I let my spine sink into the seat, willing my back to relax and my mind to stay far, far away from Thrill and Margot and Avery and TV shows. Much of Seattle was hurtling through a weekday, sidewalks full of people walking with purpose, talking on cell phones, trying to dodge the light rain that had developed in the clouds overhead. I watched the city fall away as we moved first past traffic, concrete, and metal, then neighborhoods, trees, and driveways.
Kai and I laughed and talked as we felt the miles and our normal lives drop behind us. I recoiled when he picked the radio station (eighties punk), and he mocked me mercilessly when it was my turn to choose (seventies funk with an unrepentant helping of disco). We agreed to let Paul Simon sing us through the Cascades and so listened to him tell stories about diamonds on the soles of her shoes and Rene and Georgette Magritte as we climbed and then descended in the greens and blacks and purples of the mountains.
“So, tell me about the orchard. And how about a crash course on family names, please.” I reached for my bag and took out a memo pad and a mechanical pencil. I’d drawn a neat line down the middle of a page, with “orchard” on one side and “family” on the other when I felt Kai’s eyes on me. I met his stare and surmised he wasn’t going to compliment my dress and hair this time.
“You’re taking notes.” He said it as a statement of fact, and I nodded, forsaking my impulse to say, “Duh.”
“Family details can get confusing,” I reasoned. “I don’t want to accidentally call your niece the name of a nephew. I’m guessing that in a family where the children are named Kai, Gemma, and Dahlia, the kid names might be some hair-raisers.”
Kai shook his head. “You are, um, quirky, Garrett. Scratch that. You’re a head case.”
I was rummaging in my bag for the little container of extra graphite I kept with me at all times. My pencil was running low, and I would not suffer a dull point.
Kai was still talking when I emerged victorious. He was starting to mutter. “This from the woman who shares her name with millions of American men.” He pointed at my list. “But just to fly in the face of your prejudices, I’ll have you know that Gemma and Kory’s little girl is named Lucy. And Dahlia and Ruben have two kids, Ted and Anna. Mainstream, Fourth of July, all-American top-100 names, all the way.”
I grunted and wrote the names under the proper heading. I quizzed him about the kids’ ages (Lucy was a toddler, Ted and Anna were fourteen and eleven, respectively), and the ways in which his sisters met their husbands. I had just moved into work experience and pet/food allergies when Kai strong-armed me across the front seat, not unlike the way my mom used to hold me back at stop signs.
“What?” I asked, scanning the road for oncoming vehicles.
At that, Kai swerved, pulling onto a wide shoulder and next to some sort of farm stand. He put the car in park and turned to me, eyes bright. “I love the CIA. I do. I think they play a pivotal role in national security. But you,” he said as he took my notepad out of my hands and tossed it roughly into the back seat, “are a chef, not a CIA operative. And we are in central Washington during the summer. So you can ask Gemma all about the time she got hives at summer camp when she was eight when you actually meet Gemma. But for now, can we please stop with the talking points? There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Before I could respond, Kai bounded out of the car and was reaching for a handshake with an elderly man. A light breeze lifted the canopy above the baskets of apricots, blueberries, and cherries. I opened my car door and lifted my chin to the movement of warm air and the cloudless sky, amazed at how much a climate could change when a girl crossed a mountain or two.
“Charlie,” Kai said as I approached the stand, “I want you to meet an old friend of mine. Tom Breyon, this is Charlie Garrett.” I thought I saw Kai’s ears pinking but felt Tom’s hand in mine before Kai finished speaking.
“Well, I’ll be,” Mr. Breyon said, his blue eyes crinkling with mischief. “I thought I might not make it to this auspicious day.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to repress a grin. His hand was as rough as a swath of sandpaper between my two palms. I held on, taking an immediate liking to this man in worn Levis and Velcro tennis shoes.
“What makes this day auspicious?” I asked.
Kai said, “Tom, I really don’t think—”
“Well, for one thing, I don’t often have the pleasure of seeing women around here, see.”
Kai rolled his eyes and looked as though he might have heard this line before.
“My wife was the most beautiful woman in the world, God rest her soul. After she died ten years ago, the only people who kept hanging around were my male field hands and an occasional tomboy.” He frowned for dramatic effect. “Tomboy is actually cutting those girls some slack. They rarely shave their armpits and seem to think organic means ‘don’t bathe.’”
I drank this man in, my laughter only appearing to egg him on. Kai wandered among the baskets of fruit, dipping his nose, feeling the apricots for firmness.
“So,” Mr. Breyon continued, “this day is auspicious because I have a lovely city girl here and I can already tell, she took a shower today.”