Page 39 of Pick Me
I slid my chair back further and stood up. “Come with me up to the Pond Orchard,” I said impulsively. “Gil suggested regrading the access road out there this year, but Webb’s hoping we can get away with just another load of gravel until after next year’s harvest. I told him I’d give him my opinion.”
“But…”
“Please, Goodman.”
“Are there cows up there?”
He wasn’t nearly as afraid of cows as he’d once been. I was pretty sure he and Diana were besties. But I couldn’t tease him about it anymore.
After all, my attraction to Gage scared the shit out of me every bit as powerfully and irrationally as cows scared him, so who was I to judge?
“Not a single bovine. I promise.”
“Yeah.” He sighed lustily, waving an arm. “Yeah, okay, fine.”
We didn’t speak a word as we walked to the big garage on the far side of the farmhouse, got one of the 4x4s, and headed up the long access road that led to the orchards at the rear of the property.
The sky was the perfect blue that only ever happened in Vermont in autumn, and the hardwood trees were a riot of color as we bounced up the road. I went faster than I needed to, mostly for the thrill of it but partly to see the way Goodman’s eyes sparkled as the wind whipped his hair and T-shirt. Only when we crested the rise that overlooked the farm did I slow down a little.
“Is this still Sunday Orchard?” Goodman asked. “We’ve been driving for miles.”
“More like half a mile as the crow flies, though the road is loopy. The original place was just over three hundred acres, and my parents added another hundred seventy when they married. Not all of it’s cultivated—a good bit of it is wooded. I’m not sure how much of the place you’ve seen so far—”
Goodman counted off on his fingers. “The barn, the farmhouse, the U-pick areas, the pumpkin patch, and the area near the road that the elementary school manages for the kids’ science classes.”
I nodded. “Yeah, all that’s the front half of the property. The public areas. Back here, there’s a larger orchard that Webb leased out to a company that makes organic juices.” I pointed to the northeast. “And our little Christmas tree farm down that way near the red barn.” I pointed left.
“Wait, is that orange building over there a house?” He leaned in close so he could peer over my shoulder, and I definitely did not sniff the beachy, saltwater scent of him. “Does someone live out here?”
“It’s a house,” I confirmed. “Growing up, we used to call it the Pumpkin House. My grandfather’s brother raised his family there, but it fell out of use for a few decades. Then my dad fixed it up when Webb and Amanda got married, and they lived there when Aiden was a baby, but it’s been empty again for a few years now since Webb moved back to the farmhouse. Sunday Orchard has a few old houses like that on it. Houses for the second and third sons. The ones who didn’t inherit,” I explained when Goodman looked at me curiously. “Up until my dad’s time, all the land passed to the oldest boy.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Sure, but necessary. If my great-great-great-grandfather hadn’t done it that way, by now the Sunday Orchard would be a hundred one-tree plots, each managed by a different great-great-great grandchild. Things just run more efficiently when there’s one person in charge.”
Goodman pondered this for a moment. “But you’re the oldest son.”
“Mmm. True,” I agreed. “But Webb was always more interested in the orchard than I was. The science of it, the magic of it. So I told my dad a long time ago that he should leave the place to Webb. It’s still not a totally fair solution. I mean, four of our siblings didn’t get a say in the matter at all. But this is the way that kept everything together best and made sure all of them had a home. With Webb.”
Goodman blinked at me, a curiously soft expression on his face like he was thinking thoughts about me.
I hurriedly continued. “It’s not like the second and third sons were banished. Plenty of them stayed on and raised their families here over the years. Buttheirkids didn’t have a reason to stay, so most of them followed the jobs to the city, and these houses were abandoned. Nobody wants to live out this far.”
Goodman snorted. “Yeah, right. You’ve heard of agricultural tourism, haven’t you? I bet there are thousands of people right now who want to spend a weekend working in the crisp autumn air, picking apples for free.”
I frowned. I hadn’t thought of that. I wondered if Webb had.
“Anyway, through those trees to the left, you can see Pond Pond, so called that because it’s a pond that was owned by my mother’s family. The Ponds.”
He snorted. “Of course it was.”
“Over on the far side of that hill, past the Sunday Christmas tree farm and the road to town, there’s another body of water called Pond Lake, for maximum confusion. And the meadow next to it is called—”
“Pond Meadow?”
“It’s like you’ve lived here all your life, Goodman.” I let out the brake and got us moving again.
“Small towns, man.” He shook his head and grinned. “The next island over from the island I grew up on is called— Well, never mind. Suffice it to say, you’d need to see it to believe it, but I’m down with the weird names.”
