The Apple Orchard

She rode along in silence, watching out the window. Neelie had always tried to get her to explore the wine regions of Sonoma County, but Tess never had time. She’d seen pictures, but nothing could have prepared her for the opulent splendor of the landscape here. The undulating terrain was cloaked in lush abundance, the vineyards like garlands of deep green and yellow, orchards and farms sprouting here and there, hillocks of dry golden grass crowned by beautiful sun-gilt houses, barns and silos. And overhead was the bluest sky she’d ever seen, as bright and hard as polished marble.

There was something about the landscape that caught at her emotions. It was both lush and intimidating, its beauty so abundant. Far from the bustle of the city, she was a complete stranger here, like Dorothy stepping out of her whirling house into the land of Oz. Farm stands overflowing with local produce marked the long driveways into farms with whimsical names—Almost Paradise, One Bad Apple, Toad Hollow. Boxes and bushels were displayed on long, weathered tables. Between the farms, brushy tangles of berries and towering old oak trees lined the roadway.

Tess felt a strange shifting inside her as the dark ribbon of the road wound down into the town of Archangel, marked by a sign where a bridge spanned a small waterway designated Angel Creek.

She told herself not to worry. Not to feel freaked out by the situation. She was used to unorthodox situations. In pursuing the provenance of an object, she had faced all sorts of people, from highly placed cultural ministers to art middlemen who were little more than gangsters, and she’d held her own. The prospect of meeting her half sister should not bother her.

But it did. She tried to remember the instructions the doctor had given her for breathing. Apparently she was an upper chest breather. This seemed to be a bad thing. She was supposed to inhale all the way down to her lower belly, until her stomach expanded, then exhale slowly, emptying her lungs. She took a breath, placing a hand on her stomach to see if it was puffing out.

“What are you doing?” asked Dominic, glancing over at her.

“Breathing.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’m doing the breathing technique they showed me in the ER.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Don’t make me talk. I need to breathe.”

“Got it. But...is something upsetting you?”

“No. Of course not.” Just this whole crazy situation, she thought. “I’ll be all right.” She practiced her breathing as they drove through the town. Archangel seemed quaint without being too self-conscious about it, with a subtle air of rustic elegance. The center of town had a pretty square surrounded by beds of white mums and Michaelmas daisies, a broad green lawn with iron benches, some sweeping eucalyptus trees, their sage-colored leaves fluttering on the breeze. In the very center was a fountain with a copper sculpture of a vine hung with grapes.

The buildings were well-kept, housing boutiques, cafés and restaurants with colorful awnings, a few tasting rooms, a couple of gourmet shops and an old-fashioned hardware store with wheelbarrows and flowerpots on the sidewalk outside. There were plenty of people out enjoying the gorgeous weather. An elderly couple strolled side by side, eating ice cream cones. A young mother with dreamy eyes pushed a stroller, and a group of rowdy boys jostled past, shoving each other, skirting around a good-looking family consisting of mom, dad, twin little boys and a dark-eyed teen girl.

Everyone looked normal and happy, enviably so. She wasn’t naive enough to believe they were normal and happy. But in this setting, they resembled movie extras exemplifying the charms of small-town America.

Past the main part of town, they went by a bank, a low-profile midcentury building of blond brick. “Is that where you work?” she asked Dominic.

“Yes.”

She waited, but he offered no more. They drove on, passing a grocery store and gas station, and a pair of churches on opposite sides of the road, as if squaring off at high noon.

Tall, slender trees stood in long rows that followed the contours of the terrain. A vineyard designated Maldonado Estates went by; then at the next junction was a large rural mailbox marked Johansen. At the roadside stood an old building with a sagging front porch and battered tin roof with a crooked sign that read Bella Vista Produce. The place must have been a farm stand at one time. It resembled a throwback to other days, and she found herself picturing the place filled with bunches of flowers and bounty from the farm, with cars pulling off the road and people browsing the wares. Before she could ask about it, Dominic turned down a gravel drive marked Bella Vista Way. A lurch of anticipation knotted her stomach. “Is this it?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

They drove between rows of twisted, lichened oak trees, beneath kettling hawks and a sky as blue as heaven itself. Orchards spread out on both sides of the drive. In the distance, she could see a cluster of buildings gathered on a rise. Around a bend in the drive, cars were parked in an open field, all kinds of cars, from battered work trucks to electric and biodiesel-powered vehicles to gleaming foreign imports.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Your grandfather’s friends and neighbors organized a healing ceremony for him. I think we’re just in time to join in.”

She pressed her feet against the floor mat as if putting on the brakes. “Whoa, hang on a second. A healing ceremony?”

“It can’t hurt, and who’s to say all this energy won’t help? It’s scheduled to start at four,” he said, checking his watch.

“I thought he was in the hospital.”

“He is. But everyone’s here for his sake.”

“Who are these people?”

“Neighbors and workers. Business associates. Magnus made a lot of friends through the years.” An unexpected catch hitched his voice. “You’ll see.”

Tess bit her lip. Looked down at her outfit—the dark jeans and sweater, heeled half boots. She had no idea if this was appropriate attire to wear to an event for the grandfather she’d never known. She set her jaw. “Do you realize how awkward this is for me?”

He braked gently, bringing the car to a halt. “Should I turn around?”

“Of course not. But you have to understand, this is weird for me. I don’t belong here.” She felt prickly, resentful. On the one hand, she was glad Magnus had such loyal friends and neighbors. On the other hand, what kind of person ignored his granddaughter all her life and then promised her half of everything after he was gone?

The air was sharp with the scent of lavender, wafting up from a broad field where the herb grew in row after row of blue-green clumps. A mariachi band was setting up in the shade of a California oak tree. Rows of folding chairs were set up, the configuration bisected by a turquoise carpet runner. At the front of the display were more flower arrangements than she had ever seen in one place, outside the Marché aux Fleurs in Paris. Danish and U.S. flags sprouted from some of the arrangements.

Dominic let her out near the seating area and went to park the car. Tess stood alone, watching people arrive. Some were somber, though a good many seemed more talkative and upbeat. People wore party clothes, the women in bright-colored dresses, the men in everything from crisp white shirts to plaid golf slacks. Several people gave Tess a nod of greeting. A gangly German shepherd dog trotted around, checking people out with a proprietary sniff.

The house itself was a rambling hacienda-style structure built of pale stone, with thick-trunked vines climbing the stuccoed walls. There was an open, colonnaded breezeway across the back. Through the open columns, she could see a center courtyard, planted with huge potted olive trees.

An aroma of baking bread wafted from a window flanked by rustic shutters and wrought iron bars. She edged toward the open back door. It was painted sky blue and propped open with an iron stopper in the shape of a cat.

She found herself on the threshold of a large, airy kitchen with terra-cotta tiled floors and tall windows open to a view of lavender fields and orchards. A log trestle table of scrubbed pine dominated the room. A bewildering array of utensils hung from the walls or were arranged upon the cobalt-blue counter tiles. Trays of food were arranged on catering carts.

At the far end of the room was a panel of wall ovens, clearly the source of the glorious smell. Tess could see someone there, a woman backlit by the sun shining through the windows. She wore her hair pulled back in haphazard fashion, a gauzy skirt and blouse and two thick oven mitts. Bending slightly, she opened one of the ovens like a door to a safe, and drew a big tray from the rack. Steam rose, intensifying the aroma.

Tess set down her bag. “Excuse me,” she said. “I—”

The woman dropped the pan with a clatter onto the countertop. She swung to face Tess.

“Oh, my God,” she said softly. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Part Four

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.

—Shakespeare, Hamlet

GRAPE AND ROSEMARY FOCACCIA

The carnosic acid in rosemary shields brain cells from free radical damage. Therefore, consumption of the herb could play a role in preventing brain disorders.

Makes 8 servings

5 to 6 cups flour

1 tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon instant yeast