The Apple Orchard

Fourteen



“Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?” Tess asked her mother. “How could you keep it from me?”

Shannon sighed, looking from Tess to Isabel, and then down at her empty plate. The quiche had been followed by an apple and thyme turnover with cups of tea. “I just didn’t see the point of telling you. By the time you were old enough to understand, everything was so deep in the past—a past no one could change.”

“But it was part of me,” Tess said. “Part of my history. Don’t you think I was entitled to know?” All her life, the man who had fathered her had been a mystery. Her mother had let her believe she knew nothing of him, of his family or his past. “You told me you never knew my father’s last name, that he was a one-night stand.”

“It was the only way I knew to protect you,” her mother shot back. “He was charming, handsome and careless with other people. I found out about the carelessness far too late. And then, once he was gone, there was no reason to pursue the issue. I can’t regret knowing him, though, because he gave me you.”

Oh, her mother was good, Tess conceded. A master manipulator. “All right,” she said. “That was Erik. But why would you keep me from knowing my grandparents? Or my sister?”

“First of all, our life was elsewhere, thousands of miles away in Dublin. Jobs were hard to come by in those days so we had to live with your nana. And secondly, look around you. Look at this place. It’s paradise. The American Eden.”

“So horrifying,” said Tess. “No wonder you protected me from it.”

“I protected you from yearning for it. Can’t you understand? I knew I could never give you a life that could compete with a place like this. If I’d brought you here, I would have given you a glimpse of paradise, saying oh, isn’t it wonderful at Bella Vista? But guess what? You can never have it. You would have always been the outsider, the one born to the rogue’s mistress.”

“Now I get it,” Tess said. “This was never about me. It’s always been about you.”

Isabel was watching the two of them like a spectator at a tennis match. Tess turned to her. “Sorry. Mom and I tend to push each other’s buttons. Although keeping me in the dark about half my DNA takes button-pushing to a whole new level.”

“Bubbie and I used to go at it, too,” Isabel admitted. “I called my grandmother Bubbie,” she told Shannon. “Her real name was Eva. Did you know her, too?”

“No, as I said, I was the outsider. I came to Bella Vista thinking... Honestly, I don’t remember what. That’s when I realized it would be best to keep my distance. Bringing Tess into the picture would have been messy and caused a lot of hurt. I’m so sorry. Sorry for your loss, and...” She turned to Tess. “For everything.” Then she stifled a yawn. “Jet lag. It never gets easier.”

Isabel got up. “I’m going to make sure your room is ready.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Shannon said.

“Please,” said Isabel. “I’d love for you to stay as long as you like. There’s lots of room.”

“Thank you, then. I’ve been traveling so much for work, it would be nice to take a breather.”

“Diplomatic, gorgeous, cooks like an angel,” Tess said after Isabel went upstairs. “But she’s too nice to dislike.”

Shannon gave her a weary smile. “I’m glad the two of you found each other.”

“No thanks to you. Mom, what were you thinking?”

“That we’d never be having this conversation. Which was incredibly stupid of me. I realize that now.”

Tess stifled a sigh and picked up one of her mother’s bags. “I’ll show you upstairs.”

“This is perfect,” Shannon said, running her hand along the chintz-covered bed in the cozy room Isabel had prepared. Turning, she gave Tess a lingering hug. “I’m so sorry about...everything.”

A hundred accusations built up inside Tess, but she pressed them down into a little compact ball. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I always am.”

Shannon’s smile softened with relief. “It’s what we do, we Delaney women, isn’t it? We find a way to be all right.”

Isabel turned down the featherbed. “Do you give lessons? Because I could use some.”

Shannon patted her arm. “I’ll show you everything I know.”

* * *

The next morning, Tess found Shannon on the kitchen patio, surveying the view. In one direction, Dominic’s Angel Creek vineyards festooned the hillsides, the leaves a bright sunny yellow. In the other direction was a much bigger, commercial operation—Maldonado estates. Closer in, the orchards of Bella Vista looked denuded after the harvest, the trees neatly pruned for winter, the lavender trimmed to low mounds. The kitchen garden was still thriving with herbs and fall vegetables, each row marked with sprays of crimson-and-gold mums, and the last roses of the season.

“It’s wonderful here,” Shannon said.

“Yes.” Tess swallowed a lump of bitterness. “Listen, I need your help.”

Shannon turned, eyebrows raised. “You never asked me for help before. You’ve always been so independent.”

“By necessity,” Tess told her.

“We’re too much alike, we two.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve always needed you, Mom.”

“Then you should have told me.”

Tess gave a short laugh. “I didn’t want to bother you. But look, I need some answers, not just about everything you’ve been hiding from me.”

“Tess—”

“I know, you had your reasons.” She just felt weary of the argument. “There’s something more immediate.”

Isabel came out and joined them, looking worried. Tess wondered how much she’d overheard. As succinctly as she could, she and Isabel described the troubles with Bella Vista and the imminent foreclosure. Then Tess showed her mother the photos and documents she and Isabel had found. “And then there’s this. It’s something you really can help with. How’s your Russian?”

“Sharp as ever, I suppose.” Shannon studied Tess’s enhanced scans of the photo, letter and ancient receipt. “Well. This is intriguing, to say the least.”

“I hope that means it’s good news,” Isabel said softly.

The three of them gathered around the table. Shannon read the words aloud. Hearing her mother speak fluently in Russian reminded Tess of her mother’s depth of expertise and experience. In spite of everything, she respected her mother’s knowledge.

“Well?” she asked.

“This letter is a note of gratitude,” Shannon explained, “giving an art treasure called ‘The Angel’ to Christian Johansen, free and clear.”

Tess was stunned. She made her mother go over and over the letter.

“I don’t get it,” Isabel said.

“This sort of document, assuming it can be authenticated, is a provenance expert’s dream,” Tess said. “A direct personal gift is a swift route to proving ownership of an object.” The strange and ancient letter convinced her that the impossible just might be true. “What do you think?” she asked her mother.

“It’s too crazy to contemplate, but I believe you’re right. That’s a Fabergé. If you can figure out what became of it, everything could change.”

Tess was surprised by her mother’s enthusiasm. Usually they respected each other as colleagues but tended to go their separate ways, focused on their own projects. Now the three of them put their heads together and discussed their next move.

“You need to ask the bank for more time,” Shannon said. “This is definitely worth looking into.”

“True,” Isabel said softly. “But I doubt Dominic will be able to give us another extension.”

“You owe it to yourself—to Magnus—to try,” Shannon said.

“If this treasure exists, and it’s as valuable as Tess thinks, then why didn’t Grandfather use it long ago?” Isabel asked.

“That’s one of the first things we’ll ask him when he wakes up,” Tess said.