Love and Peaches Page 4

  A few giggles rang out in the group. It was the Eugenie they’d come for.

  Leeda sat stock-still. As if sitting stock-still could mean that twenty-three ponies would run right past her, on to the next corral.

  Mandie Rae Adlai arrived in Bridgewater on a summer night in 1928, riding a horse and holding a contract in her hand stating that she’d won the Darlington Peach Orchard in a poker game. She was wildly beautiful and unattached, and the rumors arrived almost as soon as she did. Some said she was a widow. Some said she was a witch. And though seven men came to court her before she skipped town nine years later, she never had eyes for any of them.

  Seven

  Murphy climbed off her bike at the foot of the driveway that led up to the Darlington Orchard. A figure was standing there, kicking pebbles aimlessly.

  Murphy pulled off her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist.

  “What are you doing? Loitering?” Murphy asked. Leeda continued her listless game of gravel soccer.

  “I had my mom drop me off. But…” She stared up the driveway. “…then I didn’t want to go in. It feels like trespassing without Birdie here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” This was one of the areas where she and Leeda differed. Murphy felt at home everywhere. Leeda held herself at a polite distance.

  “How long have you been here?” Murphy asked.

  “An hour.”

  “An hour,” Murphy echoed.

  Leeda shrugged her thin shoulders. She held herself so erect that it was easy to forget her tininess. Her bones were like bird’s bones. But sometimes, like right now, it struck Murphy just how fragile Leeda could seem.

  “Come on.” Murphy grabbed her around the elbow and Leeda softened like a rag doll, letting herself be dragged.

  As they walked up the drive, their sneakers crunched in the gravel and echoed in the quiet. The orchard unveiled itself slowly as they walked. There was a slightly sunken barn to their right, the great doors closed and the red paint peeling. Beyond it, the peach trees began, poking out of the white sandy ground in an orderly, checkered pattern, only their crooked, gnarled branches wild and unkempt. The peaches, abundantly nestled in their leaves, were fully grown, but they had a greenish tinge to them, with just a pale blush covering each one in soft pink. Bobwhites and finches were flitting in and out of some of the branches and through the rows. There was a rapping somewhere far away, probably a woodpecker. And lots of buzzing.

  “Not ripe yet,” Murphy said.

  “Second week of June,” Leeda replied. They knew it all by heart—which varieties ripened when, even which trees ripened faster than others because of where they sat: on a hill, in a dip, in fuller sun, closer to water. Murphy had forgotten what so much green looked like and how alive everything felt. Life even had a smell. Flowers and grass and the smell of wood.

  The driveway curved and the white clapboard workers’ dorms emerged into view on the left—the new women’s dorm, which had been built that year, gleaming whiter and standing straighter than the older, crooked men’s dorm. In the center was a dusty clearing with a large black grill and a circle of logs surrounding a fire pit.

  To the right, the house sprawled across a bright green lawn. The Darlingtons’ house seemed to pin the whole place down and hold it together. It was the heart of the property, old and huge and rambling, with sleepy windows and a wide front porch that the girls had spent countless afternoons lounging on. Just looking at a house like the Darlingtons’ reminded people of old things and made them wonder how long that banister had been crooked, who had painted the shutters, and how many people had lived there.

  Murphy gazed around. It all felt eerily empty. No workers in the fields or in the dorms. No fires burning and none of Poopie’s music floating out from the windows of the house. Murphy nudged her bike onto its kickstand, and the girls crossed the lawn in great strides. They climbed the sagging stairs onto the front porch, the wood underneath their feet creaking with each step.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Leeda said. Murphy tried the door, which was locked. Even when Walter and Poopie were out, they usually left the door open.

  Murphy looked back to check again that Walter’s truck was in the driveway, then she pushed the little glass doorbell. Leeda pressed her face against the big window next to the door, cupping her hands at either side of her face.

  “Did they skip town?” she asked, her breath fogging the glass.

  “Crazy lovebirds.” Murphy breathed. Maybe Poopie and Walter had thrown caution to the wind and had gone off gallivanting on a romantic adventure.

  Sticking her hands in the pockets of her jeans, Murphy turned to gaze at the view from the porch. The peach trees crept up to the opposite edge of the sprawling lawn, pygmylike, as if they were going to launch a surprise assault on the house. A cool breeze lifted her hair, and she moved to sink down on the top step, out from under the porch roof, where the sun could warm her. It was one of those spring days where the shade could cause shivers and the sun could make a girl warm and lazy like a cat. Just sitting here on the Darlingtons’ front porch dulled the picture of Rex’s empty house in her head.

  Leeda sat down beside her and leaned back on her palms, tapping her heels against the stairs. “It’s really good to be here,” she said.

  Murphy looked at her quizzically. “Hey, how was the will reading?”

  Leeda sighed, still staring out at the trees. “I inherited the ponies.”

  Murphy let out a guffaw. “The minis? The My Little Ponys?”

  “And half a million dollars.”

  Murphy stopped mid-guffaw.

  Leeda finally looked over at her.

  “Oh my God.” Murphy leaned forward, excitedly gripping the stairs behind her. “What are you going to do?”

  Leeda shrugged. “Well, spend some of it on the ponies until I find a home for them. Invest the rest, I guess. That’s what my uncle says to do.”

  “Leeda, your life is so easy. Do you know how many people work their whole lives and don’t make that kind of money?”

  Leeda nodded absently. “It feels like a big responsibility.” She sighed. “I guess it shouldn’t take more than a couple weeks to find homes for the ponies. But I still want to make my flight to New York on the seventh.”

  “I hope Mitzie doesn’t get too attached to you,” Murphy teased. She had long been amused by the miniature pony rescue and the long line of older ladies who held fund-raising luncheons for it in town. Mitzie was the poster pony, and a banner of her hung on the side of the Bridgewater Community Bank proclaiming MITZIE NEEDS YOUR HELP.

  Leeda laughed.

  Murphy studied her. Even with the ridiculous announcement about the ponies and the astounding one about the half a million dollars, Leeda’s face was blank and inscrutable. More than anyone else, Leeda was often a mystery to Murphy, despite her knowing Leeda and Birdie better than anyone. Sometimes she could look at Leeda and have no clue what she might be feeling, where she might be heading.

  “Hey,” Leeda said, suddenly brightening, as if she were remembering something important. “Did you see Rex?”

  Murphy stood, climbed down the rest of the steps, and stretched out on the grass—the strong, itchy, organic smell of it filling her nostrils, the tiny blades scratching at her bare arms, the lump of her sweatshirt bunched up underneath her.

  “I’m a dead body,” she said.

  Leeda kneeled next to her, feeling her pulse.

  “What killed you?”

  Murphy rolled over onto her side, looked at her, over her. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Leeda pulled her up by the wrists.

  They crossed the lawn and the driveway and walked down to the stately pecan grove, then along the fence that separated the orchard from the pristine and manicured lawn of the Balmeade Country Club, their feet crunching and rolling on old fallen nuts. In the two years Murphy had been truly familiar with the orchard, it had survived a hurricane, a dorm fire, and Horatio Balmeade’s
attempts to buy it in order to expand his property. Where the Darlington and Balmeade properties met was like night and day—chaotic and overgrown and lush on the orchard side, pristine and sterile and impeccably groomed on the country club side.

  They trailed along the fence, walking up behind the dorms and down the path that led to the garden Murphy had adopted.

  Here, they stopped, staring around, shocked.

  The garden, when they had left it, had been a large patch of flowers nestled in its own space between the trees. Now the only visible signs that it had been there at all were the wooden bench Rex had made for Murphy two summers before and an adolescent nectarine tree. The garden was teeming with kudzu, strangler vines, and tall weeds. Everything else—the roses, the peonies, the butterfly bushes, the herb garden—had been overrun.

  Murphy could feel Leeda looking at her. Murphy looked at the remnants of her plants, abandoned to early deaths.

  “I’m a drifter, baby,” she murmured. She didn’t want to linger. She turned on her heel, and Leeda followed her back down the trail.

  Their spirits dampened, they made their way toward the lake, disappearing into the peach rows and letting their fingers loll along the dangly green leaves as they walked. The leaves were shaped like skinny feathers. Murphy picked a few half-ripe peaches and pegged them at Leeda’s back. The places where she’d snapped them from the trees gave off a sour, green odor. Leeda waggled her arms behind her.

  They were just approaching the clearing up ahead, the trees growing thinner, when they heard the soft rumble of a car coming up the driveway.

  Leeda grinned. “They’re back.”

  They turned in the direction they’d come and started to jog.

  A cab was stopped at the top of the drive, idling while the fare was paid. Leeda and Murphy were nearly halfway across the grass when the door opened. But neither Walter nor Poopie got out.

  Only one figure emerged from the cab, looking crumpled and hunched and forlorn.

  Leeda and Murphy froze like statues, too surprised to move.

  They would have known that teddy-bear suitcase anywhere.

  Eight

  It was as if the whole year disappeared the moment she set foot on the grass. Birdie took a deep breath and sank into her friends’ embraces. It was like letting out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. She was back in her comfort zone. Back where everyone spoke her language and shared her past and everything was easy.

  “What happened?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Birdie smiled. She felt like she’d been through a long, difficult journey and had arrived at the peaceful oasis. Behind it all lurked the nagging, horrible feeling that she’d just done something she hadn’t meant to do. But right now, she didn’t care. Home was like a blanket wrapping her up. It made everything else okay.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said. She would tell them about Enrico as soon as she got settled. First, she just had to bask. She stared at her friends. Leeda’s face had thinned a little, become a little more fine and sculpted at the cheekbones. Her hair had grown to just below her shoulders, and she had lost her freckles again, her face white and smooth as fine china. Murphy too had gotten a little thinner, but it only seemed to accentuate her curvy frame. She was wearing a green T-shirt with a silk-screened image of a sax on the front, her hands in her pockets. She looked utterly relaxed.

  Birdie looked toward the parking lot, then up at the house.

  “Are Poopie and my dad here?”

  “No,” Murphy said. “We came to see them, but the house is empty.”

  Birdie looked up at the house, perplexed.

  But as if on cue, there was the sound of a car coming up the driveway, and they all turned. A second taxi, probably the second taxi to have ever come to Darlington Orchard, was coming toward them. Poopie, seeing the girls, had rolled down the window to wave, and when she caught sight of Birdie, she had the door open in a moment, hopping out before the driver could stop.

  The reunion was chaotic and joyful. Poopie, always emotional, shed a couple of tears. Walter, Birdie’s dad, was stoic but clearly delighted as he stepped out of the taxi.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, giving her a strong hug. Walter was tall, white haired, and broad shouldered. He was in blue jeans and a button-down short-sleeve shirt. He towered over the petite, brown-skinned Poopie. But Poopie dominated him with her expressiveness—her eyes wide, her hands moving in big loops as she oohed and aahed over Birdie.

  “I am making sure you are real,” she said, feeling Birdie’s arms, cupping her cheeks with her hands. “How are you here?”

  “I just wanted to spend the summer at home,” Birdie said, relaxed and relieved and safe. That was when she noticed the hat shaped like an alligator sticking out of Poopie’s big black sack of a purse.

  “Were you guys in Florida?” she asked.

  Poopie and Walter gave each other significant looks. “Yes,” Poopie said. “Well, we can talk about it inside. Come on.”

  Inside, they all gathered around the table in the Darlingtons’ seventies-style kitchen, where the floor dipped in the middle and the yellowed counters had scorch marks and chips. The stairs across the hallway that ascended from the edge of the kitchen to the upstairs were crooked and listed to one side. Murphy called it “The Fun House.”

  “This tastes amazing,” Murphy said. They’d all gotten situated with some bread, which Poopie had made and frozen, and peach-blackberry preserves left over from last year. The house was quiet without Majestic. When Birdie had asked where she was, her dad had explained that they still needed to go get her from the kennel.

  “You going to pick peaches for us this year, Murphy?” Walter asked, sopping up some jam with his toasted bread. Poopie turned to Murphy too.

  Murphy nodded. “Yeah, I was hoping….”

  Walter smiled. “We’d love to have you. You can stay in the dorms again if you want. We’ll even give you a raise.”

  Murphy grinned. They hadn’t paid her the year before. She’d been forced into it, at first, as a summer punishment.

  Birdie looked at Leeda, who was conspicuously silent, rubbing her fingers against the edge of the table. Birdie wondered if she felt left out.

  “We could use you too, Leeda,” Poopie offered, “until you have to go.”

  Leeda brightened a bit.

  “So where were you guys?” Birdie asked, feeling a strange sense of wariness. She wasn’t sure if it was just that she felt weird about her dad and Poopie going away together, or that she felt protective of her mom. Not that her mom cared. It had been she who’d left Birdie’s dad almost three years ago, not the other way around. Birdie glanced at the phone. She’d need to call her soon and tell her she was home.

  Poopie and her father were looking at each other again significantly. “We went to look at houses,” Walter said.

  Birdie cocked her head and squinted at them. Her first reaction was simply to think it was funny and weird that they’d go on a trip to look at houses. “Why?”

  Her dad folded his hands on the table. “Well, we had the property appraiser out a few months ago, and the foundations are in bad shape. With the caves running under the property, it’s a big mess. The ground’s too soft, and the house has sunk too far.”

  Birdie had always known about the caves running under the farm. Sometimes, when it was dead quiet in the kitchen, she swore she could hear the sound of trickling water echoing somewhere far beneath her.

  Birdie looked to Poopie, confused.

  “We are selling,” Poopie said.

  Birdie felt a bunch of tiny bits inside her start to throb and move and itch. Beside her, she felt Leeda and Murphy go completely still.

  “But…” The first thing that occurred to Birdie was that her dad couldn’t have thought it all through. The decision had to have been made on a whim. The Darlingtons had fought tooth and nail for much of Birdie’s life to keep their farm. Now that they were doing well, with
no huge debts lingering over their heads, they were safe. “Everything’s good now. There’s no reason to give up.”

  “It’s not giving up,” Poopie interjected. “Birdie, the house needs to come down.” She stared an earnest hole through Birdie with her big brown eyes.

  Birdie gaped at her, her heart thumping sickly, and Poopie clearly had difficulty going on. Walter continued for her.

  “I’m getting older, Birdie. You have your own life now.” He gestured to the ring Birdie was wearing on her left ring finger. “The idea of having a new house built here…it’s just more than I can handle. Poopie and I want to enjoy life for a while. We thought we’d move close to where you’ll be going to school. You can come home on weekends.”

  Home. She felt her stomach roll.

  She looked to Murphy to plead the case. Murphy had the power to talk anyone into or out of anything. She had once talked the manager of Wendy’s into giving her a free milk shake after she had just been caught stealing one of their giant rolls of toilet paper as a joke. But Murphy only looked at her hands thoughtfully.

  “Birdie?” Poopie stared at her searchingly.

  Birdie cleared her throat. “Can I be excused?”

  She got up from the table without waiting for a reply. She walked into her dad’s office and closed the door behind her, knowing she was leaving a scene in which she was supposed to be participating like an adult. She leaned against the door, gazing at the piles of paper on the desk, the shelves and shelves of books on insects and fruit bearing and crop yields and business planning, the old photo albums, the books that had been here since before the Darlingtons had even moved in, books that belonged to the house itself. Years of effort, work, and memories were stored up in this room.

  Birdie walked to her dad’s desk and sank down behind it, staring at his computer. She looked at her left hand and twirled her ring around her finger. She felt like every moment counted. Like she needed to figure out which lifeboat she wanted to be on. She reached for the mouse and pulled up the Internet, then opened her Gmail account.