The Apple Orchard

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

1 teaspoon salt

2 cups warm water

½ cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 ½ cups green, red and/or black grapes

2 teaspoons chopped

fresh rosemary (1 teaspoon dried)

coarse salt





If using an electric stand mixer, combine 3 cups of the flour, and all of the sugar, yeast and salt in the bowl. Add the water, then mix well, using the paddle attachment. Then change to the dough hook and gradually add more of the flour, kneading well between each addition, until the dough is smooth, firm and no dough sticks to the side of the bowl. If not using a mixer, stir together 3 cups of flour, and all of the sugar, yeast and salt in a large mixing bowl, then add the water and mix together with a large wooden spoon. Turn the dough out onto a heavily floured board and knead while gradually incorporating more flour into the dough until it is smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes.

Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and cover with plastic wrap or a dry cloth. Let rest in a warm place until the dough has doubled, about 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

Pour all but 2 tablespoons of the olive oil onto a 12-by-16 ½-inch baking sheet. Lift the dough from the bowl and gently stretch and press it to fit the pan. Drizzle the dough with the remaining olive oil and dimple the top of the bread with your fingertips. Press the grapes into the dough evenly all over the bread, leaving about 1 inch between grapes. Sprinkle the bread generously with the chopped rosemary and coarse salt.

Bake the focaccia until it is a nice crisp brown, about 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and cut with a pizza cutter into squares. Serve warm with cheese or butter.

(Source: Adapted from the California Grape Commission)





Six



Tess stepped farther into the unfamiliar kitchen. Her senses were awash with sounds from outside—the breeze wafting through the boughs of the apple trees, the musicians tuning up, the murmur of conversation and rumble of engines. She inhaled the yeasty aroma from the oven, and blinked at the golden light streaming through the windows. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe.

The woman at the other end of the room stood unmoving, her posture a slender question mark, silhouetted against the light from the window. She had large dark eyes surrounded by thick lashes that appeared damp from crying. Her sable-brown hair was looped into a careless braid down her back, and she wore a gauzy skirt and blouse, an apron, a pair of oven mitts and espadrilles tied at the ankles.

The two of them stared at one another. The stranger shifted, stepping into a shaft of light through the open window. She had the face of an old Hollywood movie star, with an aquiline nose and full lips. She wore little or no makeup; her olive-toned skin gave her an air of unstudied elegance, needing no embellishment.

Tess finally found her voice. “You’re Isabel, aren’t you?”

The woman dropped her hands to her sides. “Theresa?”

“Tess.” For a moment, she couldn’t say anything else. Her mouth went completely dry. Isabel.

“Come in,” Isabel said. “Welcome to Bella Vista.” She shook off the oven mitts and reached out, clasping Tess in a spontaneous hug.

Tess was not a hugger, particularly not with a stranger she’d just met. Yet in the middle of the awkwardness, she nearly melted with the sensation of being embraced. I have a sister, she kept thinking. A sister.

Isabel felt soft and yielding; her blouse felt soft. Everything about her seemed soft, and she smelled of dried flowers, rosemary, fresh-baked bread. This whole kitchen seemed alive with a peculiar energy; in the old fixtures and furniture, Tess sensed a place where cooking and eating had happened for decades, where people gathered to sample life’s sweetest pleasures.

They stepped back, circling with a vague hint of wariness. Isabel’s gaze dropped. “I got flour all over you. I’m sorry.”

Tess looked down at her sweater.

“I’m so sorry,” Isabel said again. “I’m always doing that, hugging people with my apron on. Here, I’ll brush you off.” She grabbed a dish towel.

Tess took it from her. “I’ve got it.” She gave her sweater a few quick brushes. “No harm done,” she said, handing back the towel.

A strained silence drew out between them, invisible yet palpable. She pictured Isabel as she had first seen her, alone in the kitchen, moving with a peculiar grace and assurance as she removed the last batch of bread from the oven. In that moment, she’d appeared to be completely in her element, a woman surrounded by the trappings of home. How on earth could we be related? Tess wondered, thinking about her own kitchen, a repository for work materials and take-out containers. Tess wanted to stare and stare at Isabel, to figure out what they had in common and how it was that they’d both been in the world all their lives without knowing each other.

Maybe Isabel had similar thoughts, because she said, “You look so much like the pictures of him. It’s uncanny.”

Him. Erik Johansen. Their common father.

“I’ve only ever seen one picture of him, so I don’t really know what he looked like,” Tess admitted.

“I can show you others later.” Isabel stared unabashedly at Tess. “You’re so...pretty. I mean, he wasn’t pretty, but you still look like him. The two of us don’t look anything alike, do we?”

Tess couldn’t stop staring, either. “I suppose not.”

“But we have a lot in common.”

No, we don’t, thought Tess.

“Can I get you anything?” Abruptly, Isabel seemed more animated, as if grateful to have a purpose. “I’ve got iced herbal tea or plain water, and I just took out the last of the focaccia bread. Salted rosemary.”

“It smells fantastic, but no, thanks. Actually, I, um, could use the restroom.”

“Sure. Of course. It’s just down the hall there, under the stairs. There’s a powder room.”

Tess hurried down the hallway of the strange house, furnished in an oddly appealing combination of simple rusticity and old-world elegance. Passing a gallery of framed photos on the wall, she had an urge to study each one. Maybe later, she told herself. Assuming she was truly welcome here.

The powder room was spotless, with bowls of drying herbs, artisan soaps, embroidered towels. As she washed her hands with a bar of handmade soap that smelled of olive oil, Tess studied her face in the mirror. It was just her face. Pale skin and freckles, blue-green eyes, red hair. You look like the pictures of him.

She dried her hands and whipped out her phone, furious to see that her mother still hadn’t returned her call. Zero bars of service.

Tess went back to the kitchen. Isabel was arranging cuts of the focaccia on a platter. “Is there no cell phone service here?”

“No. The closest service is over the hill. Sorry. I’ve got a landline.”

“Thanks, I’ll use it later.”

Tess felt supremely uncomfortable, and a telltale lightness in her chest worsened matters. She wondered where Dominic Rossi had gone; he was the closest thing to a friend she had around here. “Listen,” she said, “if it’s weird that I’m here, we can always get together another time.”

“No, it’s good that you came. I was hoping you would get here in time for the gathering today.”

A woman with white-streaked hair and hoop earrings, wearing a flowing wine-colored dress, hurried into the kitchen, the heels of her sandals clicking on the tiles. “There you are, Isabel. I knew I’d find you here.” Turning to Tess, she held out her hand. “I’m Ernestina,” she said. “Ernestina Navarro.”

“Tess Delaney.”

“Nice to meet you. Are you a friend of Magnus?”

“Not exactly. I’m...new...”

“He loves meeting new people.” Ernestina turned back to Isabel. “Everything is about to start.”

Isabel nodded. “I just came in to finish up the last of the bread.” She untied her apron and set it aside.

“Of course.” Ernestina’s bold-featured face softened. “Are you going to be okay?”

Isabel offered a tremulous smile. “What’s the alternative?”

Ernestina patted her arm. “You could have a meltdown.”

“With all these guests to feed?” Isabel shook her head. Then she turned to Tess. “Ernestina lives with her husband, Oscar, and their son in the bungalow down the drive.” She gestured at a lane bordered by apple trees, now crowded with guests.

“We’ve worked at Bella Vista for twenty years,” Ernestina added. “How do you know him?”

Isabel turned to the older woman, paused, took a breath. “Tess is... She’s my half sister.”

The dark slash of Ernestina’s brows arched upward. “I don’t get it.”

“That makes two of us,” said Tess.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” said Isabel. “You’re staying, right?”

Tess didn’t want to be here at all. She didn’t want to stay. But Isabel’s air of barely contained desperation moved her, and Tess herself couldn’t deny a strong tug of curiosity about her sister, and the beautiful estate. “I, uh...yes, if that’s all right. I mean, if there’s room....”

“I’ve got nothing but room here. I love having guests.”

The three of them left the kitchen together, stepping into the sun-flooded garden. Though the sound of the mariachis was unexpected, the music they played was curiously moving. Bright and brassy, the piece was in a minor key, its rhythm slow, punctuated with staccato blasts of the trumpet. The band members were dressed to the nines, covered in silver buttons and braided furnishings, their instruments polished like the crown jewels.

Tess looked around to see if she could spot Dominic, but in the crush of strangers, she didn’t see him. A large framed portrait of Magnus was on display, depicting a distinguished man with a nimbus of white hair. He had a strong face and a handsome smile, and a twinkle in his eyes.

Chairs were arranged in concentric rings, each marked with a bouquet tied up with ribbons in the colors of the Danish flag—cherry red and white.

“Is there a particular place you’d like me to sit?” Tess asked Isabel.

Isabel nodded. “Next to me.”

Tess had no idea what Isabel thought of the situation. She seemed nice enough, but why would she welcome Tess, a stranger, who now had a claim on half of the old man’s legacy? Glancing over at Isabel, she could read only a deep sadness and worry in her expression. There was also something unsettled and mysterious about this stranger who was related to her by blood. Tess couldn’t put her finger on it.

An elderly lady already sat in the inner circle, a string of well-worn rosary beads slipping through her fingers while her lips moved in silent prayer.

Isabel bent down and kissed her cheek. Then she gestured at Tess. “This is Theresa Delaney,” she said. “She goes by Tess.”

The old woman looked up at her. “It’s good to finally meet you,” she said. “Juanita Maldonado.”

To finally meet me?

“My husband, Ramon,” said Juanita. He sat next to her in a wheelchair, wearing a crisply pressed white shirt and trousers. “He and Magnus came through the war together.”

Isabel gave the old lady’s shawl-clad shoulder a squeeze. “How are you doing?”

“My feet hurt,” said Juanita. “These shoes, they pinch.”

“Then you should take them off.”

“That’s disrespectful.”

“Not as disrespectful as having sore feet.”

“This is true.” Juanita leaned down and liberated her feet from the shoes, then discreetly tucked her sun-browned toes into the grass beneath her chair.

When Tess took a seat, Isabel leaned over and whispered, “Neighbors from way back. I’ll fill you in later.”

The mariachis concluded their piece. When they fell still, the voices of the crowd tapered off. It was a strange moment, that breath-held silence, which felt vaguely as if they were at a theater, waiting for the curtain to rise.

Looking around the gathering of strangers, Tess felt terribly alone. She focused on the shush of the breeze through the tree branches, and then the call of a bird, stark in the void of silence. A few coughs and sniffles came from the crowd.

Then, faintly at first, but gathering in volume, came the simple, clear sound of a ukulele. A young man in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair in a ponytail, walked from the left. In a clear, curiously wistful voice, he began to sing the Hawaiian version of “What a Wonderful World.”

Tess could almost feel the emotion coming off Isabel in waves. Though tears streamed down her cheeks, there was something strong and noble in her manner. She was a pretty crier, Tess randomly noted. Tess herself looked a mess whenever she cried, her eyes and nose reddening like a drunk’s. She made a point of not crying.

A priest arrived, a tall man who was so handsome that Tess couldn’t focus on a single word he said. If not for the long white vestments, he might have stepped out of an ad in a glossy lifestyles magazine. She reminded herself of the gravity of the occasion, clearing her throat and sitting straighter in her chair.

Isabel leaned slightly toward her. “Don’t worry, everyone has that reaction to Father Tom. It’s ridiculous, how good-looking he is.” She dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue. Tess forced herself to listen rather than stare.

“We come together today to ask for healing and mercy for our friend and neighbor, Magnus Johansen. So many of us owe much to this beloved man. He was a loving husband to his late wife, Eva, proud father of his late son, Erik, and beloved grandfather of Isabel Johansen and...Theresa...” He paused, checked his notes. “Delaney.”

“I let him know at the last minute that you’d made it here,” Isabel whispered.

Tess felt the scrutiny of a few dozen pairs of eyes. How much did these people know about her? Did they think she was a prodigal come home or a buzzard circling for the kill? She chafed under the attention.

“...but most of all,” said the priest, “Magnus is the kind of man who knows how to be a friend to anyone in need. He does not confine his goodness to family alone....” Father Tom went on, extolling Magnus’s virtues in a voice rich with emotion. He offered a tender portrait of a man who had lived a long and varied life, filled with abundance yet shadowed by tragedy. “We humbly ask for healing, but if it is time to let Magnus go,” the priest concluded, “may we do so with grace and surrender.”

Isabel gasped and crushed a wad of Kleenex to her face.

Jesus, thought Tess in exasperation. Is this supposed to be helping?

The priest must have caught her glare, because he quickly added, “However, if our good thoughts, our prayers and energy can bring him back to us, then let us pray for his speedy and complete recovery.”

More songs and supplications followed, tributes from friends and neighbors, people who did business with Magnus, even the mayor of Archangel. Tess wasn’t naive enough to believe she was getting a clear picture of the man; one’s flaws tended not to be hashed over at an occasion like this. However, it was impossible not to be moved by stories of Magnus helping neighbors with their harvest, saving a toddler from choking, getting a tractor out of a ditch. Tess felt an ache in her chest, the grief of lost possibilities. How would her life have been different if she had known her grandfather? It was the not-knowing that filled her with regret.

The ceremony was not without its purely bizarre moments. At one point, a group of latent hippies in gypsy garb and bare feet performed an interpretive dance to “Age of Aquarius,” their eyes closed and their hands reaching for the sky in a sequence of new-age craziness. Isabel leaned over and whispered that they were members of a food co-op that bought apples from Magnus. Tess had to suck in her cheeks to keep from bursting into inappropriate laughter.

Beside her, Isabel shuddered and quaked with sobs, each intake of breath a gasp of desperation. Then, glancing to the side, something clued Tess in. Isabel was inches from falling apart...with laughter.

Tess patted her sister on the arm, for the first time consciously thinking of her as a sister.

“I’m awful. I shouldn’t be laughing,” Isabel said in a broken voice.

“It’s okay,” Tess whispered. “Everyone will just think you’re overcome.”

“I hope you’re right,” Isabel whispered back. “They’re really very sincere, but...”

Tess watched a woman in a tie-dyed shirt execute a move worthy of a flamenco dancer. “I know. I know.”

Mercifully, the dancers finished, dropping to the ground like birds shot from the sky.

A man introduced as Lorenzo Maldonado stepped up, looking elegant yet a bit nervous. “That’s gonna be a hard act to follow,” he said, eliciting murmurs of laughter. He was handsome, with raven-black hair, narrow reading glasses perched on his nose. He indicated Juanita and her husband. “I’m here to speak for my grandfather, Ramon Maldonado, who can no longer speak for himself.”

“He had a stroke,” Isabel explained in a whisper.

“My grandfather was working on a ship in Denmark when the Nazis occupied the country. He met Magnus there, and they became lifelong friends. That friendship is the reason the Maldonados and the Johansens have been neighbors ever since. For those of you who don’t know, Magnus saved Papacito’s life, when they were both working against the Nazis as part of the Danish resistance. Papacito was caught sinking a German boat and was moments away from being executed. Magnus rescued him and they both escaped, though Magnus took a bullet in his leg. After the war, Papacito returned home to Archangel. Magnus followed with his new bride, Eva, and in gratitude, the Maldonados gifted the Johansens with Bella Vista, a small portion of their vast ancestral estate. I know I speak for the whole family when I pray for Magnus to recover from his accident.”

That was some gift, thought Tess, looking around the rolling, golden hills. And once again, she felt a stab of regret. The Danish resistance was one of the most heroic aspects of World War II. She would have loved to hear of her grandfather’s exploits.

The mariachis played a recessional. Father Tom and some of the guests spiced the air with herbs burning in censers. Everyone headed up a gravel path in a great ragged stream.

“We’re going up the hill to pay tribute to Bubbie—my grandmother Eva,” said Isabel. “Our grandmother. She died a while back.”

Glancing around, Tess spotted Dominic Rossi, pushing Ramon Maldonado in his wheelchair. The day had warmed up, and Dominic had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to reveal tanned and sinewy arms that looked out of place—but not unwelcome—on a guy who worked as a banker. The pain and worry in Dominic’s face touched her unexpectedly, reminding her that Magnus meant something to him. As if he felt her gaze, he looked over and gave a nod of acknowledgment.

The procession passed fields of herbs and flowers dropping their petals and going to seed, and orchards of trees weighted with fruit, some of the harvest already in baskets on the ground and exuding an aroma of lush, heavy sweetness. A slight breeze tossed leaves and spent lavender blossoms and milkweed parachutes into the air, creating a small colorful storm. They came to a knoll overlooking the valley, which was threaded by a silvery stream.

There, a simple headstone marked the grave of Eva Salomon Johansen, “beloved wife and grandmother.” Tess was intrigued to see a phrase in Hebrew characters. Her paternal grandmother had apparently been Jewish. Beside that was a marker for Erik Karl Johansen, inscribed, Measure his life not by its length but by the depths of joy he brought us. He jumped into life and never touched bottom. We will never laugh the same again.

Tess stood before the headstone, feeling an unexpected wave of loss, anger and abandonment that shook her to her core. Hi, Dad, she thought. I wish I’d had a chance to know you.

Someone took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She was surprised to see Isabel standing there, her eyes filled with a haunting sadness, as if she’d read Tess’s mind.

The mariachis played on, the mournful brassy notes from the trumpet like a cry to heaven.

More prayers were offered, and then a lone trumpet blared out the poignant strains of “Amazing Grace.” With each successive verse, the other instruments joined in, giving the melody a curiously appealing Latino vibe.

Then, in the midst of the sadness and despair, some of the young children started to dance. Tess couldn’t see who started it, but she spied a group of little girls holding hands and skipping to the mariachis’ rhythm. They giggled and tumbled down the hill of golden grass. Their clear laughter was infectious, and the band picked up the tempo with a lively tune. Soon, even some of the adults were dancing, clapping or tapping their feet to the rhythm. Within the span of minutes, a spontaneous dance party erupted. An overwhelming sense of community pervaded the gathering. It was all so foreign to Tess, who felt awkward, an outsider here. Why, oh, why had she told Isabel she’d stay?

She looked over at Isabel to see that her eyes were spilling over with tears again, streaming unchecked down her face. But she was smiling.

“Grandfather would love this,” she said. “I wish he could be here.”

Tess couldn’t bring herself to back out of staying. Not now. Still, she did not know how to act around these people. They were like a big family, and Tess had no notion of that, large or small.

* * *

Later, in the central courtyard, mariachis set up and continued playing. In the middle of the patio, a fountain burbled, and some of the kids splashed in the water. Under a grape arbor, long buffet tables were set up, spread with a beautiful feast.

“Help yourself to some food,” Isabel urged Tess. “I know this has been a long day for you.”

“It can’t compare to the day you’ve had. Come with me.”

Isabel hesitated, then gave a nod. They each took a plate and helped themselves to a feast that looked as if it had been prepared for a magazine layout. There was a salad sprinkled with fresh flowers—Isabel said they were baby pansies, nasturtium and angelica. The spread included plates of artisan cheeses and raw and grilled vegetables, big chafing dishes of fragrant casseroles, berries and apples with a variety of sauces, an array of local wines and water from Calistoga. The abundance was almost overwhelming to Tess.

“Your caterer did an incredible job,” she said to Isabel. “Everything looks absolutely beautiful.”

Isabel paused and frowned a little. “There’s no caterer.”

This startled Tess. The quality and presentation of the food, on hand-painted majolica ware atop the wrought iron tables, was light-years beyond the usual potluck fare. “Who did the food? I mean, I know you made the bread, but everything else... Did your friends and neighbors pitch in? God, I should have such friends and neighbors.” Now that she thought about it, her friends only did takeout, and she didn’t even know her neighbors’ names.

“Isabel did the food,” said Ernestina, who was filling her plate across the table from them.

“Really? I’m impressed by anyone who can cook anything that doesn’t come from a mix. Which dish did you make?”

Isabel shrugged.

“All of it,” Ernestina chimed in. “She’s being modest. Nearly everything you see here came from Isabel’s kitchen.”

Tess sampled a spicy olive tapenade. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Isabel offered a fleeting smile.

“You’re not kidding. Is that what you do for a living?” Tess asked. “You’re a caterer, or a chef?”

“I stay busy enough around here.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but Tess dropped the subject. She and Isabel had a lot of blanks to fill in, but not here and now. She caught sight of Dominic Rossi across the patio. In his banker’s suit, he was one of the more conservative-looking guests. People seemed to know him; he chatted easily with anyone who happened by, yet she sensed that he was holding himself at a distance. She felt Isabel’s gaze and flushed a little.

“He told me he’s known your grandfather for a long time.”

Isabel hesitated, then said, “Yes. For most of his life.”

“I thought Lourdes and the kids might come,” Ernestina remarked, “but I don’t see them.”

Tess nearly dropped her buffet plate. Lourdes and the kids. She set her jaw, realigning her thinking. So the incredibly hot banker-pilot-guy was married, with children. Of course he was. She should have realized that right away. Guys like him—handsome, stable, good-humored—got married. They had kids.

At the end of the buffet table, some of the guests clustered around Isabel, dispensing hugs and earnest conversation. Tess hung back, not wanting to intrude. She wondered what the people here thought of her, the long-lost relative. The by-blow of a careless man. Yet no one seemed shocked by her presence, and no one seemed to judge her.

Returning to the buffet, she helped herself to another piece of focaccia bread, the top glistening with a sheen of olive oil and sprinkled with big crystals of salt, fronds of rosemary and tiny curls of thinly sliced garlic. She tasted the bread and made a sound of pleasure that would have embarrassed her if anyone had heard.

“It’s even better with this Cabernet.” Dominic Rossi stood there with two full glasses of red wine.

Tess felt her face heat with a blush. Okay, so he’d heard.

“Let’s have a seat over here,” he said, gesturing at one of the café tables.

Sure, mister charming, married banker man, she thought. Let’s have a glass of wine together. She wondered where his wife was. And against her better judgment, she wondered what the wife was like. Lourdes. Was she as mysterious and exotic as her name?

Taking her silence for assent, he handed her a glass and touched the rim of his to hers. “Welcome to Archangel.”

“Thank you.” She sipped the wine. It was beyond delicious. “What is this?”

“It’s from Angel Creek winery.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a small label.” He pointed at a low spot in the distance, twined with the silvery stream she’d seen earlier. “Angel Creek is over there. The grapes are made from the vineyard on that slope and ridge.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a glass of wine in sight of the vineyard it came from.” She took a sip of the Cabernet and another bite of the bread. It was as light as a cloud, the crust perfect, the wine smooth and flavorful. “This is heaven.”

Most of the guests were eating and talking now; children chased each other around the central fountain, and the mariachis played on. People took turns greeting Isabel, offering hugs, some of them quietly consoling her. What a gift it was to have the kind of friends and neighbors who would gather in support in a crisis.

And what an alien concept for Tess—the idea of a permanent home, roots, history. Her neighbors were strangers who shared a common trash pickup day, and her friends...they were as busy as she was with work. If a disaster were to strike, she assumed they would rally around her—but only if she reached out for help, something she was completely unaccustomed to doing.

“I feel for Isabel,” she said to Dominic, unsettled by a strange, sharp yearning. “She must be so worried about her grandfather. Do you think I should try to visit him in the hospital? Magnus is allowed to have visitors, right?”

“Sure. I’ve been going every day.”

“Is it awful? I mean, does he look...?”

“He’s in bad shape, banged up from the fall, now hooked up to monitors and pumps. The docs can’t predict when or even if he’ll emerge from the coma, but they say it can’t hurt to talk to him, hold his hand, that sort of thing. Would it be weird for you?”

“Um, all of this is weird for me.”

There was kindness in his face; she sensed he genuinely wanted to help. So now he was hot and kind. And married. So what was he doing seeking her out, extending his sympathy? She pushed away her plate.

“You didn’t eat much,” he said.

“I’d rather drink.” She finished her wine. “Good God, that’s delicious.”

He moved the plate in front of her again. “Don’t let Isabel’s cooking go to waste.”

She sighed and picked at the grilled vegetables. She wasn’t usually much for vegetables, but these were as delicious as they looked, perfectly seasoned with fresh herbs. “This could make me give up Cheetos,” she said. “Scratch that. Nothing could make me give up Cheetos. They’re like crack to me.”

“For me, it’s strawberry Newtons,” he said. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

She bridled. “I’m fine. Don’t I look fine?”

“Better than you did in the city.”

“Thanks a lot. A piece of roadkill would look better than I did in the city,” she said, trying a slice of herbed courgette. She fought against feeling drawn to this man. He had the sort of looks that infiltrated a woman’s dreams—polished fashion on the outside, brawny underneath. The black-rimmed glasses merely added interest. Everything about him attracted her. Except, of course, the married part.

A boy and a girl dashed past, the boy ducking behind the leaf-clad frame of an arbor, then jumping out at the girl, who squealed with delight.

“Ernestina mentioned you have kids.” Tess wanted to draw a clear boundary right away. He was too dangerously good-looking to do otherwise.

“I do. Trini and Antonio. They’re with their mom today.”

Something about the way he said “with their mom” tipped her off. “Oh. You and their mom aren’t together?”

He shook his head. “We’ve been divorced for three years.”

Now she felt slightly less guilty for lusting after him. But only slightly. This was not the time or the place to start a flirtation. Surely there was an unwritten social rule about hooking up with someone in the midst of a looming tragedy.

“I see,” she said evenly. “It happens.” Lame, Tess. “I mean, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

She dropped the subject, even though a host of questions crowded into her head. What was the ex like? Why had they split up? Who in her right mind would split up with a guy like this?

None of your business, she told herself.

* * *

By the time everyone took their leave, full dark obscured the hollows of the surrounding hills, and indigo twilight twined between earth and sky. A line of glowing taillights from departing vehicles curved along the drive toward the main road.

In the kitchen, helpful neighbors or workers finished the last of the cleanup. Tess couldn’t keep track of everyone. She observed a bewildering number of Navarro relatives who had been associated with the estate for years. Tess was fast developing a fascination with this place and people here. Despite her discomfort at being the outsider, she wanted to learn more.

After the cleanup, she and Isabel sat together in the courtyard, with a single votive candle burning on the table between them, and a rangy German shepherd named Charlie lying at Isabel’s feet.

Tess felt completely enveloped by the deep and silent darkness and the scent of night jasmine and drying leaves on the breeze. Stars pricked the sky, the sweeping array overwhelming to Tess. The abundance of the night, unimpeded by city light, made her dizzy. The darkness added a sense of intimacy to the moment. It was too intimate. Too quiet. So quiet, she was at risk of hearing her own loneliness.

“I never see this,” she said, tipping back her head. “The night sky, I mean. I spend all my time in cities, for the most part.”

“What cities?” asked Isabel.

“I live in San Francisco.”

“What do you do there?”

“I research and value things for a boutique auction house. We have offices in New York, Brussels and Berlin. Work takes me all over the place.”

Isabel sighed. “I always thought I wanted to travel.”

“You should, then. What’s holding you back?”

There was a slight pause, maybe a heartbeat. “There’s always something keeping me here. I was away at cooking school for a while. But I needed to come home when Bubbie got sick. After she was gone, I never went back. Turns out it wasn’t for me. Without Bubbie, Grandfather was like a lost soul, so I couldn’t leave him.” She brushed an imaginary crumb from the tablecloth. “While he’s in the hospital, I have no idea who I’m supposed to take care of.”

“How about yourself?”

A smile flickered across her face and disappeared. “Actually, in his absence, I’ve got my hands full with the apple orchard. Grandfather isn’t the most organized when it comes to running the business....”

Tess sensed more to the story. But Isabel didn’t seem inclined to share.

From the kitchen, Ernestina called out a good-night. She and her husband, Oscar, made their way down the lane to their bungalow. Lighting the way with a lantern and silhouetted against the stars, they looked dignified and romantic, an older couple, almost identical in height.

Tess drummed her fingers on the table, craving a cigarette. Then she noticed Isabel watching her. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m a reformed—reforming—smoker. A stupid habit, I know. Trying to get over it.”

“I wish I could help you with that.”

“You are, just by sitting there and looking all calm and healthy.”

“I look calm and healthy?” Isabel offered a glimmering smile.

“Everybody around here does. It’s freaky.”

That elicited a brief laugh. Then Isabel’s expression turned thoughtful. “So, what do you suppose happened?” she asked. “I mean, I can’t say I’m sorry we found each other, but why do you think it took so long?”

“Good question. I’ve been trying to get hold of my mother to ask her just that,” said Tess. “I assume you’ve done the same?”

“I never knew my mother. She died in childbirth.”

“Oh.” Tess hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m really sorry. No wonder you’re so close to your grandfather.”

“He and Bubbie raised me.”

“Here’s what I don’t get. How long has Magnus known about me, and why didn’t he tell anyone?”

Isabel’s gaze shifted to the votive candle on the table. “That’s something to ask him after he gets better.”

Assuming he does get better, thought Tess. “Would it be all right if I visited him in the hospital?”

“Absolutely,” said Isabel. “You don’t need my permission. I mean, I want you to. I thought maybe, I don’t know, it might help him to get better, having you here. Just so you know, I have some questions for him, too.” She looked exhausted, wrung out as she rose from the table, leaned forward and blew out the candle. “It’s getting late. I’ll show you to your room.”

They went into the house together, Charlie at Isabel’s heels. The kitchen was spotless, the sink and surfaces gleaming in the dim light. A hallway led to a big family room with a high cathedral ceiling crisscrossed by ancient-looking beams and a massive fireplace. In addition to the mission-style furnishings, there was an upright piano and a wall of bookcases. Tess could easily picture family gatherings here, candlelit holidays and parties. Yet she pictured it from a distance, as though studying a foreign culture.

“It’s nice to have you here,” Isabel said.

Tess couldn’t take it anymore. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Seriously? You can be honest with me, Isabel. We’re strangers, and I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you completely resented me.”

“I don’t resent you.” She looked mystified. “And for the time being, I’m not going to think about what happens if he doesn’t make it.” Her expression was studiously earnest.

“No one would blame you for feeling that way, either. Least of all, me.” Tess felt drained and confused. “Let’s talk again in the morning.”

“All right. I meant what I said, though, when I said I’m glad you’re here. This place feels much too big for just me.” She led the way up the stairs. “Sorry, I don’t mean to complain.”

“That didn’t sound like complaining to me. I could give you lessons in complaining.” Tess looked up and down the hallway, orienting herself the way she did when checking into a hotel. Like the rest of the house, there was an old-fashioned feel to the upstairs, with its hall tables, the sconces on the walls.

“Charlie and I will give you the full tour tomorrow. He’s new here, too.” Isabel ruffled the dog’s ears. “A gift from Dominic.”

“He gave you a dog?”

“Charlie needed a home.” She stepped into a room at the end of the hall and stood aside, motioning for Tess to go ahead. “Is this okay with you?”

Tess looked around the spotless room, with its high tester bed and huge armoire, tall windows, adjacent bathroom with lavender-scented soaps and lotions. “Are you kidding? This is lovely.” This was the most comfortable, most peaceful place in the world. What she didn’t say was that this room felt like a place where she could drown.

“Okay, then.” Isabel stood uncertainly in the doorway.

“Okay.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will, thanks.” Tess studied Isabel in the soft light from the table lamp, this stranger who was her sister. “I don’t mean to stare,” she said, but she continued staring.

“No problem. I keep catching myself doing the same thing. Sometimes when I look at you, I see Grandfather, but that might be my imagination.”

“Hmm. That would be a first for me, being compared to an old man.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know, I know.”

“You’re really pretty, Tess.”

No, she wasn’t. Tess knew that. She wasn’t vile, but she wasn’t truly pretty, either. Men tended to think she was sexy, but that was different from pretty. “Thanks. I was thinking the same about you. Only I was thinking you’re really not pretty, the way Sophia Loren or Isabella Rossellini aren’t pretty. You’re gorgeous. Like fashion magazine gorgeous.”

Isabel’s gaze dropped. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

Tess felt wildly out of place in this too-cozy, too-quiet, too-neat room. And Isabel—what in the world was she thinking? “Listen, I didn’t come here because I expect anything. I mean, this is your world, not mine, and just because Magnus put me in his will doesn’t mean I’m entitled to anything.” Tess wanted to be very clear on this. “I’m here because...because this is all so new, and even though what happened to your grandfather is awful, it’s kind of amazing to meet you.”

Isabel edged toward the door, a bashful smile hovering on her lips. “Have a good night, Tess.”

The linens were lightly scented with dried lavender, and a cool breeze drifted in through the window, but Tess felt discomfited by the pervasive quiet. She was accustomed to the night sounds of traffic and foghorns, streetcars, the occasional crescendo of a siren. Here, the peeping of a single cricket drove her nuts. She paced the room. She tried a piece of the nicotine gum Dominic Rossi had given her, wincing at the bitter taste, barely disguised by the cinnamon flavoring. Then she thought about Dominic some more, debating with herself about whom he more closely resembled, a movie idol or a star athlete. With glasses. And a well-cut suit.

And two kids and an ex-wife he seemed loath to talk about.

She decided to take a shower and was surprised to discover there was no shower, but a claw-footed tub. A bath, then. When was the last time she’d had a bath? Who had time?

What the heck, she thought, and turned on the tap. Spying some bubble bath, she poured in a little. More lavender, she observed, closing her eyes briefly as the scent wafted from the froth. While the tub filled, she hung her belongings in the armoire, wondering how long it would take to get this business sorted out.

As she sank down into the scented bubbles, she mulled over the conversation with Isabel. It was hard to get a read on her half sister, especially now, when Isabel was dealing with her grandfather’s terrible accident. Isabel was clearly no fool. No doubt she had assumed she was the sole heir to this vast and beautiful property. Despite her protests, it could not have been a welcome surprise to discover that she would one day be sharing the legacy with a stranger.

Tess wondered why Isabel didn’t seem more upset by that.