Page 10 of Moonshine and Magnolias
The war of polite Southern hostess versus the need for control played out in the clenched muscle in her cheek and the assessment in her glance. “Thank you.”
Soon her arms were loaded with the baskets. He tucked the step stools under his arm, their white legs a sign of her surrender.
She peered at him from under her dark lashes. “Will you be joining us to pickthe peaches?”
Exploring the grounds was suddenly unappealing. He and Hal would be tracking down leads for at least a week. Plenty of time to seek out any location mentioned in the old journals and newspaper clippings. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He followed her down the hill, the dirt-packed path leading right to the peach orchard. Trees stretched a good half mile in full view of the sun. A rich, earthy scent rose from the ground, and Rob inhaled the natural aroma.
Mr. and Mrs. Kipling sat on a concrete bench in the shade of the trees, lips locked and hands clenching hair and arms.
“We couldn’t have asked for lovelier weather,” Wendy said, much louder than her normal tone.
“Smooth,” he murmured as the happy couple put some distance between themselves. Mrs. Kipling’s hands went to her hair, patting down the sides.
“Good morning,” she said to the newlyweds. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“We were able to keep ourselves occupied.” Mr. Kipling grinned at his wife, who laughed and gave him a smack on the arm.
“Let’s get going.” Wendy handed each of them a basket, then marched them past a score of trees through the center aisle of the orchard. The air was thick with the sweetness of peaches, and Rob recognized it as the lingering perfume Wendy carried with her. Beyond the orchard lay a field with saplings, each one spaced several yards from the next.
“Any fruit you pick is yours for the taking. They can keep for about five days in the fridge, so you use the ones in your rooms.” Wendy stopped in front of a tree that stood about a head taller than Rob. She demonstrated the proper technique for picking. “Don’t force the peach from the tree. It will fall when it’s ready. From whatever you don’t want, some will be incorporated into your meals while you’re here. Some will go to the distillery that brews Fountenoy Hall’s house whiskey.”
“I had too much of it during the last after-dinner hour,” Mrs. Kipling said. “I never knew peach whiskey was a thing.”
“Not the ones we pick today, though,” Rob said. Researching his uncle’s role in Prohibition had taught him a little about making alcohol.
“That’s right.” Wendy handed him a basket. “It takes time to turn this all into our special moonshine. You get a gold star, Dr. Upshaw.”
Rob wiggled his way around the branches to stand close to the trunk. He could have grasped a peach closer to him, but instead reached up. The first peach didn’t budge. Neither did the second. Or the third.
“Not so easy, right?” Wendy said.
He hadn’t noticed her watching him, so intent was he on his trophy. Now he eyed a different type of prize. “This tree hates me.”
“Usually it’s a combination of the angle and the pressure.” She stood in front of him and stretched up.
Her sun-warmed body heated him when he scooted closer to watch her move through the leaves. She tugged, then lowered her hand. “See?”
He took out a perfectly round peach. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She stepped out of his way, leaving him cooling. “Your turn.”
He tried again and soon had a couple pieces of fruit in his basket. Wendy nodded approval. “Not too many at once, now. Peaches bruise easily when there’s too much weight on top.”
“How are we doing?” Mr. Kipling asked. They were gathering fruit from the lower branches.
Wendy wandered over to them. “Nice. Very nice. I can taste the cobbler now.”
She picked along with them, offering tidbits of peach information from its travels across Asia to their coloration being dependent on where they’re grown. It was obvious she had recited this before. Rob got lost in her voice as her tone became less guarded and hints of her Southern upbringing crept in.
All too soon the four of them had most of the containers filled, but Mrs. Kipling nearly dropped her basket when Wendy mentioned a little tidbit about the pits containing cyanide. “Does it leak out? I eat them all the time. I don’t want to die.”
“The concentration levels are very small,” Wendy’s voice remained pleasant, despite her guest’s flaky statement. “Even if the pit splits open, it’s still safe to eat.”
Mrs. Kipling gave the fruit a suspicious look. “So you’re not trying to poison us.”
“No, ma’am. That would be bad for business.”
