Sour Apples (6 page)

“Great, good for them. Maybe we can squeeze in a lunch. Or, wait—maybe we could hold an event there? Can they handle that kind of thing?”

Belatedly Meg realized that Lauren’s enthusiasm for her new job was going to color everything she did. Meg was sure that Gran’s young owners, Nicky and Brian Czarnecki, a pair of Boston transplants, would welcome the business if the Sainsbury campaign wanted to rent out their restaurant, but she had no idea what their political convictions might be. She wasn’t going to commit to anything without checking with them first. “Maybe. You can ask. What else are you planning around here?”

Lauren ticked off points on her fingers. “Let’s see…Get the filing papers in order. Solidify the Granford base. Talk to as many of the town committee chairs in the district as possible. Find out which local issues resonate. You know, this district is pretty big, though the population is kind of
scattered. Plus with the redistricting, a whole lot of people haven’t been part of this district before, so we’re going to have to get them focused on Rick. It’s going to be a different kind of race than it might be in, say, MetroWest outside of Boston—although even that’s changed.”

“You certainly picked an interesting time to get involved. I can’t say that I’ve paid a lot of attention to state politics since I’ve been here. I didn’t think you were that into it either.”

Lauren laughed. “You’re right—I wasn’t. And I know what you’re thinking: oh, there she goes again, Lauren’s got a new cause. But working from within the political system, I feel you can really make a difference. And I think Rick is a solid guy and a smart candidate.”

Meg held up her hands in surrender. “Enough! I’m glad you’ve found something you’re so enthusiastic about, and I’m glad that it brought you out this way. So, you ready for dinner?”

Lauren retired shortly after dinner, pleading a slew of meetings the next day that she needed to prep for. Meg had left a spare house key on the kitchen table before she went upstairs, but it was still there when she came down in the morning around 8 a.m. Meg fed Lolly and then herself, leafing through the daily paper at the kitchen table, waiting for Bree or Lauren to appear, wondering what the day would hold. If Bree wasn’t already downstairs, there couldn’t be anything too urgent.

Meg saw Seth’s truck drive in and park at the back; Seth emerged and went straight to his office, business as usual. Fifteen minutes later, though, an unfamiliar truck also pulled in and parked outside the kitchen door. The driver jumped out and hurried over to pound on her door.

Meg opened it quickly. “Can I help you?” she asked. She didn’t recognize him, and she noted that he hadn’t identified himself.

“I’m looking for Seth Chapin. I was told his office is around here?”

“He’s in that building at the end of the drive.” She pointed. “There’s a staircase inside the bay. He’s there now—I saw him go in.”

The man gave her a perfunctory nod, then turned and hurried toward the outbuilding.
Odd,
Meg thought. Who was he, and what could he want with Seth? Still, that was their business, not hers.

Bree came clattering down the stairs and helped herself to coffee. “You’re up late today,” Meg said mildly.

“Hey, I’ve been awake for a while, but I was working on something in my room. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about why and how we should expand the orchard.”

Meg silently refilled her coffee mug and sat down. “Okay,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. “Why? Give me your reasons.” And she settled back to listen.

Bree gave her an odd look, as if surprised that Meg hadn’t immediately protested. “Okay. Point one, we’ve lost a number of trees to storms, pests, and age. That’s normal. Some of the remaining ones are still producing, but less and less, and they’re putting out poorer-quality apples. It’s not the best use of the space we have.”

“You want to pull out the dead and dying ones and replace them?”

“Some, yes. That’ll have to be on a tree-by-tree basis, but I’ve made up a chart of what we have where, and how much we’ll have to replace in each area.” Bree shoved a colored printout across the table at her, and Meg studied it. She was impressed: it was color-coded, clear, and simple. While she looked at it, Bree went on. “You’re lucky that the university used this orchard for so long, because you have complete records on what’s there and, in some cases, when they were planted. There are no surprises, nothing to worry about, with the ones that are failing—they’ve just reached the end of their useful life.”

“Do you want to replace those trees with the same varieties?” Meg asked.

“In most cases, yes. A lot of those are our bread-and-butter varieties, the ones for which there’s the most demand, that sell the best. And replacement stock is easy to get, so that’s not a problem.”

“Then I approve. But I take it there’s more?”

Bree flashed her a brief grin. “Of course. I’m taking the long view. Now, this area”—she used a pen to point at one of the smaller shaded sections on the chart—“these are the heirlooms. They sold really well this year, and I’d like to see some more of them in the orchard. Not a whole lot, because who knows what the market will want in a few years, but at least some, and some different varieties. Maybe recreate a group of the varieties that would have been here in 1800 or something like that—it would be a good selling point, and maybe you could milk it for some publicity, you know? Wave an American flag and proclaim it a patriot’s orchard? Get the Daughters of the American Revolution to put up a plaque for a historic orchard?”

Meg laughed. “Interesting idea. We could also appeal to the scientific community, preserving the old genetic stock.”

“So you think it might work?” Bree asked.

“I do. It’s a good idea, as long as we don’t get carried away. Where would you carve out the space?”

“That’s the third part of the plan: Seth’s land.” Before Meg could say anything, Bree held up a hand. “I know, you feel funny about taking him up on his offer. But this is a business proposition, pure and simple. He has land he’s not using and doesn’t plan to use. You want to expand your orchard, and it’s a prime location—plenty of sun, good drainage, not too windy. You can work out some kind of long-term lease arrangement with him. Heck, he’d probably let you do whatever you wanted, but knowing you, I’m sure you’d rather have a nice legally binding agreement.”

“Yes, I would. To protect both of us.” Meg still had reservations, but Bree was right: it was time to make a decision. Either take the idea off the table, or act on it before it
was too late to make it work this year. “I’ll talk to Seth about it. But you’ve got to figure out what kind of legalities we need to consider. Do we want a surveyor? How much land are you talking about? What do we have to do to get it ready, and how soon can we get the trees here? Do we have enough workers to plant them? Or would you and I be doing it ourselves?”

“All good questions. I’ll get right on it, as soon as you clear it with Seth.”

Bree looked happy, which in turn made Meg happy. The past year, they’d done only what had been done in the orchard for years, although they’d managed to expand their sales outlets. This proposed planting would mark a new phase for their orchard; Meg, with Bree’s help, would be putting her own mark on it. That felt good, even if it meant more work.

“Here, I brought along some catalogs with heirloom varieties,” Bree said. “You can take a look. I’ve marked the ones that I know do well around here.”

“I never would have figured you for one of those people who drools over plant catalogs. How do you feel about a kitchen garden?”

“You want vegetables, you’re on your own. The orchard is business. Think about what I said, and talk to Seth.”

“Got it,” Meg said. She’d see how much time she had free before laying out a small vegetable garden—after all, this was New England, and she couldn’t plant much anyway for at least another month. Or two.

Bree finished her coffee and stood up. “I’m going to go pick up the pesticide. Whose truck is that in the driveway?”

“Someone looking for Seth.”

“So Seth’s here?”

“Yes, he is—I’ll try to snag him in a bit and talk about the land. Okay?”

“Deal! I’ll leave the diagrams here so you can show him. See you later.” Bree headed out the back door, pulling on a jacket on the way.

As soon as Bree had slammed the door behind her, Lauren wandered into the kitchen, wearing a dingy bathrobe. “Hey,” she said, heading for the coffee. “It’s cold here. Didn’t you tell me you’d gotten a new furnace?”

“Good morning to you, too. Yes, I did, but I keep the heat low—it’s expensive to heat a leaky old house. I thought you had meetings this morning.”

“I do, at nine, which means I have about seventeen minutes to enjoy my coffee. What’s up with you?”

“The usual. Pruning, spraying, tilling, planting, rinse, and repeat.”

“You make me tired just listening to you,” Lauren said, smiling. “And here I thought I was busy. You know, it’s hard to imagine doing this for the next eight months.”

“The campaign, you mean? I’d bet your job is harder than the candidate’s. He just has to show up where you tell him to, in the transportation you arrange, and give the speech that he probably didn’t write himself.
You
have to make it all happen.”

“You’ve got that right. But I love the energy of it. I love being part of something bigger than I am, that isn’t just about the money.”

“Like the bank was, you mean? I can understand that. I’ve found I do like farming, even if it is dirty and messy and unpredictable. At least at the end of the season I get a product I can hold, and eat. I’m not sure I’d like to be something like a dairy farmer, though—there’s no downtime at all.”

“I can’t imagine being a dairy farmer—all those big, messy cows, and you have to milk them all the time.”

“Speaking of dairy farmers, we just lost one of the few in town here—Seth told me yesterday. The poor woman was killed in a freak accident. It looks like one of her cows kicked her in the head.”

“Oh my God—that’s awful! At least in an orchard the worst that might happen is a tree might fall on you, and your trees aren’t real big.”

Meg went over to the sink to rinse her dishes. Seth’s van and Ethan’s truck were both still parked in the drive. Then, as she watched, another all-too-familiar vehicle pulled into the driveway: a state police car, with Detective William Marcus—Lauren’s ex—at the wheel. Marcus got out of the car and headed for Seth’s office.

“Uh-oh,” Meg said.

“What?” Lauren asked.

“Our mutual friend Detective Marcus is here. That’s not usually good news.”

Lauren bolted out of her chair. “Shoot, look at the time! I’ve got to get dressed and get out of here.” She dashed for the stairs, leaving Meg to wonder whether it was because her friend was running late—or because she was trying to avoid her ex.

Meg felt conflicted. If Detective Marcus was here to talk to Seth, that meant something was wrong. She couldn’t just barge in and ask, but she didn’t feel like she could accomplish anything either until she knew what was going on.

Ten minutes passed before Detective Marcus, Seth, and the other man emerged from the building, and even from a distance the three men looked grim. Meg pulled open the door and stepped out onto the granite step. Seth and Marcus sent her twin warning glances; the unfamiliar man looked shattered and didn’t even notice her.

She could hear Marcus’s gravelly voice clearly. “Go home, Ethan. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything more.” He stared at him until he grudgingly turned and went back to his truck. Ethan didn’t bother to wait for Marcus to move his vehicle, but with a screech of tires he backed over part of Meg’s lawn and pulled onto the street.

Marcus watched him go before turning to Seth. “I hate this part of the job,” he said.

“Anything I can do?” Seth asked.

“Find those records he was talking about. Keep your ears open. It’s early days yet.”

Meg walked forward to meet them. “Detective, what brings you here?”

“Chapin can tell you. I’ve got to get back to my office.”

Lauren chose that moment to come out the back door, apparently oblivious to the scene in the driveway. She stopped abruptly when she saw Meg, Seth, and Marcus standing together. “Oh, I, uh…Hello, Bill.”

“Lauren.” Marcus nodded. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Just for a bit. I’m working for…a politician. And I’m late for a meeting, and it looks like all these vehicles are in the way of my car. Would you mind moving them? Please?” Lauren plastered on a smile.

Apparently it worked, because Marcus returned to his cruiser and left, and Seth pulled out after him but waited in the road, freeing a path for Lauren. As the two women stood watching the men maneuver, Lauren said to Meg, “Well, that was awkward.”

“Did your thing with Marcus not end well?”

Lauren shrugged. “He didn’t quite get why I found him stuffy, I guess. Anyway, since he’s in Northampton, I didn’t think I’d be running into him, not here in Granford. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know yet—he said Seth could tell me.”

“Well, you’ll have to bring me up to speed later. I’ve got to go.” She hurried to her car, started it, and reversed out of the driveway with a cheery wave.