Winter Garden

Meredith was too stunned to say anything. She knew she should argue, say she had to work, that the dogs couldn’t be left alone—anything—but the truth was that she wanted to go. She wanted to get away from the orchard and the office and the talk she had to have with Jeff. Daisy could run the warehouse.

Mom looked up slowly. Her face was pale; her blue eyes seemed to burn through the pallor. “You are taking me to Alaska? Why?”

“You said it was your dream,” Nina said simply. Meredith could have kissed her. There was such a gentleness in her sister’s voice. “And you said it, too, Mere. ”

“But . . . ,” Mom said, shaking her head.

“We need this,” Nina said. “The three of us. We need to be together and I want Mom to see Alaska. ”

“In exchange for the rest of the story,” Mom said.

An awkward pause fell over the table.

“Yes. We want to hear the whole . . . fairy tale, Mom, but this is separate. I saw your face when you said you’d always dreamed of going to Alaska. You have dreamed of this trip. Let Meredith and me take you. ”

Mom got up and went to the French doors in the dining room. There, she stared out at the winter garden, which was now in full vibrant bloom. “When do we leave?”

The next morning, Nina stood at the fence line, with her camera in her hands, watching workers stream onto the property. Women headed toward the shed, where they would pack apples from cold storage for shipment around the world; in a few months, Nina knew, they’d be busy sorting the harvest by quality. All up and down the rows, workers in faded jeans, most with jet-black hair, climbed up and down ladders beneath the branches, carefully hand-wrapping the fledgling apples to protect them from bugs and the elements.

She was just about to go back into the house when a dirty blue car pulled in front of the garage and parked. The driver’s door opened. All Nina saw was a shock of gray-threaded black hair and she started to run for him.

“Danny!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms so hard he stumbled backward and hit the car, but still he held on to her.

“You’re not an easy woman to track down, Nina Whitson. ”

Smiling, she took him by the hand. “You did okay. Here. Let me show you around the place. ”

With an unexpected pride, she showed him around the orchard her father had loved. Now and then she shared memories from her past; mostly she told him about the story her mother was telling.

Finally, she said, “Why are you here?”

He smiled down at her. “First things first, love. Where’s your bedroom?”

“On the second floor. ”

“Damn,” he said. “You’re goin’ t’ make me work for it. ”

“I’ll make it worth your time. Promise,” she said, kissing his ear.

He carried her up the stairs and into her girlhood room.

“A cheerleader, eh?” he said, glancing at the dusty red and white pom-pom lying in the corner. “How come I never knew that?”

She started unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands were frantic as she undressed him. Anticipation of his touch was an exquisite torture, and when they were both naked and in bed, he began caressing her with an ardor that matched her own. She was on fire for him; there was no other way to put it. And when she came, it was so intense it felt as if she were breaking apart.

Afterward, he rolled over onto one elbow and looked down at her. His face was deeply tanned and lined, the creases at his eyes like tiny white knife marks. His hair had taken flight during their lovemaking, turned into dozens of curly black wings. He was smiling, but there was something pinched in it, and the look in his eyes was almost sad. “You asked why I was here. ”

“Give a girl a chance to breathe, won’t you?”

“You’re breathing,” he said quietly. With those two words, and the look in his eyes, she knew it all.

“Okay,” she said, and this time she had to force herself to look at him. “Why are you here?”

“I was in Atlanta. From there, this was nothin’. ”

“Atlanta?” she said, but she knew what was in Atlanta. Every journalist did.

“CNN. They’ve offered me my own show. In-depth world stories. ” He smiled. “I’m tired, Neens. I’ve been gallivantin’ for decades now, and my bum leg hurts all the time and I’m tired of tryin’ to keep up with the twenty-year-olds. Mostly, though . . . I’m tired of being alone so much. I wouldn’t mind the globe-trottin’ if I had a place to come home to. ”