The Apple Orchard

“I’ll wait until you are,” he replied easily. “I’m glad you called, Tess. How are you?”

“What? Oh, that. I’m okay. Really. You know, I never properly thanked you for helping out at the hospital, for being there.”

“I wasn’t expecting thanks. I’m glad you’re all right.” And he gave her that slow smile of his, brandishing it like a secret weapon. “Mind if I come in?”

“No, I just need a few minutes more.” She felt a little self-conscious, watching him as he looked around her place. The apartment made perfect sense to her, but to a stranger, the old things probably seemed eccentric, or at the very least, sentimental.

“I like your place,” he said, checking out a walnut radio console on the counter. “Is this a family heirloom?”

“Yes.” She closed up her laptop and started rummaging around for its case. “Not my family, though. That radio—there’s a message on the back.”

He turned it and read, “‘To Walter, a very brave boy, at Christmas. 1943.’ Who was Walter?”

“I’m not sure. I just... I’m drawn to things that have a past. A story.”

He picked up a deck prism, which she used as a paperweight.

“That’s from the Mary Dare, wrecked at the mouth of the Columbia in 1876. The prisms were used to let light in below decks.” She found the laptop case and put it with her overnight bag.

“And this?” He held up an elongated piece of carved ivory, with scrimshaw etchings on the surface.

“It’s called a he’s-at-home.”

“Which is...?”

“A sex toy,” she said, trying not to laugh as he quickly set the thing down. “On Nantucket Island, back in the days of whaling, the women used to get lonely when the men were gone for years at a time, hunting whales.”

“No wonder whaling was outlawed.”

“I need to grab a few more things,” she said, ducking into the bedroom. Having a guy in her apartment had awakened her vanity, and she decided to add a few things to her bag. “Help yourself to something from the fridge,” she called into the next room. At the same time, she thought, Please do not look in the fridge.

“Thanks,” he said, and she heard the refrigerator door open. “Maybe I’ll grab something to drink.”

She cringed as he said, “You’ve got a stack of notebooks and papers in your fridge.”

“Why, yes,” she said casually, returning to the kitchen. “Yes, I do.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because there was no more room in the freezer.” His puzzled expression made her want to laugh. “Those are my handwritten notes and papers. They’re one-of-a-kind. I have no backup copy until I get them typed up.”

“So you keep them in the refrigerator.”

“If the place burns down, they’ll be safe in there.”

He nodded. “Good plan.”

“And to answer the next obvious question, yes, I have a fireproof safe. But I misplaced the combination and it’s too small anyway.”

“What is it that you do?”

“I’m a provenance expert. I authenticate things—art, jewelry, family heirlooms.”

“Sounds...unusual. Interesting.” He swung the refrigerator door wider and checked out the shelves. She had a supply of key lime yogurt, some boxed Chinese leftovers and a twelve pack of the only beverage she drank regularly—Red Bull. The energy drink was probably all kinds of bad for her, but it kept her from falling asleep on the job.

Dominic held a bottle up to the light. “Is this even legal?”

“Don’t judge,” she said, whipping a pair of purple lace panties off the lamp where she’d hung them to dry. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“Nice panties,” he said.

Okay, so he’d noticed.

“Again I say, don’t judge.”

“Never,” he promised and twisted the cap off the soda bottle. He took a swig, and she could see him visibly trying not to gag. “You can tell a lot about a person by the place where she lives,” he observed.

“Oh, really? What can you tell about me?”

“You like puzzles.” He gestured at a stack of newspaper crosswords, anagrams and brain teasers, all of them obsessively completed.

“So sue me. What else?”

He perused a collection of yellowed documents and daguerreotypes. “You live in the past.”

“No. I study the past for my work. I live in the here and now, which is perfectly fine for me. It’s wonderful for me.”

“Right. Got it.”

She knew he didn’t mean to seem critical when he said she lived in the past, yet she felt criticized, as though she’d done something wrong. “I have a fascination for puzzles and old things. At least I’m not a hoarder. Please tell me you don’t think I’m a hoarder.”

“I don’t think you’re a hoarder. Your collection of old things is fascinating. I’ve never met a girl who had a he’s-at-home.”

“As far as you know,” she said.

“As far as I know. Tell me about the desk,” he said, gesturing at Nana’s kneehole postmaster desk. It was by far the most dominant object in the place, almost architectural in its size and presence.

“I thought you were analyzing me,” she said, trying to keep it light. She hoped they would both manage to keep things light between them, but it was hard. Because even though she barely knew this guy, she liked talking to him way too much. She liked the way he looked at her, the way he actually seemed to care.

“I am,” he said. “Tell me about the desk.”

He had to ask. It was the one thing in her apartment that was truly personal, truly hers, not some object with a history that had nothing to do with her. “My grandmother had a shop in Dublin. When I was a girl, I spent a lot of time with her there because my mother was always traveling for her work. Nana was a dealer in art and antiques.”

“That’s cool. You lived in Ireland?”

“Up until I came to the States for college.”

“A redheaded Irish woman,” he said.