I laugh. “Good enough.”
We begin walking. It’s quite beautiful here, the rows and rows of trees spotted with red and green apples, the light smattering between leaves, and the smell of autumn rich in the air. I’ve never been apple picking before, and Esben seems to find how much fun I’m having amusing. We work our way up and down rows, and he soon stops picking any himself and just watches me as I peer through branches to find perfect apples.
“You’re very selective,” he notices. “Especially for a first timer.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m selective. I want to do this right. What if we come home with wormy, bruised apples? You’ll thank me later.” I’m eyeing a really big apple that I’m dying to get, but it’s out of reach. “Can you get that one?”
“How about I help you get it?” He squats down a little. “Hop on. We’ll piggyback you up to it.”
If Esben wants me to plaster my body against his, I’m not about to refuse. As he stands, I tighten my legs around him and raise my hand. I’m at the perfect height, and I pluck the apple from the tree.
He starts to lower me, and I clutch on, stopping him. “Esben?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want you to get all weird and feel bad for me.”
“Gotcha.”
“This is my first piggyback ride.”
He hikes me up higher, secures my legs in his arms, and starts walking. “Then I won’t put you down yet.”
We leave our apple bag under the tree, and for a while, Esben walks me through the orchard. I rest my head on my arm and watch the trees go by; then I pull my fingers through his loose curls and see how the rays of sun pick up colors and highlights that I haven’t noticed before. I am more relaxed and at peace in this moment than I could have imagined.
“You must be getting tired.” I lean around a little. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. You ready for pumpkins?”
“Absolutely.”
“If you tell me you’ve never carved a pumpkin . . .”
I slide down his body. “Technically, no.” I’m not sure why I find this funny, but I do, even though Esben clearly does not. This poor guy has no idea how many firsts I have never achieved.
He throws up his hands. “What? I’m going to make it my mission for you to do all the stuff you haven’t. And why are you laughing?”
“I don’t know! Maybe because you’re so outraged over this. It’s cute. I’ve helped scoop out the disgusting pumpkin guts. Does that count?”
“Nooooo! It does not count. Simon doesn’t allow pumpkins at his house?”
“I’m not really . . . into holidays much. They were always a mixed bag growing up. Even when they were fun, that fun never lasted. I’d have, you know, a great Halloween, and then be out of that house before Thanksgiving. I kind of learned not to get invested. I’m sure Simon would like it if I were a huge Christmas fan or whatever, but . . . I don’t know.” Esben’s face makes me laugh again. “It’s not a big deal!”
“Come on. We’re buying you a pumpkin. Or twenty.”
While I was fussy about apples, it takes Esben thirty minutes to find a pumpkin that suits his carving needs. They all look the same to me, but I enjoy walking alongside him as he stops and starts, occasionally bending down to roll a pumpkin around.
At one point, he picks up what looks to me like a perfectly nice one and says sadly, “I’m so sorry. You are beautiful and perfectly round, but you do not have a stem, and, therefore, you are unfit for becoming a jack-o’-lantern. There are standards that have to be met. You can be a pie. Or bread.”
“Or pumpkin bars? Those are really good. Simon makes them. Chocolate ganache, a layer of pumpkin cream, crushed cookies . . .”
“I like everything I’ve heard about this Simon fellow. He’s a good dad, huh?”
“He is.”
“But you don’t call him Dad?”
“Oh.” We walk down the path while Esben keeps looking. “I don’t. I guess because he adopted me when I was so old.”
“Does he mind?”
“He’s never said if he does.” I kick a stone. I haven’t thought about this before.
Esben absolutely refuses to let me pay for the pumpkins and apples, even though he already paid for lunch, so I wander to look at display shelves set up with jams, a few baked goods, fudge, and locally made syrups. When I round back to the register, Esben is in a full-blown conversation with the man in line behind him. They’re having a back-and-forth exchange about Maine attractions, and Esben is recommending our lunch spot.
“Oh, yeah, man! You have to go. We just ate there, and you won’t find better seafood anywhere.”
“That right? We’ll drive on over then, if I can get my wife to leave the orchard. It’s like she’s never seen a tree before.” He winks. “We’ve been on the road all day. Drove from New York City.”
“Really?” Esben smiles and hands money to the cashier.
“Yes. But this was worth those hours in the car.” The man looks around, then back at Esben, and leans in. “Want to know something?” he says a bit nervously. “After years working in the boring business world, we’re going to do something fun and quirky. Finally. I’ve been a milk-shake addict all my life,” he confesses with a laugh, “so we’re starting a business around it. But not just regular milk shakes. Ones with skewers that stick out of the shake, loaded with extras. Brownie bites, fresh-baked cookies, candy bars. And in the colder months, we’ll also do what we call ‘hot milk shakes.’ Coffee, tea, and cider drinks that’ll come with doughnuts, pumpkin bread, and all that.” He can barely contain his excitement.
Esben moves aside while the man pays for his pumpkin. “What a completely cool idea.” He pauses, and suddenly I smile, because I know what he’s about to do. He puts out an open hand. “My name is Esben Baylor. Any chance I could take a picture of you and your wife?”
Ten minutes later, Esben has posted a photo of this man and his wife, standing in the middle of the pumpkin patch, with a caption that tells their story and the hashtag #goforthedream.
After the car is loaded with apples and pumpkins and the four cornstalks that he’s somehow squished into the backseat, we start the drive. I am glued to my phone, watching in awe as the comments pour in over this picture. I tap between his public Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter pages and his home page. It’s impossible to keep up.
I drop the phone in my lap and stare at him.
“What?” he asks.
“Who are you? I mean . . . you have hundreds of comments in a matter of seconds about milk-shake man and his wife.”