The Apple Orchard

Eight



When he showed up at Bella Vista the next day, Dominic looked even better to Tess than he had the day before. She felt self-conscious about the moment that had passed between them the night before, and hoped he wouldn’t bring it up. She also felt out of place in her jeans, half boots and black silk top. People around the estate wore work attire or casual clothes made of airy prints and hand-knit sweaters, sandals of braided hemp. Dominic seemed perfectly at ease as he greeted people on his way across the courtyard to the house. There was something about the way he carried himself—with confidence but no swagger—that captured her attention, made it hard to think about anything but him.

It was a silly crush. She didn’t get crushes anymore, did she? Yet all the symptoms were there—the heat in her cheeks and the speeding up of her heart. Her fixation on his mouth and then his hands. The way she reacted, deep in her gut, to the timbre of his voice.

“How are you doing?” he asked Isabel. It was not a throwaway question; he really did seem to want to know, moving in close as though prepared to catch her if she fell.

Tess wondered how long these two had known each other.

Isabel glanced away, lowering her head as though embarrassed by the intensity of her grief. Dark tendrils of wavy hair coiled around the nape of her neck. “I keep having conversations with him in my head, questions I never got around to asking him. For some reason, we both acted as though we had all the time in the world.”

Tess’s heart gave a lurch. She used to feel the same way about Nana, when she was a girl. She never once imagined what life would be like without her. That was probably a good thing, though. Nana would never approve of being afraid of whatever was around the corner.

“Take it easy on yourself,” she said to Isabel. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us to visit him?”

“Not today. But promise you’ll call me if there’s a change.”

“Of course.”

“You ready?” asked Dominic.

“Sure.” As ready as she could ever be, under the circumstances. She followed him out to the driveway and got into his car. “I appreciate the ride.”

“No problem.”

Tess felt cautious around him, particularly after last night. She was so new here; she didn’t know where the boundaries were. She was still the outsider, possibly the interloper. “Isabel should come, too,” said Tess. “He’s her grandfather. Her only remaining family.”

“Only?”

“I don’t count,” Tess said. “We’re strangers, don’t you get it? The one thing we have in common is a father who slept around.” She checked her phone to see if her mother had tried to call or send a text. “What do I have to do to get a signal around here?”

“Paint yourself blue and slaughter a goat.” He was so deadpan that she almost took him seriously.

“Very funny. I imagine I’ll have better luck at the hospital. Getting a signal, I mean. In general, hospitals aren’t such lucky places, are they?”

“When you need a hospital, it can seem like a pretty lucky place.”

“I guess so. Mercy Heights was my first. When my grandmother passed away, she wasn’t taken to a hospital at all. She died right in the middle of her shop.”

“That’s tough, Tess. What happened?”

“It was a blood clot that went straight to her brain. It was like being struck by lightning, or that’s how it seemed to me at the time—just so sudden and arbitrary. At the funeral, her church friends kept saying what a blessing it was that she didn’t suffer. I’m glad there wasn’t any pain for her, but I’ve never been able to get my head around the idea that losing her was a blessing.” She scowled down at the absent bars on her cell phone as a heavy jolt of remembered sadness hit her. “I was fifteen years old and I felt...as if the world changed color overnight.”

“Must’ve been rough for you.”

“Oh, it was.” She almost never talked about Nana, but it felt good just now, with Dominic. “The worst moments were when, for a few seconds, I would forget she was gone. I’d rush out of school with some bit of news to tell her, and then it would hit me—she’s not there anymore.” She took in a deep, shuddering breath. “God, look at me. I’m a mess.”

“I’m okay with messes.”

His easy acceptance was both startling and gratifying. She was so used to people who shied away from emotion. “Are you—or were you—close to your grandparents?”

“Sure. Don’t get to see them much, though. They’re still in Italy,” he said. “All four are still living.”

“Now that’s what I call a blessing.”

“Agreed. Tell me more about your grandmother. You told me she had a shop...and you’ve kept her desk.”

“Nana loved a sturdy cup of tea with sugar. She had a keen eye for quality and was a good businesswoman. And she was an incredibly patient, good person,” she said, watching the scenery flow past in a stream of color, like walking through a gallery of Monet paintings. “I loved the shop in Dublin—the way it smelled, the way she changed the displays. When I was little, I had this idea that one day I’d create a place of my own, like Things Forgotten.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Same reason you haven’t become a full-time winemaker. Financing is a bitch. Besides, I’ve got a really good position with Sheffield House.” As they passed through the town of Archangel, Tess was struck anew by its quaintness. Everything seemed to move so slowly here. Despite what the doctor had told her, she felt a flash of longing for the city—the coffee, the action, the hustle and bustle of deals being made.

Soon, she told herself. Once she did her duty and visited Magnus, she would be on her way. Sending a sideways glance at Dominic, she felt a flicker of regret. But she had no business getting to know this guy. He was here and she was there, and their paths weren’t meant to cross.

“I liked hearing about your grandmother,” he said easily, pulling into the parking lot.

“It was nice,” she said before she could stop herself, “telling you about her.” Stop it, she told herself. Just stop.

The automatic doors to the medical center swished open with a mechanical sigh. The receptionist nodded with easy familiarity at Dominic as he signed them in. Then he led her down a hallway flanked by fire extinguishers, printed notices and hand-washing stations. He’d told her that he visited Magnus often; now she realized what a kindness that was. She found herself wishing Magnus could somehow sense that.

There was a whiteboard beside the door designating Magnus a brain trauma patient. The attending physician was someone named G. Hattori. Tess stopped there, her palms suddenly clammy.

“You want me to come in or wait outside?” asked Dominic.

“You do really well at hospitals,” she remarked. “I mean that as a compliment.”

They both paused to use the hand sanitizer, then they stepped into the room. Classical music drifted softly from a radio on the windowsill. The TV was muted and set on the Discovery Channel. The wheeled bed was angled toward the window, which framed a view of a eucalyptus tree.

Tess approached the figure on the bed, her heart pounding. He looked like...a stranger. Of course he did. A broken old man, unmoving, hooked up to a network of tubes. His closed eyelids were thin and bruised-looking. There was a healing scab on his forehead, and his snow-white hair had recently been combed. Ancient-looking scars marked his neck. He didn’t appear to be merely asleep. His arms lay stiffly at his sides, and his legs were slightly bent as though frozen in place.

Tess stood still, a few feet from the bed. She honestly did not know what she was feeling.

Troy, the nurse who had just come on duty, gave her the details of the accident and subsequent coma. Tess also found out that Isabel was her grandfather’s designated representative. As such, she had yet to make a decision about the Do Not Resuscitate order. Tess could sympathize. Who wanted to make that call?

Troy checked the screen of the laptop on its rolling cart. “There’s been a change in the past twenty-four hours.”

Tess’s heart lurched. “Is that bad?”

“As a matter of fact, it’s an improvement. The doctors want to take him off the ventilator.”

Tess thought about the healing ceremony—the music, prayers and rituals. Could it be...? “So it’s good, right?”

“He’s out of immediate danger. We’re focused on preventing infection and keeping him physically healthy. He gets a varied course of treatment, including physical therapy, sensory stimulation, and of course he’s monitored constantly. There’s brain activity, but so far no voluntary movement.”

“And the prognosis...” Please say he’s going to make it.

“We won’t know the full extent of the neurological damage from his injuries until he emerges from the coma. Some patients fully or partially recover.”

She looked from Troy to Dominic. “So, do we just...talk to him as if he can hear us?”

“Sure, go ahead.” The nurse left them alone.

Edgy with anxiety, Tess felt a confusing mixture of hope, pity, anger and frustration. She touched his hand, studied the shape of his nails and the pattern of his veins through the thin papery skin. “I just found you,” she said to Magnus. “I can’t lose you now.”

Shaken by an emotion she didn’t understand, she felt the need to do something other than sit here. On a rolling table by the bed was a basket overflowing with cards and letters. “How about I read some cards,” she said. “Hearing good thoughts from people can’t hurt, right?”

The cards ranged from typical get-well wishes to silly jokes to handwritten notes. “You’ve got a lot of friends,” she murmured. Someone had sent an eagle feather for courage, another contained a pouch of healing herbs. All expressed regard for Magnus. Near the bottom of the basket was a sentimental-looking card, handmade, adorned on the front with a sprig of dried lavender and a message that said Live This Day. The formal, spidery writing indicated the sender was elderly, carefully drawing the words “I’m sorry. Please get better.” Tess stared at the signature. Something niggled at the back of her mind, then exploded into consciousness. “Annelise.”

She recognized the message from the needlepoint on Miss Winther’s kitchen wall. The card was from the woman with the lavaliere and the Tiffany set—Annelise Winther. What on earth was the woman doing, sending a card to Magnus Johansen?

Mystified, she searched her phone for the old lady’s number and dialed. When Miss Winther picked up, Tess identified herself and said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m in Archangel, up in Sonoma County. I came to visit a man named Magnus Johansen.”

The silence was long and taut. “Is he all right?”

“He’s... No. He’s in a coma. Everyone is hoping for the best.” She studied the pale, calm face, the wispy hair, the chest moving with the respirator. “I couldn’t help but notice this card from you. So I assume you know him.”

Another silence, this one shorter. “We’re both survivors of the Nazi occupation of Denmark,” said Miss Winther.

“I see. Do you know him well, then? I mean, were you acquainted in Denmark, or did you meet later?”

“I... No, I don’t know him well.” The woman sounded confused, or hesitant. “I never really did.”

“But you know him.” Tess felt confused, too. No way could this be a coincidence. “Miss Winther, I don’t mean to pry—”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. I hope... Just, please. Give him my best.”