The Apple Orchard

Magnus Johansen balanced on the picking ladder, feeling as steady as a man a quarter his age. Isabel would scold him if she saw; his granddaughter would call him an old fool for working alone instead of waiting for the pickers to arrive. But Magnus liked the early solitude; he liked having the whole orchard to himself in the muted hush of the warming morning. He was in his eighth decade of life; God only knew how many more harvests he would see.

Isabel worried so much about him these days. She tended to hover, like a honeybee in the milkweed that surrounded the orchard. Magnus wished she wouldn’t fret. She should know he had already survived the best and worst life had to offer.

Truth be told, he worried about Isabel far more than she worried about him. It was the things she didn’t know that weighed upon him this morning. He couldn’t keep her in the dark forever. The letter on the desk in his study confirmed his worst fear—unless a miracle occurred, all of Bella Vista would be lost.

Magnus did his best to set aside the troubles for the moment. He had risen early to don his denim and boots, knowing today was the day. Over the years, he had learned to judge the moment of maturity for the fruit. Too early, and you had to deal with the inefficiencies of spot picking. Too late, and you risked having fruit that was senescent, breaking down from old age.

Some mornings he felt his own kind of senescence deep in the marrow of his bones. Not today, though. Today, he felt a surge of energy, and his fruit was at the peak of perfection. He’d performed the starch iodine test, of course, but more importantly, he’d bitten into an apple, knowing by its firmness, sweetness and crunch that the time had come. Over the next few days, the orchard would be as busy as a beehive. He would send his fruit to market in the waiting boxes, each with a bright Bella Vista Orchards label.

A trio cluster of glossy, crimson-striped Gravensteins hung several feet out on a branch above his head. Hard-to-reach limbs were usually pruned, but this one was productive. Carefully aware of the extent of his reach, he leaned forward to pick a trio of apples and add them to his basket. These days, most of the workers preferred the long bags, which made two-handed picking easier, but Magnus was old school. He was old, period. Yet even now, the land sustained him; there was something about the rhythm of the seasons, the yearly renewal, that kept him as vigorous as a much younger man. He had much to be thankful for.

Much to regret, as well.

As he captured the apples on the high limb, his ladder wobbled a bit. Chastened, he left the rest of the branch for the gleaners and climbed down.

As he moved his picking ladder to another tree, he heard the frantic whir of a bee in distress in the milkweed. A honeybee, greedy for the abundant nectar of the tangled blossoms, was trapped in the flowers, a common occurrence. Magnus often found their desiccated bodies enmeshed by the sticky seedpods. Modern farmers tried to eradicate the milkweed, but Magnus allowed it to flourish along the borders of the orchard, a habitat for bees and monarch butterflies, finches and ladybugs.

Feeling charitable, he liberated a trapped and furiously buzzing bee from the sticky down, releasing a flurry of seeds parachuted by feathery umbrellas. With no notion that the sweetness was deadly, the bee immediately dove back into the hedge and returned to sipping nectar, the risk of getting caught obliterated by its hunger.

Magnus moved on with a philosophical shrug. When nature drew a creature to sweetness, there could be no stopping it. He moved his ladder to the next tree, positioning it for maximum efficiency, and climbed to a lofty perch. There, his head above the branches, he inhaled the glory of the morning—the redolence of the air, the quality of light filtering through the mist, the contours of the land and the distant haze of the ocean.

A sense of nostalgia swept through him, borne along on a wave of memories. As though it were yesterday he could see the sun-flooded landscape, with Eva down at the collection bins, smiling up at him as she supervised the harvest—his war bride, starting a new life in America with him. They had built Bella Vista together. It was a terrible shame that the bank was about to take it away.

Despite the successes and tragedies, the secrets and lies, Magnus had an abundance of blessings. He had made a life with a woman he loved, and that was more than many poor souls could count. They had created a world together, spending their days close to nature, eating crisp apples, fresh homemade bread slathered with honey from their own hives, sharing the bounty with workers and neighbors... Yet those blessings had come at a cost, one that would be reckoned by a power greater than himself.

His pocket phone chirped, disturbing the quiet of the morning. Isabel insisted that he carry a phone in his pocket at all times; his was one of the simple ones that sent and received calls without all the other functions that would only confuse him.

The ladder teetered again as he reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt. He didn’t recognize the number that came up.

“This is Magnus,” he said, his customary greeting.

“It’s Annelise.”

His heart stumbled. Her voice sounded thin, older, but, oh, so familiar, despite the passage of decades. Beneath the thin, wavery tones, he recognized the sound of a far younger woman, one he had loved in a much different way than he’d loved Eva.

His grip tightened on the phone. “How the devil did you get this number?”

“I take it you received my letter,” she said, lapsing into their native Danish, probably without even realizing it.

“I did, and you are absolutely right,” he said, though he felt his heart speed up at the admission. “It’s time to tell them everything.”

“Have you done it?” she asked. “Magnus, it’s a simple enough conversation.”

“Yes, but Isabel...she’s... I don’t like to upset her.” Isabel—beautiful and fragile, so damaged by life at such a young age.

“And what about Theresa? She’s your granddaughter, too. Would you rather the news come from you, or from some undesignated stranger? We’re not getting any younger, you and I. If you don’t do something right away, I will.”

“Fine, then.” He felt a flash of hatred for the phone, this little electronic intruder turning a bright day dark. “I will take care of it. I always do. And if by some miracle they forgive us—”

“Of course they will. Don’t ever stop expecting a miracle, Magnus. You of all people should know better.”

“Don’t call me again,” he said, his heart lurching in his chest. “Please don’t call me again.” He put away his cell phone. The wind swept through the trees, and the powerful scent of apples surrounded him. Wheeling hawks kettled overhead, and one of them loosed a plaintive cry. Magnus reached for one more apple, a lush beauty dangling at arm’s length, the shine on its cheek so bright he could see his reflection.

The reach unbalanced the ladder. He grabbed at a branch but missed, and then there was nothing to hold on to but the misty air. Despite the brutal swiftness of the accident, Magnus felt eerily aware of every second, as though it was happening to someone else. Yet he was not afraid for himself—he was far too old for that, and life had taught him long ago that fear and happiness could not coexist.

Part Two

Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why.

—Bernard M. Baruch

APPLE CHUTNEY

This is a nice accompaniment to spiced pork, roasted chicken or grilled salmon.

3 tart cooking apples, cored and diced (no need to peel)

½ cup chopped white onion

1 tablespoon minced ginger root

½ cup orange juice

1/3 cup cider vinegar

½ cup brown sugar

1 teaspoon grainy mustard

1/4 teaspoon hot pepper flakes

½ teaspoon salt

½ cup raisins or currants

Combine all ingredients except the raisins in a heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly, then reduce to simmer and stir occasionally until most of the liquid has evaporated; about 45 minutes. Remove from heat and add the raisins. Store in the refrigerator or can using traditional methods.

(Source: Adapted from a recipe by the Washington State Apple Commission)

One

San Francisco

Tess Delaney’s to-do list was stacked invisibly over her head like the air traffic over O’Hare. She had clients waiting to hear from her, associates hounding her for reports and a make-or-break meeting with the owner of the firm. She pushed back at the pressing anxiety and focused on the task at hand—restoring a treasure to its rightful owner.

The current mission brought her to an overfurnished apartment in Alamo Square. Miss Annelise Winther, still spry at eighty, ushered her into a cozy place with thready lace curtains, dust-ruffled chairs and a glorious scent of something baking. Tess wasted no time in presenting the treasure.

Miss Winther’s hands, freckled by age, the joints knotted with arthritis, shook as she held the antique lavaliere. Beneath a pink knitted shawl, her bony shoulders trembled.