that was here now, however. The only feature that would’ve remained the same was the twisted apple tree looming at the top of the ridge.
I struck out for the tree and the vantage point the crest of the hill would afford. The track was steep, but the switchbacks made it manageable. I heard Barrett’s boots thudding on the dirt behind me as he hustled to catch up with me. His gait was slightly off. I supposed, after weeks in a cast, his leg was cranky about cooperating.
In the morning, it would be Monday, and Barrett had an appointment with an army physical therapist on the books. She’d set him straight before he returned to his regular duties. Except I doubted he planned to head to D.C. and Walter Reed tonight. I wondered what excuse he’d given to his superior to be granted a few extra days of leave instead—but the question slipped to the back of my mind as I topped the rise and got caught up in the beauty of the view.
Halting alongside the magnificent apple tree, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Rip Van Winkle asleep under it. It was wild and wonderful with branches that seemed to scratch the underbellies of the clouds above. Others reached low and got lost in a tangle of yellowing grasses growing all around its trunk. Except for the one apple I’d seen, its overripe fruit had dropped from its limbs. They scented the air with cider and made me feel like the coming dusk was warmer than it really was.
Beyond the tree, the land sloped to form a golden bowl. Like some kind of shorthand, more fruit trees and splintered stumps dotted the hillside as regularly as Morse code. Altogether, they formed an old orchard, untended and untamed.
Where the ground leveled out, stones had been stacked on one another to create a foundation. Whether a house had ever been built on it, I didn’t know. But in the distance, above the rim’s far side, I could see the peaks of a familiar yellow Victorian home and the roofline of a bright red barn, too.
“This is the end of your family’s land,” I said as Barrett joined me on the hill.
“No.” Barrett sat on the grass. He stretched his legs in front of him, crossed them at the ankles, and scowled at the shallow valley. “This is the start of it.”
“ ‘Barrett Orchards,’ ” I quoted, recalling the sign in front of his grandmother’s house and putting two and two together. “ ‘Since 1799.’ ”
Barrett nodded. He’d been drinking again. The tang of bourbon clung to him and clashed with the scent of the apples.
I sat beside him. The earth was cool with a hint of the coming season, and the ancient tree’s shade chilled me as it spilled into my lap. But the grass had soaked up the sun’s goodness during the course of the afternoon, and it felt warm when I raked my fingers through it.
“Since 1799,” I repeated. “That’s quite a legacy.”
Barrett didn’t respond.
“I thought the trees along the lane to your grandmother’s house were impressive.” I turned away from him, looked up into the old tree’s tangle. “But this one’s my favorite.”
“Local folklore says Johnny Appleseed planted it.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Barrett’s voice was hard. And the edge of it was as sharp as a scythe. “My grandfather proposed to my grandmother under it. My father proposed to my mother here, too.”
Something in his tone had me scrambling to my feet—and feeling uncomfortably like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Part of me wanted to ask whether he’d proposed to his ex-wife beneath the tree’s branches. But I suspected I wouldn’t like the answer.
Beside me, Barrett got tired of glaring at the landscape. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “I had no idea Eric’s mother was such a mess.”
She certainly was. And her son was barely holding himself together. I’d seen it in the way he’d waved that shotgun at Barrett.
And I’d sure felt it when he’d backhanded me.
The throbbing he’d left behind in my cheekbone
I struck out for the tree and the vantage point the crest of the hill would afford. The track was steep, but the switchbacks made it manageable. I heard Barrett’s boots thudding on the dirt behind me as he hustled to catch up with me. His gait was slightly off. I supposed, after weeks in a cast, his leg was cranky about cooperating.
In the morning, it would be Monday, and Barrett had an appointment with an army physical therapist on the books. She’d set him straight before he returned to his regular duties. Except I doubted he planned to head to D.C. and Walter Reed tonight. I wondered what excuse he’d given to his superior to be granted a few extra days of leave instead—but the question slipped to the back of my mind as I topped the rise and got caught up in the beauty of the view.
Halting alongside the magnificent apple tree, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Rip Van Winkle asleep under it. It was wild and wonderful with branches that seemed to scratch the underbellies of the clouds above. Others reached low and got lost in a tangle of yellowing grasses growing all around its trunk. Except for the one apple I’d seen, its overripe fruit had dropped from its limbs. They scented the air with cider and made me feel like the coming dusk was warmer than it really was.
Beyond the tree, the land sloped to form a golden bowl. Like some kind of shorthand, more fruit trees and splintered stumps dotted the hillside as regularly as Morse code. Altogether, they formed an old orchard, untended and untamed.
Where the ground leveled out, stones had been stacked on one another to create a foundation. Whether a house had ever been built on it, I didn’t know. But in the distance, above the rim’s far side, I could see the peaks of a familiar yellow Victorian home and the roofline of a bright red barn, too.
“This is the end of your family’s land,” I said as Barrett joined me on the hill.
“No.” Barrett sat on the grass. He stretched his legs in front of him, crossed them at the ankles, and scowled at the shallow valley. “This is the start of it.”
“ ‘Barrett Orchards,’ ” I quoted, recalling the sign in front of his grandmother’s house and putting two and two together. “ ‘Since 1799.’ ”
Barrett nodded. He’d been drinking again. The tang of bourbon clung to him and clashed with the scent of the apples.
I sat beside him. The earth was cool with a hint of the coming season, and the ancient tree’s shade chilled me as it spilled into my lap. But the grass had soaked up the sun’s goodness during the course of the afternoon, and it felt warm when I raked my fingers through it.
“Since 1799,” I repeated. “That’s quite a legacy.”
Barrett didn’t respond.
“I thought the trees along the lane to your grandmother’s house were impressive.” I turned away from him, looked up into the old tree’s tangle. “But this one’s my favorite.”
“Local folklore says Johnny Appleseed planted it.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Barrett’s voice was hard. And the edge of it was as sharp as a scythe. “My grandfather proposed to my grandmother under it. My father proposed to my mother here, too.”
Something in his tone had me scrambling to my feet—and feeling uncomfortably like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Part of me wanted to ask whether he’d proposed to his ex-wife beneath the tree’s branches. But I suspected I wouldn’t like the answer.
Beside me, Barrett got tired of glaring at the landscape. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “I had no idea Eric’s mother was such a mess.”
She certainly was. And her son was barely holding himself together. I’d seen it in the way he’d waved that shotgun at Barrett.
And I’d sure felt it when he’d backhanded me.
The throbbing he’d left behind in my cheekbone
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