Love and Peaches Page 5

  E,

  I’m sorry I didn’t show up yesterday. I was confused.

  She typed as quickly as she could.

  You’re going to get a letter in the mail from me. Please throw it away before you read it. I am home in Georgia. I want you to come for the harvest. Please come. I am sorry. And please write back. I love you.

  She signed it, Love, B. And then she hit Send.

  Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Thunk! Screech.

  “What’s she doing?”

  Thunk!

  Leeda stared at Murphy from across the table and shrugged. And then they both turned as, with a long, scraping noise, Birdie’s feet appeared on the stairs, followed by a large cardboard box.

  Thunk thunk thunk! Birdie yanked the box down the stairs and, without looking at them or into the kitchen at all, dragged it along the hallway and out the door. This had been going on for about half an hour. Every few minutes Birdie came in or out. On the out, she was always dragging something bizarre behind her—luggage, a two-by-four, blankets. Each time she tromped past them, bumping along, she was trying to pretend they weren’t there but clearly wanting them to notice her.

  “Maybe she’s running away,” Murphy said. Leeda just stared blankly at the hallway.

  “With all that stuff?” she asked softly.

  “Where did she find that two-by-four?” Poopie muttered, more to herself than to anyone sitting at the table. She had her chin resting on her hands, her lips pressed tightly together. She seemed slightly angry, slightly exasperated, and, still, a little wounded.

  “It’s like she’s a ferret,” Murphy said.

  Leeda stood and walked to the window near the front door. She stared at Birdie, her heart going out to her. Leeda felt like if the orchard went, a part of her would go too. But it would be Birdie’s loss more than anyone’s. Birdie and the farm were like a single entity. Imagining Birdie without this place was like imagining someone half-complete.

  Birdie had dragged her strange collection to the foot of the big oak tree on the right side of the lawn. Apparently two of the items she had retrieved were a hammer and a box of nails.

  Suddenly Leeda realized what she was doing. “Oh.”

  Everyone—Poopie, Walter, and Murphy—came to the window and gawked.

  “Is that…?” Murphy said.

  “Oh, she is going to fall out, break her neck. Mark this word,” said Poopie.

  Birdie was starting fresh, away from everyone.

  She was building a tree house.

  Nine

  Primrose Cottage, the home of the late, great Grandmom Eugenie, was just like a dollhouse. It curtsied its way out of its rolling lawn in white frills, decorative latticework, gingerbread window treatments, and romantic slate roof tiles. Eugenie—intrepid, determined, and more than a little spoiled—had hired an architect to build it as an exact replica of a dollhouse she’d had as a girl.

  Stepping out of her car, Leeda was surprised to see a tiny Chihuahua tied to the banister of the front porch. Seeing her, he licked his lips excitedly and trembled, stretching out his paws and trying to pull forward. Leeda walked uncertainly up the bottom few stairs, just out of its reach. What was it doing here? It must belong to the guy Eugenie had left in charge of the ponies. Leeda had learned, through talking with her grandmom’s lawyer afterward, that he had worked for her grandmom for about a year before she died, though only for a few hours a day. Leeda had never met him. Now he was staying in one of the house’s small guest rooms until Leeda could get everything sorted out. But why would he tie his dog to the banister?

  Leeda wasn’t an animal person. The closest she had ever come to having pets was when she’d hung out with Birdie’s dogs, and then she’d accidentally run over one of them. She had ridden one of Grandmom Eugenie’s ponies at her seventh birthday party, but it had eaten the pink ribbon from her dress and had died of an intestinal blockage. Maybe it was her track record as the Angel of Death to God’s four-legged friends, but for whatever reason, she didn’t feel comfortable around them. They liked to put their tongues on your face. Sometimes they wanted you to scratch right above their butts. They had no sense of boundaries. Leave it to her muleheaded grandmom to force her desires on Leeda despite Leeda’s obvious inclinations to the contrary.

  Thinking the caretaker was most likely out back, Leeda turned away from the stairs and walked over to the side of the house, turning the corner to where the grass was shaded from the morning sun. Bees were buzzing over the tiny white flowers that grew up the fence posts of the pony corral. Beyond, she could see a figure in the barn lot, standing in a filmy cloud of flying pony fur, dust, and a knot of gnats. He moved rigidly, stiffly. He looked up and noticed her. She plucked at the peeling paint on the gate while she waited for him to come over.

  As he got closer, her smile faltered a bit, and she felt a lopsided rhythm in her wrists. He was younger than he’d seemed from far away—a lot closer to her age. He wasn’t handsome, per se. But there was something about the way he looked that made her feel a little wobbly. He had shaggy brown hair and blue eyes overhung by straight, dark eyebrows. His face was angular, his nose broad and straight. His movements were angular too. But there was something vital about the way he moved.

  She stuck out her hand, overcompensating for her sudden wobbliness by speaking in a voice that was all business. “Hi, I’m Leeda. You must be Grey Backe.”

  He took her hand, expressionless. “How’s it going?”

  “You’re the caretaker, I take it. Very nice to meet you.” She knew she sounded like her mother, all formal and polite, but she couldn’t help it.

  “Yeah.” He gave her a once-over, taking in her black rubber boots with the buckles, her white leggings, and the clipboard tucked neatly under her arm. Leeda realized self-consciously that maybe she had overdressed, and she fidgeted in her boots.

  With a stiff, reluctant movement, Grey propelled himself toward the maroon metal gate and began fiddling with the latch, opening it with a creak and indicating that she should enter. About twenty feet away, a knot of ponies watched them curiously.

  “Thanks,” Leeda said, stepping in and watching around her feet. It must have rained recently, because the ground was soggy and littered with small puddles that threatened to sully her boots. Sullying was something Leeda was used to from the orchard, but she always avoided it when she could.

  Grey closed the gate behind her, sliding the metal Y of the latch back around the post of the door. Leeda turned on a charming smile for him, but he didn’t look at her. He walked toward the stables, across the muddy field. Leeda, unsure whether she was supposed to follow or not, started after him.

  The stable consisted of a long, wide rectangle, open to the air but for an overhanging roof perched on posts. On each side of a long middle hallway were wooden pens—about fifteen to a side. Grey wove to the left instead of going on and led Leeda to the back, where a sort of wooden shed was attached.

  “Tack room’s in here,” he said, opening the door and showing her into a dirt-floored room full of saddles, buckets, ropes, halters, and instruments of all sorts—brushes and weird silver-tipped things Leeda didn’t recognize. It smelled like leather and oil and old hay, pleasant and earthy. On the opposite wall was another door, and Grey led her through that to the long row of stalls.

  “You put them in here every day?” Leeda asked, realizing Grey wasn’t going to offer the information.

  “Only when it’s really cold, or in bad weather, or for grooming and feeding.” The stalls were small—the doors were only a little higher than Leeda’s waist. The stable looked more like somewhere the seven dwarves would live than a place that housed actual creatures. And, appropriately, each stall had a sign hanging from its swinging wooden door: Mitzie, Tinkles, Sleepy, Sneezy, Chauncy, The Baron, Mr. Jinxy.

  Grey’s hand moved along the top of the doors as he walked. He stopped to do tiny things here and there—move a shovel to its rightful place, tie up a rope—his dirty hands moving like af
terthoughts. Leeda got the feeling, even through the tiny movements, that he was strong and quick. He didn’t look back at her once.

  They came out at the end and stepped off the concrete platform into the dirt, back into view of the ponies, who had gathered in the early morning shade of some trees that hung over the fence. They were comical to look at, like cartoon characters, squat and a little rounded at the belly. There were a few speckled ones, but most of them were solid colors—dark brown, tan, or black, with patches of white here and there.

  They peered back at Leeda as she eyed them warily. A few were nibbling at leaves. Some gathered in little groups. The rest stood in a sociable knot, as if they were all gossiping about something, casting Leeda glances as if she were the one being gossiped about.

  “Oh.” Leeda suddenly remembered. “Is that your Chihuahua on the porch?”

  Grey shook his head. “People assume because we’re a pony rescue, we’re also an animal rescue. You’ll need to let me know what you want me to do with all the strays that show up.”

  “What did Grandm—what did Eugenie have you do?”

  “The pound,” Grey said.

  Leeda cringed. “That’s terrible.” The pound was at the edge of town toward the highway. Birdie never let Leeda drive past it when she was in the car. It made her too sad that they put animals to sleep.

  “Do you want to keep them instead?” he asked, looking at her directly. Leeda could tell it was a kind of challenge. He expected her to say no, of course.

  “Um, I’ll have to get back to you,” she said. “You can just…feed him till then, and whatever else.”

  Grey nodded, and they stood in silence, watching the ponies hoof about the lot. “Do you want me to show you how to halter them?” Grey asked, sounding put out. “So you can bring them in yourself when you need to?”

  “Oh.” Leeda looked at the ponies. “Oh, God, no.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t really like animals.”

  “Too messy,” Grey said evenly, taking in her outfit again. His tone wasn’t kind.

  Leeda stiffened. The guy clearly didn’t like her off the bat. She decided she didn’t like him back. She straightened her spine.

  “Too demanding,” she said, flicking a blond tendril back coolly. “Anyway, I need their names so I can list them online,” she said. “I think people like to know names. Better marketing.”

  Grey studied her critically for a moment. “Those are Sneezy and The Baron,” he said, pointing to two that were off on their own, huddled together front to back, so their tails were swishing at each other’s chests. “They’re helping each other with flies. The other ponies don’t like Sneezy, but The Baron stands up for her. They’re pals.” He pointed to the darkest one, then along to the others. “Mitzie is the beauty. Sleepy is sleepy all the time. Tinkles is clueless and she eats leaves even though they make her puke. Just in case you can use any of that for marketing.”

  Leeda arched an eyebrow at him, realizing she was probably being mocked. Her grandmom had started “rescuing” them when Leeda was a toddler, though Leeda and her sister had always considered it more as “collecting.” She had seen them on a pretty regular basis all her life; she’d never thought of them as having alliances, enmities, and weird little quirks.

  Grey started leading her back toward the gate.

  “Did you go to Bridgewater High School?” she asked.

  Grey shook his head. Leeda waited for him to offer where he had gone to school, but he didn’t.

  “I’m probably going to get an MBA. I’m at Columbia,” she offered, just to keep the conversation going without feeling so awkward, and to let him know she was not mockery material. “I want to go into marketing.”

  Grey leaned on the fence once they got there, turned around, and looked at her. “Your grandmom treated the ponies like people,” he said.

  “I know,” Leeda admitted. Grandmom Eugenie hadn’t just loved the ponies—they’d been her life. She used to have birthday parties for them. She’d loved to talk about them on the phone and had sometimes made Leeda talk to them on the cordless.

  “For some people it’s easier to love animals than people,” Grey said diffidently. “I wonder why a lot of people who have everything tend to be out of touch with their hearts. Like their soul’s cut off below the neck or something.”

  Leeda could feel her face flushing. She didn’t know exactly where, but she knew some line was being crossed, and she felt invaded. What he was saying about Eugenie was close to things she’d thought herself from time to time.

  “Look, Grey, I don’t know what I expected when I got here, but it wasn’t someone being insensitive about my grandmother, who’s dead. So please just stick to your job.” She stared at him for a minute, then couldn’t help adding, “I already know the people in my family.”

  Grey calmly stuck his hands in his pockets, studying her, irritatingly unfazed. Leeda wondered if she’d gone too far, but at the moment, she didn’t care.

  “I should just let you know that I’m leaving in early August,” he said. “I’ll be here till then to get you situated and all. After that, you’ll be on your own with the ponies.”

  It was Leeda’s turn to be unruffled. “My plan is to move them pretty fast. I shouldn’t need you more than a couple of weeks at the most.” On her way here, she had worried about telling him this because she knew she was taking work away from him. But now, it felt satisfying.

  Grey laughed.

  Leeda brushed her hair from her eyes, annoyed. “What?”

  “You’ll be lucky if you can get rid of them by the end of the summer.” He grinned as if he were about to reveal something shocking. And then, he did. “Your grandmom was trying to find homes for them for years.”

  Leeda ignored the Chihuahua, who was straining at her and whining, as she passed him on her way into the house. She closed the door with a creak and stared into the dimness.

  Eugenie’s front parlor had always been like a room in a museum—clean, orderly, and perfect. Leeda had once, as a kid, spilled a pitcher of sweet tea on the couch, and she had thought her grandmom was going to keel over from the shock of it. True to her southern roots, she had literally swooned. But now that Eugenie was gone, the room felt even more stifling than it had before. There were two uncomfortable brocade couches, a piano against the far wall, two tiny side tables, and a large buffet pinning down the room, covered in white doilies that were slowly turning yellow. Everything was coated in a fine layer of dust.

  Leeda was reminded of long afternoons she’d spent with her grandmother here—sometimes on a visit with her mom and sometimes when her mom had sent her alone. It had always felt like there was an absence of air. But Eugenie had seemed to like it that way.

  Now Leeda opened the curtains, sending a cloud of dust flying around her, and glanced out the window toward the barn lot where Grey was pouring a huge bucket of water into one of the troughs. At least he was strong. Leeda couldn’t see pouring bucketfuls of water with her spindly little arms.

  With a sudden urge to call Eric, she went into the green linoleum–floored kitchen and picked up the phone, placing it to her ear, but there was no dial tone. She sighed, frustrated. She probably would have to get the line reconnected. What if it was as hard to get rid of the ponies as Grey had said? What if she ended up stuck at Primrose Cottage all summer? She walked back out of the kitchen again and up the carpeted stairs to her grandmom’s bedroom, where Eugenie had always kept an olive green rotary phone. Maybe it was working.

  Leeda pushed the bedroom door open and tiptoed across the carpet as if she might wake someone. She picked up the phone on the bedside table but it too was dead. Leeda sank onto the bed with a creak and looked around the room, pointlessly annoyed at her grandmom. The room still smelled like her powdery perfume. Her clothes still hung in the closet, the door of which stood open. It was as though she had just stepped out for the afternoon.

  An old pocket calendar from 1984 sat on the nightstand. Leeda stared at it f
or a moment and then, acting on impulse, she tucked it into her purse. She had done something similar at the orchard the other day while Birdie was building her tree house. She’d found a half of a crayon tucked into the corner of the living room, and had pocketed it when no one was looking. She didn’t know why she’d done it. But, she reasoned, she wasn’t hurting anyone.

  Leeda swung her legs against the bed frame, but something pricked her right in her calf. She bent to see what it was, lifting up the thin white bed skirt. It was an envelope, maybe a letter. Probably from President Reagan, Leeda thought drily. She tugged it out of its spot and studied it.

  It was yellowed, and it had no address or postmark, only Eugenie’s name. On the back, where the seal met in a triangle, someone had drawn a little heart. It was a love letter.

  Leeda felt a prick of tenderness and sadness that her grandmom was gone, her annoyance evaporating.

  Leeda considered a moment, feeling guilty. And then she opened it. The date was written in a sloppy hand—May 31, 1938. The date had significance to Leeda. Her mother had a plate on the wall commemorating her parents’ wedding date above one commemorating her own marriage. This letter had been written a couple of weeks before Eugenie’s wedding.

  Genie,

  You’ve really outdone yourself this time.

  Edgar will be fine, though the doctor was worried at first that he had a concussion. Who would have thought a flying hymnal could knock a boy down like that? I know you don’t like “Hosanna in the Highest,” but at least you could keep yourself from flinging the words into the choir.

  Emmaline at the Pop ‘N’ Shop says that you’re a menace. She says you’re like a rubber band, constantly propelling your body this way and that. I stood up for you and told her that her body was like a zucchini squash. I said you couldn’t help it if you’re more alive than she is.