Sometimes I dreamt of the hand that had reached out from between two shanty buildings, the hard fingers closing over my mouth, yanking me into the alley. That was how my ordeal began.
Other nights, the dream started when I was already bound and gagged in the dirty little house my kidnappers used. I would hear the rapid patter of a dialect I couldn’t understand. My limited Spanish had been too textbook for that corner of Guatemala. And even though I couldn’t catch all the words, I knew they were arguing over what to do with me.
My dreams took many forms, and it was hard to know exactly what happened to my body while I was sleeping. But if I had to guess, I’d bet that the crying and yelling didn’t start up until my dreams were visited by a certain skinny, doomed face.
Oscar.
If not for Oscar, I think I would have done a better job of getting past the kidnapping—the days of fear and the shame of squatting over the toilet hole in front of my captors. If the story had a happy ending, I might be able to sleep through the night.
But it didn’t. And a boy was dead. And even though some of the events which had led to my rescue were lost in a traumatic haze, Oscar’s fate was not.
Every one of my dreams ended with a pool of his blood forming on the dirt floor and oozing closer to me.
I smoothed the quilt over my body and sighed. When May had told me that I could stay in the bunkhouse, it had seemed like a perfect solution. My parents—who had already endured three weeks of wondering if I was dead—were really at the end of their ropes now. I’d come back safely to them, only to start screaming in my sleep.
Coming to Vermont was supposed to relax me. I was counting on this place to ease my mind. And sleeping in a bunkhouse meant that I wasn’t alone. There were three big, strong guys and a locked door between me and the world. Come on, subconscious! Get with the program. We are totally safe here.
Early results were not encouraging: Guatemala 1, Bunkhouse 0.
But maybe it would take a few days’ time to settle in. Hopefully the clean Vermont air would help. You are absolutely safe here, I reminded myself. Nothing ever goes wrong in Vermont.
Now if only I could get my subconscious to believe me.
* * *
The next time I woke up, it was to the peaceful sound of three guys bumping around at daybreak. Still drowsy, I curled under the quilt and listened to their low, murmuring voices. It was heavenly to laze here knowing that if I got up now I’d only be in their way. I heard the sounds of water running and of farm boys taking turns in the bathroom.
One by one their work boots strode past my door and out of the building. The bunkhouse became perfectly quiet again, and I gave the water heater another fifteen minutes to recover. Then I got up to shower, as Ruth Shipley had suggested.
Whistling to myself, I picked out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I loved the idea of working outdoors with my hands. That’s why I’d taken the assignment to Guatemala in the first place—the nonprofit I worked for taught modern farming technologies to people in the developing world. When they offered me the chance to leave my desk behind to go out in the field, I jumped at it.
During the first six weeks I was there, I really got to like the place. I studied soil cultures and erosion. I shared farming data and crop seeds with the locals and drank strong, sweet coffee outside their homes in the afternoon. It was everything that my inner adventure-seeker had ever wanted.
I’d been so full of optimism. Then everything went to hell—
Moving on.
When I crossed the lawn to the Shipley farmhouse a bit later, breakfast prep was in full swing. It would be a quiet affair for just ten hungry people.
Daphne and I mixed up a vat of pancake batter while Ruth fried bacon and scrambled a mountain of eggs. May made two pots of coffee, then started a third.
At eight thirty, the men clomped into the house and went straight to the washroom. They’d already milked the cows and moved the chicken tractor. Not only did Shipley Farms have a busy apple orchard and a gourmet cider operation, they raised Jersey cows and sold organic milk to the Abrahams down the road, who made it into fancy cheese.
“You can get anything within a two-mile radius,” I observed as I flipped another pancake onto the waiting platter.
“Except for grains,” Mrs. Shipley said. “Though some Vermont farmers are giving buckwheat a go up in Hartwick.”
I was surrounded by farming nerds. And it was awesome.
My big contribution to breakfast was dropping the blueberries into the pancakes. When everyone else was served, I took my plate to the table.
There wasn’t much chatter, because five hungry young men were too busy scarfing up pancakes and eggs.
“How’d you sleep?” May asked me after pouring another round of coffee.
“Great,” I lied. Involuntarily, my eyes went to Zach’s across the table. He regarded me for a long moment before turning all his attention to a strip of bacon on his plate.
Thank you, I telegraphed in his direction.
Ruth sat down with her own plate and lifted her fork. “Lark, your mother called the house this morning.”
“Oh, crap,” I said under my breath. I’d forgotten to call home last night when I’d arrived.
“I explained to her that we don’t have the best cell phone reception out here,” Mrs. Shipley said.
“Thank you for covering for me. I’ll call her right after breakfast.”
“She sounded quite worried.” Ruth measured me with clear blue eyes.
“Well.” I swallowed a gulp of coffee. “I’ve always been that kid who practiced making everyone worry. This year I turned pro.”
May laughed and shook her head. “Yes you did, sweetie. I’m still not over it.”
Me neither. But I was trying to keep that a secret.
After breakfast we washed up, and then it was time to face the music. My mother picked up on the first ring. “I worried about you all night.”
“I’m fine, Mom.” I said these words every day, even if they weren’t true.
The phone turned her sigh into a hurricane. “After what you put us through last month, I thought you’d at least remember to call.”
And there it was—the reason that I couldn’t stay with my parents in Boston right now. Guilt. I had plenty of it. And I could barely steer myself through the day and night. I didn’t want to be responsible for my mother’s mental state, too.
So now I would grovel. “I apologize for not calling. I walked into a dinner for more than a dozen people, and the mayhem sucked me in. I’m so sorry.” And I really was so sorry. I never wanted to put my parents through hell. But I had, and now my head was a hot mess.
“All right. Thank you. How did you sleep?”
“Well,” I said, repeating the lie. But hey—I was working on it.
Whether she believed me or not, she didn’t press the question. “I know you’ll be fine in Vermont. I really do,” she said, as if trying to convince both of us.
“It’s nice here. I’m going to pick apples today.”
“That does sound relaxing. You might also consider calling Gilman. He texted yesterday.”
“He texted you?” Seriously? My ex-boyfriend was texting my mother?
“Maybe he wouldn’t do that if you returned his calls.”
Right. “I just don’t have the headspace for Gilman right now,” I admitted. “He can wait until I’m ready.”
There was a silence during which I could swear I heard my mother wrestling with herself. “Be well, Lark,” she said finally. “Call us if you need anything.”
“I will.”
We hung up, and I checked my texts. Sure enough, there was another stack of messages from my ex. I need to see you. When is a good time?
How does “never” work for you, Gilman?
Ugh. He was the only one I didn’t have to feel guilty for avoiding. He dumped me, damn it. My guess was that he regretted it. And then when I went missing, he felt like a big old ass for behaving the
way he had.
Funny how a brush with death will make old friends love you again.
But Gilman was not on the list of people I felt obligated to comfort. So I powered my phone all the way down. In the country, a phone’s battery drained faster. It had something to do with the device always searching in vain for a better cellular signal.
Still, I promised myself I’d call home again tomorrow, just to put Mom’s mind at ease.
I was an only child, the daughter of two university professors. My father wrote long, intellectual papers about the ins and outs of first-amendment protections. My mother spent her days studying cells in a laboratory. They liked their books and their scientific abstracts. Neither one of them had understood when I’d announced I would be roughing it in Guatemala for a year, for very little pay. They’d hated the idea right from the beginning.
“That part of the world isn’t very stable,” my mother had worried.
“It isn’t Honduras!” I’d argued, rejecting their concerns. But the joke was on me.
Once when I was nine, I overheard my mother talking to her sister on the phone. It was the same week I’d managed to break my arm falling off the monkey bars. “You know, when we heard we were having a baby girl, we were so relieved,” she’d confided while I hid behind the dining room door. “Max isn’t into sports or camping or anything dirty, and I wouldn’t know what to do with a fishing rod. But God laughs at plans, doesn’t he? I got the scrappiest, most adventurous girl in the world. Each new gray hair I find has her name on it.”
My mother had a fine, full head of silver hair now. Each one of them my fault.
When I went to find Griff, he said we’d start the day with a quick tour of the farm. I’d been here before, but if I was going to be a contributing employee, I’d need him to clue me in on the operation.
The first stop was the dairy barn, where two dozen cows were milked twice a day. But now it was midmorning, so the stalls were empty. The Shipley cows were grass fed, so they were out munching in the meadow.
The barn was shady and cool, and it smelled of hay and manure. “Don’t worry, you won’t be working in here,” Griffin said.
“I wouldn’t mind,” I said truthfully. “There are scarier things in the world than cow shit.”
“That is true, Wild Child,” he said gently. “But I need you for the farmers’ markets. And it’s not just working the table, it’s the load-up, the setup, selling and breaking down. Then we make a crude inventory of how much was sold, with notes about the weather and traffic. I’ll show you all of that a little later.”
“Cool.”
Before we left the dairy barn, Griffin pointed at a yellow box affixed to the wall. “Just in case it’s ever necessary, that’s where we keep the defibrillator.”
“Ah.” How sad. The late Mr. Shipley—Griffin’s father—had died very suddenly from a massive heart attack. There was probably nothing that could have been done for him. Yet this device was a new addition to the barn. “Okay. Good to know.”
“There’s a fire extinguisher in every building, too.” He pointed at the red canister on the wall.
“Gotcha. Good idea.”
We walked out into the September sunlight again. Beyond the dairy barn lay the cider house. I followed Griffin along a well-worn path between the buildings. He stopped beside a giant pallet where apple crates were stacked. “Part of the fun of working here is learning to spot all the apple varietals at ten paces.”
“Okay.”
“What do you think these are?” He reached into a crate and held up an apple.
“No fucking idea.”
Griffin threw his head back and laughed. “Okay, the first clue is the date. It’s still August. Most of our apples aren’t pickable until October. These are Paula Reds, and they ripen early.” He took a bite. Then he handed it to me. “Tell me what you taste.”
I took a bite and chewed. Wow. There was nothing like a real fall apple. The ones from the grocery store just couldn’t compete. “Excellent, snappy texture,” I said. It was juicy, too. “High acid. Medium sugar. Not a ton of interesting flavors.”
Griffin’s eyes widened. “Well done, girl. That’s all true. Paulas aren’t the most interesting apple, but they kick off the season for us. I can’t make award-winning cider from them, though. This is a farmers’ market apple.”
“What do you make the good stuff with, then?”
He pulled out his phone and showed me the screensaver—a picture of some peculiar apples with mottled skin. “These here are my babies.”
Only Griffin would keep a picture of fruit where other people kept a photo of the girlfriend. “Your babies are ugly, Griffin.”
“I know, right? But that’s the cool thing about hard cider. If you want to make the good stuff, you can’t use apples that are sweet and tasty. You need bitter and complicated.”
“Bitter and complicated,” I repeated. “Just like me.”
Griffin grinned. “If you say so. Do you have a guess why bitter apples work better for cider?”
“Tannins, maybe?”
“You are a smart girl.”
“I pay attention when alcoholic beverages are discussed.”
“Of course you do. Now come in here.” He put his hand on the doorknob and pushed. “Witness the power of this fully operational battle station!”
Griff always made me smile. “Are you ever going to outgrow the Star Wars quotes?”
“Nope!” He gave me a cheerful wink, then swung the door wide.
“Wow,” I said, looking up at a row of giant, gleaming metal canisters. “Impressive.”
“Those are my new fermentation tanks. They’re only half full right now, because it’s so early in the season. That’s the juicer.” He pointed at a machine in the middle of the room. “We press every day. Some of it goes into the fermentation tanks, and some of it gets pasteurized to be sold at the farmers’ market. That’s my filtration system, and that’s my blending tank. On that far wall is where I do the bottling.”
“Damn, Griffin. You’ve been investing. This looks like a serious operation now.” There had to be tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment in front of me. Last time I visited, Griffin had said he had plans to expand his hard cider brand. But I hadn’t understood what that meant.
“Yeah. And it’s going to be a pretty good harvest, so I probably won’t go bankrupt. Not this year, anyway.”
He smiled, but I could see the strain on his young face. Griff was only twenty-eight, but he was in charge of a big farm and the de facto head of a big family.
We all have our burdens, I reminded myself. I should probably have that reminder tattooed on my hand where it would issue me frequent reminders. “Well, put me to work.” I’d come to Vermont to get over myself, basically. And that could start now.
“I will. Give me ten minutes to check my tanks, and then we’ll talk about your first farmers’ market tomorrow.”
“Great. I’ll be outside.” I wanted to stand in the sunshine again and breathe some more of the clean Vermont air. I walked a little way into the center of the grassy oval that stretched between the house and all the outbuildings.
Against the wall of the tractor shed stood a rusting flatbed trailer and an ancient plastic bucket. A working farm was never pristine. There was always moldering equipment and work-in-progress lying about. And farms operated on such slim budgets that nothing was ever replaced until it broke down entirely.
But the Shipley farm sat on a hilltop, and the view in the distance was truly beautiful. The Green Mountains bumped along in a glorious ridge. You could see forever.
That was the trick to appreciating all the true beauty of a working farm, then—lift your eyes to the horizon. You had to see past the broken bits and pieces and take a long view.
My gaze wandered back to the tractor shed, where a blond head gleamed from the shadowy interior.
Zach.
I trotted across the grass toward him. He was alone and bent over the
engine of an old truck. I paused in the wide doorway for a moment, wondering how best to apologize for waking him up last night. In front of me, he went on with his tinkering, unaware. A classic rock station played from a radio on the workbench, and Zach was moving his hips to the music even as he screwed a cap onto some part of the engine.
He was also shirtless, and I took a moment to appreciate the muscles in his back. Damn, he was a fine specimen. I was the kind of girl who appreciated a tattoo or ten on a guy, but there was something pure and beautiful about the golden, unadorned expanse of Zach’s rippling back.
I’d thought him a little stiff at dinner last night, but alone in the garage he moved with a loose ease that made me wonder if he was a good dancer…
Crap. Now I was staring.
I cleared my throat. “Zach?”
He whirled around, almost tripping over an oil can at his feet. “Uh,” he said, sidestepping it. “Hi.” Not quite meeting my eyes, Zach fumbled for a rag, wiped his hands, and then lunged for the T-shirt that was slung over the truck’s open window. He struggled it on over his head.
I studied my fingernails until he composed himself. “Sorry to startle you,” I said gently. “I’m waiting for Griffin to give me the rest of the employee orientation. Apparently you and I are selling apples together tomorrow. What do I need to know?”
“Are we?” His face got a little red if I wasn’t mistaken. Some people were sensitive to the heat, though. He must be one of them. “Let’s see. There’s only one important detail about the market at Norwich,” Zach said, kicking a foot up onto the truck’s runner.
“What’s that?”
“The donut vendor in the far corner is a heck of a lot better than the one in the center.”
I smiled at him. “That’s it, huh?”
“That’s pretty important. There’s nothing like a cider donut.”
“True. We should talk Griffin into making them on pick-your-own weekends.”
“Because that man needs another business to run.”
I laughed. “You’re right. Never mind.”