She took a deep breath. “My father left us when I was six. My mother, who was abandoned and stuck with me, struggled for years to make it on her salary alone. We lived from paycheck to paycheck. Right there you have several reasons why she was angry and very bitter. The great irony is, she earned her living as a—are you ready? As a counselor. And when I went home from college to confess I was in trouble in a million ways and needed help—I was flunking out, pregnant, had played around with pot and beer with the boyfriend—she told me to get out and never come back. That’s where we left it. She threw everything that had my fingerprints on it out the front door onto the lawn, Chad drove me away and stuffed me into a flea-bag motel where he left me. I went to Student Services who sent me to the county welfare office and…” She gave her shoulder a little lift—half a shrug.
“But you stayed with him?”
“No,” she said softly. “Not really.”
“But there’s Fay,” he said.
She nodded but couldn’t meet his eyes. She finally looked up, but all she could muster was a hoarse whisper. “He came and went. And I was so lonely and vulnerable after Berry was born. Chad was manipulative. Sometimes he gave me money, for which I was so stupidly grateful, but I didn’t know until I was ready to have Fay that he’d been thrown off his professional baseball team over a year before.” She shook her head. Then she glanced at Fay and said, “But how can I regret her?” And on cue, the baby gave them a brilliant, toothless smile and Nora nearly cried.
Noah couldn’t resist touching Fay’s pudgy hand. “Where did the abuse begin in your life, Nora?”
“According to my mother, it began with my father, but I don’t remember anything about that. I was already six when he left, but my memory of life before that is pretty spotty, which my mother said is typical. She says I have buried memories.”
“And you were in therapy for this?”
She smiled. “Of course not. My mother is a therapist. I will tell you the truth, Noah—I went to talk with you on Mel Sheridan’s recommendation because you’re a minister. I have no experience with church and I had this idea you could somehow show me forgiveness for all the mistakes I’ve made. Although it was hard, I was open to the idea of charity. But I’ve learned to be wary of therapists. When you told me you were a licensed counselor before becoming a minister, I almost bolted.”
“What do you think of your mother’s decision to never put you in counseling for these so-called buried memories?” he asked her.
“I think she’s incompetent. And I’m not convinced I have buried memories, either. According to my mother, there’s no other family anywhere. No grandparents, aunts, uncles. But I think I have pretty screwed-up parents.”
He gave her a small smile. “Think we should explore this further?”
“Probably,” she said. “But the very thought makes me far more exhausted than picking apples for ten hours a day.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry, Nora. There won’t be that many hours of daylight before long—fall is here and winter is coming. The days are growing shorter.”
“Fortunately that leaves very little time for discussing my dysfunctional parents.”
“But would you like me to contact your mother?” he asked.
“God! Perish the thought. When we have several hours to chat, I’ll tell you all the details of my whole life’s story and all about my mother—she’s brutal. I spent my whole life being afraid of her, and surprised and so grateful during her brief affectionate or kind moments. I learned to step very lightly.”
“And your father? Would you like to know what’s become of him?”
She thought about that for a moment. “I’ve been curious, but not curious enough to look for him and certainly not enough to forgive him for leaving us the way he did. But there have been times I’ve wondered if he was dead… I have these snatches of memories of times with my father that aren’t scary or terrible. Not a lot, but a few. Like bowling—isn’t that a kick? A six-year-old, bowling? Learning to ride a bike with training wheels, doing dishes together with me standing on a stool at the sink, cutting the grass and planting flowers. My mother says none of those things ever happened—no bowling, et cetera. She claims I invented those memories just like children invent imaginary friends. But I have no dark or eerie or scary memories or dreams about him. I have warm memories. But if he was a good person, he wouldn’t have left me… .”
“I could do a little research,” Noah said.
“Could you find out if he’s dead? Without making me…”
“Vulnerable?” Noah finished for her. “You are always in control, Nora. If you tell me his name and last known address, I can probably find out if he’s alive or dead, where he is, if he’s remarried, if there are children, what he does for a living, that sort of thing. But there’s no reason he’d have to know you’re even involved.”
She thought about this for a minute. “Then okay,” she said. “I’d like to know if he’s alive. And maybe someday, I’d like to know why he ran out on me. I mean us.” She swallowed. “His name is Jed—Jedediah Crane. And he was a history teacher at UC Berkeley. My mother said he was fired and left us high and dry.”
“A professor?” Noah asked. “Did they divorce?”
“She always called him a teacher. Oh, of course they divorced—and it must have been bitter. As a girl, dangerously curious, I searched through files and stored boxes in the attic and even in my mother’s underwear drawer for some evidence of him, of them. Of us. Of anyone—even my mother with her family. There was not so much as a picture! If you’d known my mother as I had, you’d have expected at least a lot of photos with my father’s face cut out of them! And there were no documents of any kind—I don’t even have my own birth certificate.”
Noah smiled. “We’ll get that taken care of, as well. That’s a simple process and you don’t have to have the permission of your parents to get a copy.”
“Noah…” she said hesitatingly. “There’s something you should take into consideration before you walk down this path. My mother… Not everyone knows what she’s really like. She has friends. Not a lot, but some—she had things to do, although she mostly went to work and came home to spend the evening alone in front of the TV. She’s very funny. She could make people laugh. She fell out with the neighbors and they stopped talking years ago, which of course was their fault, but she had friends from work, from other places. People to talk to on the phone, that sort of thing. It used to amaze me how funny and charming she could be with some people and how completely insane she could act at other times. If you met her by some chance or investigated what kind of person she is, you’ll probably think I’m just a bratty, ungrateful kid. And I’ve admitted—I was trouble. Yes, I was—I made so many mistakes.”
“Where is she a counselor?”
“The community college in Berkeley. People Services. She helped students get through their crises, referred them, helped them get their lives together.” She laughed resentfully. “I wonder if she ever did it by throwing everything they owned on the front lawn. But then, I probably deserved it… .”
Noah smiled patiently. “I don’t think you need forgiveness, Nora.”
She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t have to be so nice. I know how many bad things I did.”
Noah ran a hand over Fay’s smooth, round head. The baby beamed at him. “I think you’ve redeemed yourself.”
* * *
One of the convenient things about living in a place that catered to hunters and fishermen from out of town, were the heavy-duty Band-Aids at the Corner Store for those sportsmen who were just breaking in their new boots. Armed with large canvas protection on her heels and palms, Nora lit out for work early Monday morning. She went down the road from Virgin River to 36, ready to take on another week.
The work was physically demanding, but it was refreshing to a city girl. If she hadn’t been distracted by soreness and the fea
r of not being able to keep up, she would have been thoroughly into the experience. The apples smelled heavenly. The breeze wafting through the trees was refreshing, the sound of the swaying branches and rustling leaves as calming as a lullaby. And the industry all around her, plus the weight of her bag filled her with a sense of accomplishment. She loved the sacks full of apples adding to the bins, the forklift taking the full bins away, the watering and aerating going on all around her while she stood on her ladder and picked, the trucks taking crates and boxes of apples to vendors. She caught sight of Tom and Junior repairing the tall fence that surrounded the orchard, not once but twice, right in the same place. And every now and again she could hear people talking or laughing off in the distance and the occasional bark of that yellow dog.
Nora wouldn’t trade her children for anything, not even for an easier life leading up to their births, but if she weren’t a single mother constantly worried about money, this job outdoors in the beauty of a northern California Indian summer would seem like a gift. It was September and the afternoons were still warm.
A couple of days into her second week, when she arrived at the juncture of the road from Virgin River and Highway 36, there sat a big white truck. And outside the cab, leaning against the driver’s door, was Mr. Tom Cavanaugh. His long legs were casually crossed in front of him and he was looking down; he appeared to be cleaning his nails with a pocketknife.
She looked at him for a moment. Appreciated him. It seemed such a distant memory when she’d gotten mixed up with Chad. Chad had seemed like such a catch, slated for the big time. Now, looking at Tom, she saw stability and success, not to mention power and beauty. Yes, he was a very beautiful man. And she wondered what it must feel like to be the kind of girl someone like him would want.
She shook it off. Then she put her head down and walked on by.
“Hey,” he called.
She turned back. She tried a small smile. “’Morning,” she said.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To work,” she said.
“Well, jump in. I’ll give you a lift. Why do you think I’m here?” he asked.
“I have absolutely no idea. I don’t need a ride. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“I know, Nora. Humor me.”
“I don’t think it looks good,” she said. “Getting a ride with the boss. What will the others think?”
“There are no others yet,” he said with a chuckle. “You’re always the first one to get to the orchard. Come on. No strings.”
She thought about it for just a second, but there was really no way to refuse a kindness. Or whatever this was. She walked around the front and got in the passenger seat.
“How are the muscles and blisters?” Tom asked.
“Excellent,” she said, surprise lacing her response. “Nothing hurts. I’m keeping the protection on my hands and, as you can see, wearing the latex gloves, but I can’t believe how quickly I healed up. You should consider one of those late-night infomercials. Your magic goo and ginsu knives.”
He laughed at her. “Find yourself watching a lot of late-night TV, do you?”
“A long time ago,” she said. “I haven’t had a TV since before my children were born.”
“Ah, one of those fussy mothers—no TV to poison the little minds?”
“Not so virtuous. I can’t afford a TV—that’s a luxury way beyond me. But who can forget ginsu knives? I used to love those demonstrations. It wouldn’t have surprised me if fingers went flying. But who knows—maybe they did and the icky stuff was cut. No pun intended,” she added with a laugh.
He stared straight ahead as he drove for a few moments. Then he turned down the long drive into the orchard. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Nora. I’m going to wait for you where the road from town meets 36 and give you a lift. And I’ll drop you off there after work.”
“I told you, I don’t mind—”
“I know, you don’t mind walking. I give you a lot of credit for that—you have gumption. But I’d like you to reserve your energy for work. And it’s not one hundred percent safe out here at dawn and dusk. I’m not saying it’s dangerous, but there are wildlife issues.”
“I can run,” she said. “Seriously, I’m fast.”
He glanced over at her. “Seriously, you never want to try that. The only wildlife you can outrun is a turkey. Bobcats, mountain lions, bear—that’s just what they’re looking for—running marks you as prey and they’re way faster than you could dream of being. If you come across one of them, back away slowly, making some kind of noise. Bark like a seal or something. Clap your hands. And pray.” He took a breath. “I’m more than happy to give you a lift.”
She sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she said. “But I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for your other employees to think I’m getting special treatment.”
“It’s Tom,” he said on a laugh. “Just Tom. If the idea doesn’t sit with you, we can see if Buddy will drive you after work—he shows up sometimes after school for a couple of hours.”
“Like I said, we probably shouldn’t encourage Buddy… .”
“You just tell him—you’re twenty-three. And if he thinks about a date with an older woman, maybe say you’re not over your ex-husband or something.”
“But that would be a lie,” she said.
He smiled. It was unmistakable—he smiled. “Well, then, you are over him.”
“There is no ex-husband.”
He shot her a look. “You’re married?”
She shook her head.
“Widowed? Already? At your young age?”
“Never married. Mr. Cavanaugh.” She took a steadying breath—he clearly wanted to know. “I have two children, have never had a husband, my boyfriend ran out on me and he is now in jail for assault and felony possession and I am on my own. He will not be allowed near my children again. I don’t use or deal, I’m trying to get it together for my girls and myself. And I won’t lie to anyone.”
The big white truck actually slowed a little bit while he absorbed this. Then Tom accelerated again, getting back up to speed. “Then just tell Buddy you’re twenty-three and a single mother. That should do it.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sure,” she said softly. Of course that would discourage him. It would send any man running for his life.
“I’m going to ask him to take you to the turnoff after work and I’ll meet you there before work. A mile or so walk each way is more than enough for anyone and I don’t feel like having an employee mauled by a puma or bear. I’ve had to repair our fence a couple of times and while I haven’t seen any, I suspect bears. They’re usually shy and avoid people, but let’s just play it safe.”
She stared at his profile for a moment. “Mr. Cavanaugh, I don’t want to be pitied and I don’t need special treatment. I’m more than happy to do whatever it takes to work a job that pays well. I appreciate the gesture, I absolutely do, but—”
“Do you feel like fighting off a bear? Because a man was mauled not far from here. And you do have a family to think about.”
“Mr.—”
“Tom!” he barked. “It’s just Tom. The subject is closed.”
He pulled up to the barn that held his office, turned off the truck and got out, leaving her sitting there.
She wasn’t sure what it was about her that made him so angry. Alternately angry or kind or amused, that was more accurate. She tried to show him respect; she was honest with him even though it wasn’t easy.
She watched him tromp up the steps and across the porch, into the house. Stubborn. And just as quickly he was out the back door and walking toward his office. He stopped by his truck and peered in the open driver’s window at her. “Maxie said to tell you to come in for a cup of coffee with her.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t want to impose… .”
“She invited you, therefore it’s not an
imposition.”
“But I don’t want to—”
“Nora! For God’s sake, don’t make everything so much harder than it needs to be! Just go have a cup of coffee with my grandmother.”
“Should I make your coffee first?” she asked.
“I’ll make it. I know how to make coffee.”
A smile tickled her lips. “Ah. I didn’t realize that.”
And he scowled at her.
She shook her head and couldn’t help it, she had to hold in a laugh. This man, who had no reason at all to be so ornery, was certainly a piece of work. As she walked across the wide yard, up the back steps and onto the porch, she found herself thinking that if she lived with this bounty, she would never have a cross day.
She gave the wooden screened door a couple of polite taps.
“Come in, Nora,” Maxie said.
When she opened the door, Maxie was sitting at her kitchen table with her coffee and crossword puzzle. The yellow dog stood to greet her with a wagging tail. “Good morning, Mrs… . Maxie.”
The older woman smiled and Nora was momentarily mesmerized. She was truly beautiful with her thick white hair, bright healthy teeth and rosy cheeks. “Grab a cup,” Maxie said. “Sit with me a minute. Tell me about your weekend, about your sore shoulder and roughed-up hands.”
Nora dressed her coffee with cream, real cream, and sugar. She didn’t drink coffee at home—she didn’t have a pot and it was expensive. And cream? Forget about it! Then she sat across from Maxie. “Everything feels great. I’m still wearing the gloves and using the goop—I don’t want any trouble. I want the next chance at overtime.”
Maxie laughed. “And the shoulder?”
“So much better,” she said, rotating it to demonstrate. “I’m kind of embarrassed that I didn’t know about something as simple as anti-inflammatory and ice. But I’ve never done this kind of work before.”
“What kind of work did you do?”