The Apple Orchard

“Well, it’s true. Were you sad when he died?”

“I... Of course. Everyone who knew him was sad.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“All his friends and family.”

“But who? What were their names?”

“I only knew Erik for a short time. I really didn’t know his friends and family.” Her eyes shifted, and that was how Tess knew she was holding back.

She didn’t even really know what her father looked like, or how his voice sounded, or the touch of his hand. She had only one thing to go by—an old photo print. The square Instamatic picture was kept in the bottom drawer of her mom’s bureau. The colors were fading. In the background was a big bridge stretching like a spider web across the water. In the center of the photo stood a man. He wasn’t smiling but he looked nice. He had crinkles fanning his eyes and hair that was light brown or dark blond, cut in a feathery old-fashioned style. “Very eighties,” her mother had once explained.

“I still wish I had a dad,” she said, thinking of her friends who had actual families—mom, dad, brothers and sisters. Sometimes she fantasized about a handsome Prince Charming, swooping in to marry her pretty mother and settling down with them in a nice house, painted pink.

Now she regarded Dominic Rossi, who had appeared as if out of a dream, telling her things that only raised more questions. He studied her with a stranger’s eyes, yet she thought she recognized compassion. Or was it pity? Suddenly she found herself resenting his handsomeness, his patrician features, the calm intelligence in his eyes. He was...a banker? Probably some over-educated grad with a degree in finance from some fancy institution. Which was no reason to resent him, but she did so just the same.

“I’ve never had anything to do with Magnus Johansen,” she said, deeply discomfited by this conversation. “And like I said, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.”

“Miss Delaney. Theresa—”

“Tess,” she said. “No one calls me Theresa.”

“Sorry. That’s how you’re named in the will.”

Her jaw dropped. “What will? This is the first I’ve heard of any will. And why are you telling me this now? Did he die from the fall?”

“No. But...there’s, uh, some discussion about continuing life support. Everyone’s praying Magnus will recover, but...it doesn’t look good for your grandfather. There are decisions that need to be made....” Dominic Rossi’s voice sounded low and quiet with emotion.

The crazy heart rush started again. “It’s sad to hear, and it sounds like you’re...like you feel bad about it. But I have no idea what this has to do with me.”

He studied her for a moment. “Whether he survives this or not, your grandfather intends to leave you half his estate.”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Despite her experience in provenance, she was fundamentally unfamiliar with the concepts of grandfathers and estates. “Let me get this straight. A grandfather I’ve never known wants to give me half of everything.”

“That’s correct.”

“Not only do I not know the man, I also don’t know what ‘everything’ means.”

“He has property in Sonoma County. Bella Vista—that’s the name of the estate—is a hundred-acre working orchard, with house, grounds and outbuildings.”

An estate. Her grandfather owned an estate. She’d never known anyone who owned an estate; that was something she saw on Masterpiece Theatre, not in real life.

“Bella Vista,” she said. The name tasted like sugar on her tongue. “And it’s...in Archangel? In Sonoma County?” Sonoma was where people went for Sunday drives or weekend escapes. It simply didn’t seem like a place where people owned estates. Certainly not a hundred acres... “And why do I not get to find all this out until he falls off a ladder and goes into a coma?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“And you’re telling me now because of... Oh, God.” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t get her head around the idea of being someone’s next of kin. Finally she felt something, an unfamiliar surge—uncomfortable, yet impossible to deny. The thought crossed her mind that this...this possible legacy called Bella Vista might be a blessing in disguise. On the heels of that thought came a wave of guilt. She didn’t know Magnus Johansen, but she didn’t wish him ill just to get her hands on his money.

“Half of everything,” she murmured. “A stranger is leaving me half of everything. It’s like a storyline in those dreadful English children’s novels I used to read as a kid, about an orphan saved at the last minute by a rich relative.”

“Not familiar with them,” he said.

“Trust me, they’re dreadful. But just so you know, I’m not an orphan and I don’t need saving.”

An appealing glimmer flashed in his eyes. “Point taken.”

“Who sent you to find me?” she asked. “And by the way, how did you find me?”

“Like I said, you’re named in his will and...he’s an old man and it’s not looking good for him. I found you the way everybody finds people these days—the internet. It wasn’t a stretch. Good job on the Polish necklace, by the way.”

“Rosary,” she corrected him. “So what’s your role? How are you involved in this situation?”

“Magnus redrafted his will recently, naming me executor.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why you?”

“He asked,” Dominic said simply. “I’ve known Magnus since I was a kid. And I’ve been his neighbor and his banker for a number of years.”

She felt an irrational stab of envy. How was it that this guy—this banker—got to know her grandfather, when she’d never even met the man?

Dominic’s penetrating stare made her uncomfortable, as if he saw some part of her that she didn’t like people to see—that needy girl, yearning for a family.

“Maybe he’ll recover,” Dominic said, reading her thoughts.

“Maybe? What’s the prognosis? Is there a prognosis?”

“At the moment, it’s uncertain. There’s swelling of the brain and he’s on a ventilator, but that could change. That’s the hope, anyway.”

Her stomach churned, the way it had the night before in the elevator. “I feel for you, and for everyone who cares for him. Really, I do. But I still don’t see a role for me in all this.”

“Once he recovers, and you get to know him—”

“Apparently getting to know me is not what he wants.” She glanced away from his probing gaze.

“Magnus didn’t just decide...” There was an edge in his voice. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“Really? What kind of man refuses to acknowledge his own granddaughter except on a piece of paper?”

“I can’t answer for Magnus.”

She softened, felt her shoulders round. “It’s terrible, what happened to him. I just wish I understood. Mr. Rossi, I really don’t think there’s anything to discuss.” She was dying, dying to get in touch with her mother now. Shannon Delaney had some explaining to do. Such as why she’d never mentioned Magnus Johansen, or Archangel, or the legacy of an estate. A man she’d never known had included her in his will. She let the words sink in, trying to figure out how it made her feel. Her grandfather—her grandfather—was leaving her half of everything. As she shaped her mind around the idea, an obvious question occurred to her.

“What about the other half?” she asked.

“The other... Oh, you mean Magnus’s estate.”

“Yes.”