the Champlain Valley Fair.

Fellow writers Kathleen McKinley Harris and Julie Becker for news clippings, friendship, and moral support.

Copyeditor Dave Cole for keeping me in line through his forest of percep
ti
ve green Post-Its on my manuscript; and editorial assistant Julie Sullivan and my agent, Alison Picard, for cheerfully responding to my numerous E-mails.

And of course my wonderful editor and role model, Ruth Cavin at St Martin’s Press, whose knowledgeable insights, sense of humor, and enthusiasm for this book carried me along to publication.

And finally, to my husband, Dennie, and my extended Vermont family for constant encouragement and support.

Copyright © 2000 by Nancy Means Wright

Originally published by St. Martin's Minotaur (0312262205)

Electronically published in 2010 by Belgrave House

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

     http://www.BelgraveHouse.com

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.