Family Trees (6 page)

“Wait! I'll walk you out.” He rushed to catch up.

“No need.” She threw up her hand and walked faster.

“Hold on,” he urged, hurrying up beside her. “Can I walk you to your car? I'm heading out, too.”

Shelby scanned the front of the store, perhaps searching for a diversion, then turned on her heel to face him straight-on. Arms crossed, she looked up at him and blew a wisp of hair out of her face with exasperation. “All right, but I'm in a bit of a hurry.” Before he could reply, she was heading for the door once more.

“So . . . you work with your grandmother?”
She's clearly amazed by your conversation skills, Chambers,
Ryan chided himself.

“Yep.”

“What do you do? You know, besides baking,” he asked as they made their way across the street.

“A little bit of everything, I suppose,” she replied, her voice polite but distracted. “And what do you do, besides hang out in grocery stores while on vacation? I would imagine a guy like you would have a lot more fun being out on the water.”

“Oh, a little bit of everything,” he teased. With that she gave him a sidelong glance and the hint of a smile. “So tell me. What gave me away?”

“Hmm?”

“The tourist comment.”

“Oh, that. Well, for starters, I've lived here all of my life and this is a very small town. You're new. Two, you don't know Boots. Everyone around here knows Boots. And three, you have the look of a weekend outdoorsman.” She tapped her wrist in reference to his Yacht Master Rolex watch. “No offense.”

“No, no. It's okay. You're right. We arrived from Chicago a few days ago and we're staying through Sunday.”

Shelby stopped beside her parked truck and quickly fished keys out of her pocket. “Wonderful. I hope you and your . . . girlfriend? Wife?”

“College friends.”

“Nice,” she said, holding her keys. “I hope you all have a great time.”

“Do you want to do something?” As soon as he blurted it out, he cringed. He sounded less confident than an awkward teen. He wiped perspiration from his brow and wasn't sure if it was brought on by the sun or his nerves. What was it about this woman that caused him to fumble for words?

“Excuse me?”

“Grab a bite to eat? You know, so I could learn a thing or two about Bayfield from one of its finest residents?” His attempt to cajole her fell flat.

“Thanks, no. I mean, don't get me wrong. It's a nice offer. But I actually need to get back to work.” When Shelby opened the door to her truck, the hinges creaked with age.

“Of course.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Some other time then?”

“Listen, Brian . . .”

“Ryan.”

“Ryan. I'm in a relationship. But I'm sure there are plenty of other girls around town who would be interested in having
‘lunch'
with you,” Shelby said, emphasizing “lunch” with sarcasm. She pulled herself into the cab with ease and pulled the door shut. She was buckling her seat belt when Ryan put his hand on the rim of the open driver's side window.

“Hang on, I think you have the wrong idea here. Despite the way you twisted my words just now, I actually was interested in
just lunch
. And even if I had known that you were involved—which I didn't—it wouldn't have mattered because it still would have been
just lunch.
But I'll forgive your assumptions about my character because I have one very big weakness and you're the only one who can satisfy it.”

“I can imagine . . .” she said under her breath while fumbling to jam a key into the ignition.

“Pie.”

“Sorry?” Shelby's hand dropped to her lap and he could hear the
clink
of keys hitting the floorboard. Good. He'd caught her off guard. He had one more shot at a good impression.

“I'm crazy for pie. When I ran into you earlier, I was actually on a mission to buy pie. And then, after meeting you at the store, and becoming overwhelmed with the desire to have
‘lunch,'
I completely forgot about the pie.”

Ryan watched as Shelby raised her hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh. He had successfully put his foot in the proverbial door before she slammed it in his face and drove away.

“I could always go track down Boots again,” Ryan continued. “But I figure, if you have any more on hand, it would be easier just to buy one from you right here. Besides, now that I've met Boots, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd just sell me one of the old ones he keeps stashed away in the freezer.” He could plainly see she had another half-dozen pie boxes stacked on the floor of the passenger seat.

“How about two?” she replied with a hint of challenge.

“Why not make it three?” And with that, she let out a robust, contagious laugh that immediately hit a chord with him. The sound made him feel alive, like that new song on the radio that you can't wait to hear again.

“Okay. Three it is . . .” She paused. Would she remember? “Ryan.”

 

And just like that, she was gone. Ryan was alone, standing on the sidewalk and looking uphill toward the white truck that had turned at the first intersection and disappeared. As he stood there, three pie boxes in his arms, he wondered how he would explain it to his friends. Certainly they'd wonder why, instead of the usual provisions of salami, cheese, chips, and beer, he would bring nothing but pie back to the cottage. But he wasn't interested in heading back into the grocery store to shop and running into Boots again.

“Did you get her number?” A bearded man snuck up beside Ryan and startled him.

“Boots!” Ryan said with a jolt, taking a step back and nearly slipping off the curb. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“I said, did you get her number?” Boots stood beside Ryan while twisting his spindly index finger into his left ear to snub out an itch. The men didn't look at each other. Instead, Boots stared up the road.

“Um, no.”

“Come on. A good-lookin' fella like you and you couldn't even manage to get her number?”

“No, I . . . I didn't ask,” Ryan said, adjusting his grip on the pie boxes. “It appears she has a boyfriend.”

“Does she?” Puzzled, Ryan studied the man's expressions carefully. “That's news to me,” Boots continued. “In case you're wondering—and judging from the sorry expression on your face, I gather you do—I think she's intrigued.” Boots ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and then used the fingernail of his pinkie finger to pick something out of his teeth. “Looks like you blew it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Young, handsome, and dumb as a rock.” Boots shook his head slowly and turned to look Ryan in the eye. “Now, listen. Shelby generally doesn't give men the time of day. And guys like you, who come and go all summer long and try to flirt with the pretty gals in town? Forget it. You're barkin' up the wrong tree.” He paused to chew whatever tiny bit of food he was able to pry from his teeth. “But I will tell you this . . . she saw somethin' in you right off the bat.”

“I don't think so. She shot me down cold.” A few days ago, he would never have believed that he would be standing on the sidewalk in a small town, holding three boxes of strawberry-rhubarb pie, and getting advice about women from a guy named Boots.

“Of course she did. That's how she was raised. She's not going to go off with any young city slicker who rolls through town, 'cuz you weren't the first and you won't be the last. But what makes this situation different is not what she
did
do, it's what she
didn't
do.”

“I'm not following you.”

“She didn't turn down your offer to help. That girl prides herself on not needing a man's help for
anything
. Help to carry pies into the shop? Hogwash.” Boots chuckled and then coughed, thumping his chest with a closed fist, then turning his head to spit a wad of phlegm into the street. “I've seen her kick in the door to my store with one boot, during a snowstorm, carrying a much larger load, without needing a single bit of help.” Boots looked squarely at Ryan. “Your little act of chivalry? Please.”

Ryan moved the pies from one arm to the other and looked up the empty road again. If Boots was right, Ryan would be a fool not to give it one more shot.

“As I walked out of the shop just now, I saw her drive off in a huff. Not sure what you said or did, but I'll tell ya, pal—you blew it.” Boots shook his head.

“There isn't a boyfriend?” Ryan asked with raised eyebrows.

Boots shook his head. “Hasn't had one for years.”

“And the child?” Ryan added, thinking back to the sight of her twirling a small boy in her arms.

“Nope.”

When he turned back to ask Boots where he could find Shelby, he realized the white-haired man had disappeared as quietly as he had approached. Boots was already meandering down the sidewalk as if the conversation had never taken place.

Ryan was about to cross the street and return to his car, when he noticed a sparkle of light bounce off of a delicate piece of metal on the sidewalk. It lay in the precise spot where Shelby had been standing beside her truck. He bent one knee down to the sidewalk, set the boxes on the ground, and picked up the ice-blue stone pendant that looped onto a delicate silver chain.

C
HAPTER
6

B
ack at the cottage, Ryan leaned against the kitchen counter, his fingernails clicking against the Formica in a rapid drumroll rhythm. He had never been one to believe in fate, and yet he had this unwavering feeling that running into Shelby again was serendipitous. He also realized that the interest was likely one-sided, despite the opinion of one bearded grocer named Boots. And yet, like an osprey feeling the internal pull of an impending migration, Ryan was restless to return to her. He stopped the drumming and laid his hand flat against the countertop. Who was he kidding? When it came to Shelby, it seemed he was less like a creature on a migratory track—and more like the dim-witted bird that abandons its flock and ends up flying directly into a windowpane, flapping its wings against the glass without realizing he's going nowhere.

Brad and Pete were sitting at the table, hovering over two open pie boxes. The tongs of their forks tore into the pies like the teeth of ravenous wolves. Ryan wondered what his friends' wives would say if they saw their husbands now, two grown men reduced to grunting boys who ate right off the pie plate—breaking the rules and enjoying every minute of it.

“Did you want any of this?” Pete called out to Ryan, a smudge of strawberry filling smeared across his unshaven chin.

“I'm good.” Ryan smiled.

How difficult could it be to find her again? The easiest thing, of course, would be to simply return to the grocery store and ask Boots. But he sensed that Boots wouldn't have much more to say to him. Ryan knew she had a grandmother named Ginny. It couldn't be too difficult in a town like this, could it? On the other hand, people could be more like John from West Bay Outfitters—protective over their neighbors—and not as forthcoming as Boots. Particularly when dealing with a stranger.

“Ryan, these pies are killer! Where'd you say you found them?” Pete asked.

“At the grocery store in town.”

“The grocery? But that's not what the label on the box says.”

Ryan moved to the table and closed the lid of one of the boxes. Funny, he hadn't noticed it. But there it was. Clearly embossed in the lower right-hand corner of the lid was the answer he needed:

Leaving his friends and what little remained of the pie, Ryan drove off to find Meyers Orchard. After driving several miles up a wooded county road, he arrived atop the bluffs that overlooked Lake Superior. It was there that Ryan came upon a fork in the road that was marked by a curious signpost. Nearly a dozen signs, each painted a different color, were nailed haphazardly to a single post. Lake View Orchard. Chequamegon Apple Company. Dormer Farms. He scanned them until he spotted the one that he was looking for, positioned near the bottom. “Meyers Orchard” was lettered carefully in white paint upon a berry red arrow that pointed left. Filled with a rush of anticipation, Ryan put the car in Drive and proceeded onto a gravel road, kicking up a cloud of dust until he reached the farm.

Ryan slowly turned into the driveway and pulled up next to the only other car in the visitor parking area. He opened the car door and stretched out his long legs while taking a look around. Surrounded by acres of orchard land, the well-tended farm included three structures. One appeared to be a modest whitewashed home that featured a wraparound porch, porch swing, and black shutters. A simple garden of golden marigolds cheerfully adorned the stone paver walkway that led to the front porch.

The second structure was a wood-paneled barn with worn red paint and white trim that resembled the roadside sign. There was a copper weather vane, greened by patina, posted atop the copula. Its design depicted a galloping horse with waves of tail and mane that trailed off its body like ribbons. The barn's double-wide sliding doors were pulled open to reveal a rustic living space inside, complete with a sunken couch, large apple crates that seemed to serve as tables, some camping lamps, and a television sitting atop an overturned barrel. It looked as though a bent wire hanger was serving as a TV antenna.

Finally, he turned his attention to the building that stood directly in front of him. A “Welcome” sign, with small apples stenciled across the bottom, hung above the entrance. He approached the store just as a middle-aged couple opened the door. One of the men was carrying a gift bag, while his partner held on to his arm, laughing.

The scent of cinnamon and cedar greeted Ryan as he entered the store. In contrast to the stifling heat outdoors, the spice-infused, air-conditioned space conjured thoughts of October on the hot August day. He meandered around the displays of handcrafted baskets, jams, and apple-themed gift items. And then, in the back corner area of the store, working behind a bakery case that showcased streusel-topped berry pies, applesauce muffins, and sugared doughnuts, he found a petite woman putting the finishing touches on a lattice pie.
Ginny
.

“Hello,” Ryan offered easily as he approached.

Ginny Meyers turned around, wiped her hands on her flour-smudged, oil-stained apron, and smiled. “Well, hello,” she acknowledged him before politely coughing into the crook of her arm. Her hair was winter white and full, cut into a short bob that swung like the skirt of a dancer when she moved her head.

“It smells like heaven in here.” He bent down to peruse the pastry case. “I haven't eaten all day. Any recommendations?”

“Here,” she offered, reaching into the case to pull out an apple cider doughnut hole that had been generously rolled in cinnamon sugar. “Give this a try.”

He popped the warm pastry into his mouth, enjoying the crunch of its fried outer edge and the delicate spice cake within. Brushing bits of sugar from his lips, he gushed, “Now
that
is good.”

Ginny cleared her throat and nodded. “It is, isn't it?”

He couldn't help but notice that Ginny had the same brown eye color that he had admired on Shelby. “I will definitely be taking those back with me. A dozen, please,” he said, and then remembered the appetites of the lions back at the cottage. “Actually, better make that two dozen.”

“Well, you'll certainly make someone happy when you return home with these,” she said confidently, filling up two paper bags with the baked goods.

He pointed over her shoulder to a back table. “What are those? Behind you . . .”

She followed his gaze. “Oh, those are strictly off-menu, I'm afraid. They're just the bits of dough that float off of the doughnuts in the fryer. They're overcooked and not to my taste, but Lord love him, they're my husband's favorites.”

“You don't say.”

“The man has had a handful of those doughnut dribbles and a glass of milk for his afternoon snack nearly every day for God knows how many years. Can you imagine? He never tires of the damn things.” She passed two doughnut bags across to Ryan and then grabbed a towel to wipe down the counter. “If you ask me, I think it's his secret. He's as healthy as they come!”

“He may be on to something.”

“Are you visiting long?” she asked, again covering her mouth with her sleeve to stifle a slight cough. He'd been pegged as a tourist once again.

“I'm here for the rest of the week. But you never know, I may have to return someday for more of these doughnuts!” He spoke easily with her, enjoying the way she smiled with her entire face, rosy and round.

“Be careful now. You may fall in love with the area and never want to leave.” She moved out from behind the bakery counter and waved to two women entering the shop. “Hello, ladies! Let me know if you need any help,” she sang out kindly.

“I can see how that could happen,” Ryan said, reaching into one of his bags to grab another doughnut hole. “If you don't mind my asking, how long have you been here?”

“In Bayfield?”

He nodded while chewing.

While the other two customers browsed leisurely in the homey shop, Ginny appeared relaxed and interested in continuing her conversation with Ryan. “Oh my,” she began, looking past him. “1960? No—1961. That was my first visit. But we moved here permanently in '63.” She led Ryan to a small seating area in the shop where customers could sit with a cup of coffee and a baked good. One wall in the space was adorned with family photographs of varying sizes, in an assortment of mismatched frames.

“My husband and I came to Bayfield on our honeymoon and, later on, when we were deciding where to settle down, we decided to make a go of it up here,” Ginny continued. “It was a bit of a whim. We were just kids. We knew nothing—absolutely
nothing!
—about what it takes to live this far north, let alone how to grow apples or run a farm.” She shook her head, obviously still in disbelief after all of those years.

“I never would have guessed that. It's a beautiful property, Mrs.—”

“Meyers. Ginny Meyers.” She appeared to be the type of grandmother that everyone deserves, but few are fortunate to have.

“Mrs. Meyers.”

“Heavens no!” She placed her hand firmly on his arm. “Call me Ginny. Everyone does.”

“All right. Thank you, Ginny.” He turned to a shelved jam display at his side and ran his finger along the shelf, noticing how each glass Ball Mason jar was carefully hand-labeled and capped with a calico fabric lid. Finally, he said, “I believe I met your granddaughter this morning.”

“Did you?” she replied slowly, tipping her head to the side with raised eyebrows.

“I ran into her when she was making a delivery for Boots.” He read the labels. Raspberry. Apple Butter. Blueberry Marmalade.

“My, my. For a visitor, you certainly are getting to know some of Bayfield's finest. First you mention Shelby, then Boots,” she said in good humor while taking a closer look at his profile. “Funny, she didn't mention it to me.”

“Truth is, I didn't make much of an impression on either one of them. She probably didn't consider it noteworthy.” Black Cherry, his favorite. He grabbed a couple to add to his purchase.

“Really? I find that hard to believe.” Ginny changed her stance and placed a hand to the side of her face. “She didn't recognize you?” Her forehead pulled up in a wrinkle of disbelief.

“Excuse me?” He turned to face her.

“I mean, she didn't recognize your obvious
charm?
She must have been preoccupied,” she recovered, and then reached across Ryan to grab a third jar to add to his purchase. “Trust me. You have to try this blueberry marmalade. It happens to be my granddaughter's favorite.”

Chatting a bit longer about the farm, Ginny radiated a warmth and openness that Ryan hadn't come across much in his daily life. As Ginny spoke, she gestured toward the wall of photographs adjacent to the jam shelves. He approached to take a closer look and noticed one photograph in particular. It was of a young girl, perhaps ten years old, with round brown eyes and a cascade of brunette hair that curled up around her shoulders. While she was a lovely child with a sweet expression, something seemed to be missing from her smile. It was probably nothing, but he couldn't help but notice a hint of sadness.

Ginny pointed to another photograph of the same child. She was a few years younger, dressed in red overalls and sprawled out in a mountainous pile of fall leaves. This time, she was laughing with an open, gap-toothed grin.

“That's Shelby. Not only is she beautiful, but she's loyal, smart as a whip, and works harder than anyone I know.” She continued to point out a few other photographs on the wall. “Here's one of my husband and me celebrating our first harvest. God, we were young. And this is a photograph of Shelby as a baby. My sweet girl,” she sighed and moved on to other photographs. “This here is another special picture. It's the day Olen and I opened the farm for business. You can see from the size of the trees behind us that a lot has changed over the years. The orchard was so immature at that time that we hardly made enough money to live on. We had to supplement our income with garden produce, and Olen took part-time jobs around town. Those were difficult times.”

“Is this your granddaughter, too?” Ryan asked, pointing to a photograph of a child riding a bicycle down a tree-lined path.

“No, that's our daughter, Jackie,” Ginny said, giving the frame a gentle tap. “She and Shelby do look a bit alike. But they couldn't be more different.”

“Does she live in Bayfield, too?” He suddenly remembered the “rotten egg daughter” comment from Boots earlier that day.

“No. She's out in California.” The manner in which Ginny turned away from the photographs made it clear to Ryan that the family show-and-tell was over.

“My goodness, you have a way of getting people to talk,” Ginny said over her shoulder as she led Ryan to the cash register near the front door.

After paying for his items, Ryan had one last question for Ginny. “I was wondering . . .” he said, shoving his wallet into his back pocket and trying to sound casual. “Is she here, by any chance?”

“Hmm?”

“Your granddaughter?”

“Well, I wondered how long you were going to stand here talking to an old lady before you came around to that question.” Ginny straightened her posture and set her hands on her hips. “Since I'm a sucker for good-looking men, I'll tell you what. If you walk out behind the store and head to the eastern side of the orchard, you'll find Shelby. She's out working this afternoon.”