Page 8 of Apple of My Eye

Chapter Seven

Eloise

Anderson Family Farm Running To-Do List

– Harvest eggs from the chickens

– Check on the bees

– Clear out West and Central Barns

– Take inventory of the fertilizer and seeds

– Sharpen the pruning shears

– Figure out a plan for JJ

– Beat Dad at gin rummy

It’s my day to get the eggs for breakfast, but the smell of eggs wafting upstairs lets me know that I missed my chance.

It took me so long to fall asleep I guess I slept through the rooster.

I change quickly, scampering downstairs to find a skillet of scrambled eggs on the stove and coffee in the pot.

Mom and Dad are nowhere to be found, Dad is probably tinkering on something in the barn while Mom mucks JJ’s stall.

Thinking about JJ makes me sit up a little straighter.

I can’t believe I was even thinking about letting the farm go last night, that taking a job in a lab crossed my mind.

My parents don’t even want to sell, they just feel like they have to.

And I have a way to fix it. Plus, if I do, then I get to keep JJ.

I ignore the voice in my ear reminding me that JJ is overdue for a new family, one where he is exercised more often, where a young girl or boy can give him the attention I once did.

Instead, I glance at the newspaper lying out on the counter, skimming the headline about a local kindergartner who made national news for an extremely accurate Lego sculpture of a horse, and let myself be happily reminded why I love Carnation so much.

I check on the beehives on my way to find Dad, stopping to listen to their telltale hum, to smell the honey, to lay eyes on some of our most valuable helpers.

‘Bees look good!’ I call out to Dad as I enter West. He grunts appreciatively before putting me right to work.

We start with the barn closest to the house, the biggest one of the three on our property.

Every year, before harvest really kicks into gear and the seasonal workers arrive, we do a barn clean-out to get ready for new fertilizer and equipment.

We haul out empty buckets and take apart cardboard boxes.

We sweep floors and wipe cobwebs. The first steps to prepare for harvest and for the U-Pick weekends—the days that hundreds of people migrate to Carnation to pick apples themselves, our most profitable weekends of the year, exactly what they sound like.

On those weekends, our seasonal workers do not pick the apples, the visitors pick the apples.

When we’re done with the barn we move outside.

‘Do you think Mom will come around to the loan?’ I ask him while we inspect trees, both of us crouching down on either side of their slender trunks to check for mites or lumps of a disease. So far, almost all the trees have been clear. A good sign, and one we both needed.

The day is clear, the sun climbing higher in the sky with each passing minute.

Birds are loud, squawking and chirping up a storm at all hours of the day.

Grass and weeds alike are thriving, hitting my knees as I venture off the gravel paths that crisscross our land.

Dry air blows in from the west, keeping the bugs at bay.

I stand up, taking a moment to survey the land around us.

On every side we’re surrounded by fields and hills of bright green trees.

The apple blossoms dropped a couple weeks ago and here and there I can still spot white petals littering the dirt.

I swat at a fly that buzzes by my ear. The sun is hot, beating down on our shoulders. I wipe sweat from my hairline. Only a couple more weeks of this before fall truly sets in and the mornings and the evenings get cooler. I can’t wait.

‘I don’t know—’ he stands ‘—your mother is a mystery to me.’ He wipes his hands on the front of his jeans. ‘She thinks it will jinx us, planning for something bad to happen to people we love. It’s the Catholic blood in her.’

‘I’m not planning for something bad to happen, I’m being realistic,’ I remind him.

‘ I know that,’ he says. ‘She’s the one you have to convince.’

I plod back to the house, intent on doing just that, but my plans are thwarted when I hear laughter unspooling from the back door.

There’s a waft of blackberry pie penetrating the air.

These days Mom saves pie for occasions, like birthdays and graduations.

But there is a group she makes it for without any occasion: Book Club.

I’m distracted thinking about pie, and I pause in the door frame for one second too long, just long enough for Peggy to round the corner and squeal with delight.

‘Your mother told us you were back!’ she cries, pulling me in for a hug.

Peggy is old enough to be my grandmother but has enough energy to be in college.

She drags me into the living room where women are spread out on our couch.

There are extra chairs pulled in from the kitchen, and a blackberry pie sitting in the middle of the fray.

‘When is Linden going to come home?’ Peggy wheedles at me, clasping her hands together. ‘He is such a darling boy.’

‘I don’t think he’s a boy anymore,’ I tell her. ‘He has wrinkles now.’

‘Stop all your chatter and grab a slice.’ Marcia beckons me forward. ‘You need more meat on your bones.’

‘You always say that.’ I smile at her, remembering when I came home from college after my first year carrying an extra fifteen pounds with me, and Marcia saying the exact same thing.

I love her for it, and I help myself to a piece of pie before perching on an arm of the couch, right next to Peggy.

Mercifully, this month’s book is so good that I can eat my pie in peace, their conversation immediately sliding back to their romance novel.

‘Oh, the ending,’ Kathleen says theatrically, placing the back of her hand on her forehead.

‘And especially after the family didn’t approve!’ Marcia crows.

Peggy elbows me. ‘You really should read the book.’

‘I will,’ I reassure her. ‘My dad had some choice words about it.’

Peggy shakes with laughter. ‘The main character is spicy.’

‘Hear, hear!’ Marcia exclaims. ‘George told me I needed to buy the sequel.’ She wiggles her eyebrows.

Kathleen explodes into laughter.

‘Unfortunately, anything that is even remotely tangential to my parents’ sex life is my cue,’ I laugh, standing to leave.

‘Read it, Eloise!’ Peggy reminds me as I go. ‘A romance for the ages!’

‘More like smut for the ages,’ Kathleen corrects.

I head into the kitchen to put my dish away with their laughter still bouncing off the walls. I’ve creaked open the dishwasher when I hear Kathleen catch her breath and add, ‘I dare say the main character reminded me of the new guy in town.’

I freeze.

‘I agree!’ Peggy says happily. ‘I saw him at the butcher, and man . He is a tall drink of water. Those arms!’

I am as still as a statue, one arm extended halfway into the dishwasher, not wanting to make any noise.

‘And that hair. He is so handsome,’ Marcia says emphatically.

‘You’ve seen him too?’ asks a voice I can’t place.

‘Well .?.?. no .?.?. but everyone keeps saying he is!’

The room explodes into laughter again and I hurry to put my dish away.

I turn back towards the living room, wondering if asking about the new guy is worth being teased.

Lord knows these women ask about my dating life enough as it is.

But before I can decide what to do, Mom walks into the kitchen.

She starts when she sees me, clearly expecting me to have gone by now.

‘Hanging in there, sweetheart?’ she asks.

I nod. My lower lip starts to tremble. All day long I’ve swung between feeling fiercely determined to make this work, make this fall our best harvest yet, and feeling scared about the future.

Mom’s friends get louder, one of them hollering a question at her. ‘Sorry—’ she smiles, playfully rolling her eyes ‘—you know how they get.’ But before she leaves, she wraps me in a quick hug. ‘We’ll figure it out,’ she whispers.

There’s a grocery list on the counter when I come downstairs the next morning.

APPLES

Leeks

Milk

Yogurt

Honey

Oats

Linguine

Canned Tomatoes

I laugh out loud at the list and pour myself a cup of coffee.

Apples on the list is a sign that Mom’s in a good mood.

She always says buying our competitors apples is for ‘market research,’ but without fail she ends up taking a big bite of each one, theatrically going on and on about how she thinks it looks ‘really good’ and it ‘might be better than ours’ before spitting out a chunk with such vitriol you would think I had doused it in rat poison.

Sometimes the apple pieces get halfway across the kitchen, landing in mess of spit and mush on the floor.

But my dad laughs every time she does the bit, sometimes so hard tears stream down his cheeks.

So, I keep buying the apples, and she keeps doing the bit.

By sending me for groceries, she’s giving me an excuse to get off the farm, which I will happily take.

I take my coffee to go, heading out the back door to find my dad.

I hear him before I see him, the whine of the tractor blocking out all other noise.

He shuts off the engine, wasting no time shout-explaining that he needs me in the afternoon—we start pruning today.

I trudge back to the house and pull on jeans and an old apple-farm celebration T-shirt, one of about a hundred that live in my dresser, and head out, adding a few things to the grocery list before I leave. I might as well make the trip last as long as possible.

I remember to bring reusable bags only to realize I forgot to grab my sneakers while I was upstairs.

But then I spy a pair of Mom’s apple-red Converse by the door and throw those on instead.

I peel out of the driveway and head into town, about a twenty-minute drive.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I exit the driveway.