Red Delicious Death (6 page)

“Okay, but that’s seasonal. Are you going to do anything targeted toward Granford residents?”

“How many are there? Do they even eat out?”

Meg took offense at Nicky’s dismissive tone, even though she knew what she meant. “I don’t know. You’d do better to ask Seth—he’s lived here all his life. Or Frances.”

“Do you know the other farmers around here? Because I’d really like to know where to get vegetables and fruits. What kind of apples do you grow?”

Bree answered, rattling off a list. “For starters, Gravenstein, Spartan, Cortland, Northern Spy. They’ll start ripening about mid-August, if we get a good summer. I bet Michael would know some other vendors. You into organic, Nicky?”

“Who’s Michael? Your boyfriend?” she asked. When Bree nodded curtly, Nicky went on, “Yes and no. I don’t think we could qualify as an organic restaurant—there are all sorts of guidelines we’d have to meet. But I support the principles, and I think organic food just plain tastes better. Why would Michael know vendors?”

“He heads this organic nonprofit group in Amherst,” Bree said. “He knows the area pretty well. I’ll ask Michael, then. He knows lots of people around here. You about done here, Meg? I need a ride back to the house.”

The men emerged from the kitchen, and Meg saw that Seth had a clutch of paper towels with scribbles on them. At least he’d graduated from the paper napkins he’d been using at her house to plan the barn. “Let me work these up and give you some estimates. I can make time to start next week, if that’s good with you.”

“Thanks, Seth—you’ve given me a lot to think about. And thanks for your input. I probably would have knocked the house down.” Brian looked relieved, Meg thought.
What had he been expecting?

Nicky gravitated to Brian’s side, and he slipped an arm over her shoulder. She fit very neatly under it, Meg noticed. “You guys figure out what you needed?”

“Wait ’til you see the plans,” Sam said. “The flow will be terrific.”

“Sounds good. And I found you a lead on suppliers—Bree’s boyfriend, Michael. So everybody’s good, right?”

The setting sun poured in the west-facing windows in the front, bathing Nicky, Brian, and Sam in golden light. They looked young and happy, and Meg felt a pang. Had she ever been that eager and hopeful? She shook herself: after all, she
had
just embarked on a new venture, or maybe it was a new adventure, with the orchard. And she had Seth—although not quite the way Nicky had Brian, who looked down at his wife with something like adoration.

Meg jumped when Seth came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You heading back?” he asked.

“I guess,” Meg said. “Bye, you all, and good luck. Thanks for the tour. I’ll look forward to seeing what you do with the place.”

“Thanks again for everything, Meg. And you, too, Seth. I can just feel this coming together! And we’re going to have so much fun! I’ll call you about staff, okay, Bree?” Nicky called. Bree raised a hand without turning and kept moving.

Meg and Seth managed to escape Nicky’s enthusiasm and made their way to the parking lot. Bree climbed into Meg’s car, but Meg tarried a moment to talk to Seth. “How do the plans look?” she asked.

“I think I managed to talk them out of doing anything really stupid. They don’t know a lot about old buildings. And I pointed out that they needed a few things like at least one bathroom downstairs, and figuring out where they want electric outlets, because those aren’t going to be easy to install in brick walls.”

“They’ve certainly got a lot of enthusiasm, don’t they?”

“More enthusiasm than sense, you’re implying? Hey, at least they were smart enough to ask for help from me and you.”

“Me? I don’t know anything about restaurants. Not even the budgeting, except to know that profit margins are pretty slim even for the best-run places.”

“Sure, but at least you’ve seen something of the wider world, right? Eaten in some fancy places?”

“Well, of course, back in my banking days, but that’s not what they need here in Granford. Is it?”

Seth looked out at the green and the surrounding buildings. “No, not really. But give them a chance. First they’ve got to get the structural stuff done, and then get equipment in.
Then
they can worry about names and napkin colors and menu fonts.”

“And they can get to know some of their new neighbors, which should help tone down whatever it is they’re thinking.”

“Exactly. See? It’ll all work out.”

“Seth, you are an eternal optimist.”

“I try.”

The speed with which time flew past alternatively thrilled and terrified Meg. According to Bree, the orchard was thriving—enough sun, enough rain, and Bree and Christopher had handled what little (and nontoxic) spraying they recommended. Meg felt like an anxious mother, checking on the growth of her apples nearly daily.

On a late June day she felt too restless to sit in the house—where far too many tasks confronted her—and decided to do an inventory of the outdoor projects she should tackle before it snowed. The roof was going to have to wait a while longer, and she didn’t have the cash to pay for painting the body of the house, nor did she have the time to do it herself—one more project on the waiting list. But the trim she thought she could handle, and maybe puttying some of the leakier window sashes. She was standing in the yard looking up at the front of the house when her cell phone rang, and she pulled it out of her pocket and flipped it open.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe! How’s it going?”

Lauren. “Terrific. Fabulous. I’m contemplating scraping paint at the moment.”

“And you like that why?”

“It’s not that I like it, but that I have to do it or the whole house might crumble into dust. Houses seem to have this built-in urge to self-destruct, and we hardy homeowners must battle constantly to prevent it. Hence the painting.”

“This is why I rent,” Lauren said smugly. “How are our child chefs doing?”

“Better than I expected, actually,” Meg replied. “They’ve finished ripping stuff out of the building, and now they’re beginning to put other stuff back in. At least they haven’t given up yet. Are you going to come check it out?”

“Once they’ve got tables and chairs and stuff like food, probably. And of course I want to see you—I still can’t picture you in overalls and a straw hat.”

“More like jeans and a baseball cap. But I am now the proud owner of a pair of muck boots.”

“Do I really want to know what those are?”

“You aren’t going to need any in Boston, but around here they’re essential. It can get pretty muddy. Did you have a reason for calling, or did you just want to make fun of me?”

“Who, me? I’m just touching base.” Lauren hesitated a moment. “I miss you, you know? It’s no fun around here anymore.”

Meg thought briefly of the life she had left behind in Boston. Did she miss it? A few things: movies, good food, music. And a few—a very few—friends like Lauren. The rest of it, all the deadlines and the pressure and the in-house politics, she was happy to forget. “Lauren, you love your job, and you love beating out the competition.”

“I guess,” Lauren sighed. “But come back and visit me sometime, will you?”

“After the harvest, when I’ll have more time.” At least four months away.

“Okay. Take care, and send me an invitation to the restaurant opening.”

Meg promised to do so. As she hung up the phone, she saw an unfamiliar car pull into her drive, and Sam Anderson climbed out. Meg hadn’t seen much of him since his arrival, or of Nicky and Brian either, although Seth provided regular updates on their progress at the restaurant. She could only imagine how busy they must all be, with their self-imposed deadline of September first. “Hi, Sam,” she called out. “What brings you my way?”

Sam grinned shyly. “Hi, Meg. I’m exploring. Getting the lay of the land. Or something like that.”

“Were you a city kid, too, like Nicky?”

“More or less. Closest I got to any farms was visiting the grandparents in Maryland. But farms are where the good food is, and that’s what matters. I can learn.”

“I know what you mean. You want to come in and have something to drink?” Meg asked.

“If it’s no trouble. I can’t stay long—I’m still trying to find my way around Granford. We’ve been so busy working on the building that I haven’t looked around as much as I should.”

“Come on in.” Meg led the way to her kitchen door. Inside, she poured them both glasses of iced tea, added some mint she had found growing outside the kitchen door, and sat across from Sam at the kitchen table. “So, it sounds like the three of you have a real plan. What kind of food supplies are you looking for?”

“You must have heard about slow food? The whole locavore movement?” Sam said hopefully.

Meg didn’t have the heart to disappoint him, so she hedged and said, “I think so. But can you tell me what I should know?”

“Well, I’ll give you the short answer. There’s been a lot of interest in farmers’ markets for, oh, the past twenty-five years, first in California. Don’t get me started on the evils of corporate farming, but at least there are people trying to fight back, by growing healthy food and not shipping it halfway around the world, but selling it quickly to people who appreciate it. And preserving heirloom species that otherwise might be lost forever.” Sam’s eyes shone with fervor, and Meg could see why Nicky was so fond of him.

“You should talk with Christopher Ramsdell, over at UMass,” Meg said. “He managed this orchard for years. He also gets very worked up about apple varieties, and the evils of commercialism.”

Sam nodded vigorously. “Good, good. Well, the slow food movement is part of that, too, and Alice Waters at Chez Panisse—she’s been a real role model for years. Thank goodness it’s catching on. So what Nicky and I want to do is cook with the freshest food possible, and remind people just how good it can taste. And it’s healthier for them, too—no preservatives, no added salt. Just good honest food.”

“You’re making me hungry. Do you know what you need, and who to talk to?”

“Bree’s friend Michael has been helping, and Seth knows a lot of people. But like I said, I haven’t had a lot of time to follow up yet. I’m just getting started. Can we count on you for apples?”

“Of course. Except I’d better warn you, I have no idea what I’ve got out there. Bree, my orchard manager—you met her at the restaurant—would know better.” Meg sipped her iced tea. “So, you three are all living upstairs?”

“Yeah. Saves us money, even if the bathroom gets a little crowded sometimes. And there’s plaster dust everywhere.”

“That won’t last forever. Are you still on track for the opening?”

“I think so, if everything goes right.” Sam downed the last of his drink and stood up. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just thought it was rude to pass by and not stop to say hello. Let me know if you have any other ideas.”

Meg escorted him to the door. “I’ll do that. And your food ideas sound wonderful.”

Sam grinned shyly again. “Thanks. See you!”

As he pulled out of the driveway, Bree emerged from the depths of the barn. “Was that Sam?”

“Yup. He said Michael’s given him some good leads.”

“Good. Hey, wanna see your new tractor attachment?”

“I didn’t know I had a new one. What’s it for?”

“It’s a forklift—you need it to lift the big apple boxes and move them from one place to another. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Meg obediently followed Bree into the dim barn. Bree strode up to the elderly green tractor and patted the new addition proudly. Meg looked bewildered. “But it’s in back.”

“Has to be—those boxes are heavy when they’re filled. Your engine’s in front, and then you add these counterweights, too”—Bree nudged a pile of oddly shaped metal objects with one foot—“so you don’t tip over backwards.”

“If you say so. You’ll show me how all this works, right?” Meg said dubiously.

“Of course. And we’ve got time to practice. You’re still a month or more away from needing it. So Sam’s scouting out vendors?”

“So he says. I can’t help much, but I’m glad Michael’s working with him. Thanks for setting that up.”

“Hey, it’s just business—everybody wins.”

“What’s the story on this local foods movement? Is it more than just the fad of the moment, like oyster foam or steak ice cream?”

“Let’s hope so! Corporate farming has all but destroyed small farmers like you, across the country, with some help from the government. But finally people are trying to bring back healthy food. You’re already part of that movement.”

“Good for me,” Meg said, laughing. “It’s a real challenge to try to balance economics, politics, and healthy eating all at once, isn’t it?”

“You bet, but somebody’s got to do it. You need me for anything else today?”

“Not that I know of. I was thinking about painting the trim, if I have the time.”