The Silver Bough (44 page)

“It’s impossible. I was
here
on Sunday night! We sat out eating dinner—eating vegetables she’d grown, right there.” She waved her hand at the impossible wilderness the well-tended garden had become. “She had a greenhouse, over in that corner, and—I mean, you can knock things down, but thistles and giant hogweed don’t spring up overnight!”

“Did you know this woman before the landslide?”

She frowned, understanding the implication. “I didn’t
imagine
her—and she wasn’t a ghost!”

“Kathy, you don’t have to justify yourself to me. Was she an old friend?”

She sighed, shook her head. “Sunday was my first visit. But loads of people knew her—she’d been in Appleton for years, fixing this place up. I knew her from her visits to the library—she requested some things we had to get through Inter-Library Loan, specialist articles, mostly, about apple-growing.”

“Apples! Was she the one you told me about, with the tree bearing fruit and blossom at the same time?” He began to look around. “Where was that tree? Can you show me?”

“She had an orchard inside an old, walled garden. Down there somewhere.” She pointed, wincing at the prospect of fighting their way through the trackless wilderness. “I wish I had my high boots on.”

“Never fear, fair lady, I shall break a path for you,” he said with a bow, and they made their way slowly and carefully across the inhospitable wasteland, to the walled garden. She was relieved to find it still there, but as soon as he forced open the warped and battered old wooden door in the wall, her hope died.

The apple orchard was gone, as if, like everything else Nell had repaired, changed, built, planted, and tended, it had never been more than a fantasy. Instead of rows of carefully nurtured trees, the enclosed space was a mad confusion of growing things, some of them survivors of the garden that had once been here, others incomers from seeds dropped by birds or rodents, or blown in on the wind. The garden was protected on three sides only; the fourth wall was crumbling, half-caved-in, the bricks furred with brilliant green moss and sprouting a crop of hardy weeds, even a slender sapling rowan tree.

As she gazed around, comparing this reality to the picture in her mind of Nell’s orchard, she could feel the remembered image crumbling like the old brick wall, overwhelmed by the pressure of all this real and growing vegetable life.

“Here’s the apple tree,” said Dave.

“What?” She turned and stared, but couldn’t see what had caught his eye. As she began to move toward him, a thorny tendril caught at her leg. She unhooked herself, wincing. “How can you tell? Are you sure?”

He gave her a sardonic look. “It has an apple growing on it.”

She forgot all concern for her clothes and bashed through the undergrowth to reach his side. The tree he’d discovered was very small and looked ancient: gnarled and bent low to the ground, with flaky white scales erupting here and there along the crooked branches, and brown-spotted leaves. It didn’t look very healthy, but the single apple that it carried was beautiful, without a blemish, smooth and yellow and inviting.

She reached for it at the same moment that he did, but his hand closed about it first, and he was the one who plucked it from the tree.

“Halvsies?” he said, and she nodded, feeling suddenly oddly breathless, on the brink of something momentous.

He pulled a folding knife out of his pocket and cut the apple in two.

“That’s the wrong way to cut it.”

He shrugged. “I always liked to do it that way, to see the star in the middle.” He handed her a piece, and she saw what he meant. The fruit felt warm, as if it had been resting in the sun rather than in this shady place, and a subtle yet heady aroma rose from the cut flesh.

Her mouth watered but, afraid of disappointment, she hesitated. “It’s probably some old cooking apple, incredibly bitter—”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I think this is the apple that made Appleton famous—the last of its kind—incredibly delicious—but we’ll never know unless we try.”

“Together?”

At his nod, they each bit into the apple. It was sweet, yet sharp, with a surprising complexity of flavor that defied simple analysis. She swiftly took another bite, then another, until she’d eaten it all except for the seeds.

She looked at Dave, who took the hand with the seeds in it and, clasping it tightly, whispered, “Make a wish.”

She could think of nothing to wish for. She had what she wanted: this man, this feeling between them, this moment and hope for more like it. She was happy, and she knew it. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“Now kiss me,” he said.

E
IGHT
M
ONTHS
L
ATER
...

K
ATHLEEN SETTLED THE
last of her newspaper-wrapped dishes into the cardboard box, closed the flaps, and reached for the tape dispenser. A ribbon of shiny brown squeaked out, then snagged. It was the end of the roll.

She sat back on her heels and looked around the living room, nearly filled with carefully packed cardboard boxes, and had a flash of
déjà vu
. A year ago, she’d been confronted by this same sight, only then the chore ahead of her had been to unpack and find a place for everything in the bijoux Library House which was to be her new home. Now, sooner than she’d expected, she was moving on. A tingle of nervous excitement ran through her at the thought of what the next year might bring. To live in a library had been her childhood wish come true, but to be moving in with the love of her life—well, that truly was her heart’s desire.

In any case, she would have had to vacate the Library House, because it was going to be needed for office space. There were big changes coming to Appleton Public Library; not only a new computerized system, and computers with free Internet access for the public, but more staff, longer opening hours, and substantial redevelopment plans for the museum.

Glancing at her watch, Kathleen rose to her feet, stretching the kinks out of her arms and legs. It was too early for lunch, but since she was going to have to go out to buy more tape, she thought she might as well take a break. With her own cups and kettle packed away, she had the perfect excuse for visiting the new café that had just opened on the high street. Called The Magic Bean, it advertised an interesting list of specialty coffees and teas, and looked surprisingly cosmopolitan for Appleton.

But Appleton was changing. The Magic Bean was only one of several new businesses to have opened in the past few months, and throughout the town center other commercial properties, long vacant, were being refurbished and redecorated as shops, restaurants, or offices as people scented new possibilities in the air. Kathleen recalled how last September, while most people were complaining about the inconvenience of being cut off, a few had suggested that the landslide might be the best thing to happen to Appleton in a long time. Now it seemed that they had been proved right. Newspaper articles and television features about the isolated little town had attracted a lot of interest. After one celebrity couple chose to get married on Southport Beach, near King Arthur’s footprints—musical accompaniment to their “traditional Celtic handfasting ceremony” provided by a local band, who were immediately signed by a major label—the area became even more famous as a destination for a romantic short break. The local hotels had their busiest “off-season” ever, and it was widely expected that this year’s tourist season, just beginning, would be a stunning success.

The front door of the Library House opened onto a quiet back street, and it was still quiet on this cool morning, but as soon as she turned the corner toward the town center, Kathleen could feel the buzz, the positive life force which had recharged the whole area. The physical changes might be small—a new sign here, a new coat of paint there—but Appleton was very different from the faded, forgotten backwater it had been a year ago. The atmosphere was utterly changed, filled with a new hope and optimism, and this time Kathleen knew she wasn’t simply projecting her own emotions onto her surroundings.

She went into the newsagent’s where she bought the tape she needed and a newspaper. During this brief transaction three people came into the shop, and every one of them greeted her. It gave her a good feeling, to be recognized and liked, and she knew she was now really part of the community. She would have gone with him anywhere, but she was glad that Dave wanted to stay at White Gates.

She saw more people she knew outside. It was easier for her now to recognize the visitors in the busy streets. She enjoyed her status as a local all the more among the crowds of tourists admiring the scenery and wistfully fantasizing about giving up their stressful existence in the city for a new life here. Such visitors were often to be seen standing outside the estate agent’s window, viewing the details of properties for sale as longingly as kids in front of a sweet-shop.

As she approached it now, Kathleen cast a quick, amused glance at the people standing outside the window only to stop, startled, to look again before calling out, uncertainly, “Nell?”

The tall, willowy brunette turned in response, and at the sight of her face, Kathleen had no doubts. “Nell Westray! It
is
you! Where have you been?”

There was no answering recognition on Nell’s face, although she smiled back, a bit quizzically. “I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t remember…how do we know each other?”

Well, of course she doesn’t remember, because it hasn’t happened,
thought Kathleen, dazed all over again as she confronted an impossibility. There was no proof that anyone named Eleanor Westray had ever lived in Appleton—she wasn’t in the phone book, or in the card catalogue of library members, and everyone she asked assured her that Orchard House had stood empty for years, an unsalable white elephant that had just been put back on the market this month. The only evidence—if you could call it that—was Kathleen’s memory, and that had grown steadily more tenuous, less clear, until the sight of this woman brought the past rushing back.

“I’m Kathleen, Kathleen Mullaroy,” she stammered. “I’m the librarian.”

“The library—isn’t that the wonderful building with the golden dome on top?” At her nod, a line appeared on Nell’s brow. “But…we haven’t been in yet. We thought we’d go in after lunch, didn’t we, Sam?”

At this she finally noticed the man who stood beside Nell, his hand on her shoulder: dark brown eyes in an open, rather boyishly good-looking face. “Hi, Kathleen. I’m Sam. I don’t think we’ve met?”

“No, we haven’t. I’m glad to meet you.” He had a firm handshake; strong, somewhat callused hands: nothing ghostlike about him, she was relieved to note.

Nell had continued to stare, and now something kindled in her gaze. “I think I
do
know you…I sort of remember…didn’t I invite you over to dinner once? Where was that? I was living alone…it must have been in America; you’re American, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“It must have been a long time ago! Well, of course, since you don’t know Sam. Was it in Boston? When was it?”

She shook her head and shrugged, unwilling to lie yet unable to tell the truth.

“Well, obviously it was B.C.—before children. Do you have kids?”

“No.”

“Well, I don’t want to put you off, but I honestly think childbirth causes brain damage. I don’t know if it’s the hormones or what, but I lost so many brain cells that it’s like I can’t remember anything from entire
years
of my life. But all the same, it’s worth it.” She smiled suddenly, dazzlingly. “You haven’t met my other sweetheart. Ronan, say how do you do to my friend Kathleen.”

Kathleen froze at the sound of his name, but it was not a man who stepped out from behind Sam, but a slight, dark-haired, four-year-old boy who clutched his mother’s hand for security before looking up at her, and murmuring, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Good boy,” said Sam, touching him gently on top of his head.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, too, Ronan.” She looked at Nell. “His name…do you mind me asking? Where did you get it?”

“From a book,” said Nell, shrugging as if it was unimportant; but Kathleen thought she looked uneasy.

“We wanted a name that wasn’t ordinary, but wasn’t too weird or too hard to spell,” Sam explained. “We had a shortlist of about half a dozen each, boy and girl, and couldn’t make up our minds. Ronan’s an Irish name; it means ‘little seal,’ and that’s just what he looked like the minute that he came into this world—just like a little pink seal. So we knew that was the right name for him.”