Page 1 of Keepsake
Part One: Early Season
Ginger Gold
Paula Red
Zestar
1
Lark
As the crow flies, Tuxbury, Vermont wasn’t all that far from Boston. But I didn’t make the journey via crow, I made it in my aging Volkswagen Beetle. And in rural Vermont, the roads don’t often go where you need them to go. So the trip took me two and a half hours.
The late summer sun had already set by the time I drove up the Shipley’s lengthy gravel driveway. The pinging of pebbles against the undercarriage of my car was a sound that announced:you have left the city.
And good riddance. The past month at home with my parents in Boston had been excruciating.
I put my baby in park and killed the engine. Then I sat there for a moment, taking in the softly lit Shipley farmhouse. Laughter drifted from the screened windows. And through the lace curtains I glimpsed the bodies moving about the dining room in preparation for dinner.
The meal would be served at any moment, and I knew I should go inside. But I lingered behind the wheel another moment, putting on my game face. There was nowhere I’d rather be than here at the Shipley farm. But I’d forgotten that harvest season on a working farm would involve a cast of thousands. Okay—not thousands. But dozens. And lately, I wasn’t so good in a crowd.
You’ll be fine, I coached myself.These people love you. If I was a little off my game, they’d understand.
I got out of my car and pulled my duffel bag out of the back seat. Even before I got the car door closed, there was a squeal from the kitchen door. “She’s heeeeere!”
Smiling, I braced myself for my friend’s hug. I’d met May almost exactly seven years ago when Boston University assigned us to the same freshman dormitory room. So I’d been on the receiving end of May’s hugs many times.
This one was a doozy. My best friend was always affectionate, even under normal circumstances. But the fact that I had lately caused her—and everyone else in my life—a steaming heap of stress, meant that she had a go at trying to crack my ribs now that I’d landed safely back on American soil.
“It’s good to be here,” I managed through constricted lungs. A second later, May pulled back, only to grab my hands and look at me through teary eyes. “God, it’s good to see you safe. I was so worried when there wasn’t any news…”
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. I’d been saying that a lot this month.
She took a deep breath. “I’m just glad you’re here. But I’ll get a grip now so we can have dinner, okay?”
I followed her up to the kitchen door and stepped inside. When the screen door slammed shut behind us, we left the pretty August evening behind.
I’d been hoping to make a quiet entrance, but it was not to be. The kitchen was abuzz with various members of the Shipley family trying to get a meal onto the table. And the sudden crush of humanity made my blood pressure jump.
“Lark!” cried several voices.
“You made it just in time for dinner!” Mrs. Shipley added. In her hands was a giant bowl heaped with mashed potatoes.
“I drove fast,” I explained. It wasn’t a clever answer, but at least I was holding it together. I’d spent the last three weeks moping around my parents’ creaky old Beacon Hill mansion, ducking questions about my ordeal and just generally trying to remember what life felt like when you weren’t bargaining with God to save your sorry ass.
It didn’t used to be this way.Ididn’t used to be this way.
A year ago I’d had both a boyfriend and a job that I’d loved. The boyfriend had split first, unhappy with my decision to take a twelve-month assignment in Guatemala. And then the job had nearly gotten me killed. I was technically still employed by the nonprofit that sent me to Guatemala. But now I was on “mental health leave” after my misadventures south of the border.
Under the scrutiny of my parents in Boston, I’d tried (and failed) to hide how much the experience had gutted me. My parents had marched me to psychiatrists and physicians who asked too many probing questions.
Some of those questions didn’t yield answers. There were a few key moments leading up to my rescue that I couldn’t remember. And that made everyone edgy.
So when May had called yesterday to invite me to Vermont for the entire apple-picking season, I had put down the phone and packed a bag.
“What can I do to help with dinner?” I asked now, watching the eighteen-year-old Shipley twins—Dylan and Daphne—fly around the room with plates and serving ware.
“Find yourself a drink and a seat,” Ruth Shipley answered. “We’ll eat in ten minutes.”
