trying to fight the emotions welling up inside him as he watched his father turning and flinching away from things Tommy couldn’t see.
“I’ll get us home,” he said, pulling out his cell phone as he headed for the cabin.
As he passed the iron box, he stopped and stared down at it. Aneurysm, he thought. Something like that. It couldn’t have anything to do with the stupid box. The timing had to be coincidence. But still . . .
Tommy crouched down, just as his father had, and opened the lid.
He stared into the chest. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
Inside the iron box were a small pile of old scrolls. How they had remained dry under the water, how the old chest had remained sealed airtight for who knew how long, he had no idea. But it was just paper, and there was nothing frightening about a bunch of paper. Nothing that would send his father over the edge.
He let the lid slam shut again.
Just paper.
CHAPTER 3
SUMMERFIELDS Orchard occupied acres of rolling hillside in a small valley just north of Brattleboro, Vermont. The huge red barn on the property had been transformed into a marketplace, where shoppers could buy the fresh fruits and vegetables grown at the farm, along with a huge variety of other products, including both dessert pies and chicken pot pies, homemade apple cider, handcrafted goods, and the ever-popular cider donuts, cranked out by the dozens every day, and the hundreds on weekends.
During the summer they were busy with corn and had festivals during which employees grilled corn outdoors for visitors. Children romped in the play area and climbed all over the enormous wooden pirate ship that stood, apropos of nothing, in one of the front fields. But once school started up again the orchard was always quiet on weekdays, visited mostly by older folks and young mothers with preschool children. When apple-picking season got under way—and well toward Halloween, with the pumpkin harvest in full swing—the weekends were wonderful, happy, smiling chaos.
Come Saturday, there would be live outdoor music and children running amok in the hay maze. Parents and kids alike rode the hay wagon up to the top of the hill, filled bags with apples they’d picked themselves, and then trudged back down, laden with fruit. People lined up at the windows at the back of the barn to buy cider and donuts without even having to go inside.
In all her life, Keomany Shaw had never met a group of people who worked as hard as the owners and employees at Summerfields. The two women who owned the place, Tori Osborne and Cat Hein, were the kind of married couple that other couples envied. They fought, but they never went to bed angry, and whatever conflicts arose, neither of them ever seemed to worry that they would erode the foundations of the relationship. Keomany wished she could find someone—man or woman—who would give her life the peace and harmony that Tori and Cat gave each other. She admired the women, and all of the Summerfields employees, for the sincerity of their efforts.
Keomany lived among them, but as much as she tried to help out where she could, she also lived apart from them. Unlike the rest of the people who worked at the orchard and farm, she had her own business on the grounds. When Keomany’s original shop had been destroyed, along with her entire hometown, Tori and Cat had given her an entire corner of the big red barn and hung a sign from the ceiling— Sweet Somethings: Confections by Keomany Shaw . She had tried to argue with their generosity, but they insisted, and at last she had relented, not only because she did not want to seem ungracious, but because they were her friends, and she couldn’t imagine anywhere else she wanted to be.
Summerfields had become her home. She had her own bedroom in the big house far across the fields from the barn. Tori and Cat usually had one or two other friends and employees living with them at any given time—it was simply their nature—but Keomany had
“I’ll get us home,” he said, pulling out his cell phone as he headed for the cabin.
As he passed the iron box, he stopped and stared down at it. Aneurysm, he thought. Something like that. It couldn’t have anything to do with the stupid box. The timing had to be coincidence. But still . . .
Tommy crouched down, just as his father had, and opened the lid.
He stared into the chest. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
Inside the iron box were a small pile of old scrolls. How they had remained dry under the water, how the old chest had remained sealed airtight for who knew how long, he had no idea. But it was just paper, and there was nothing frightening about a bunch of paper. Nothing that would send his father over the edge.
He let the lid slam shut again.
Just paper.
CHAPTER 3
SUMMERFIELDS Orchard occupied acres of rolling hillside in a small valley just north of Brattleboro, Vermont. The huge red barn on the property had been transformed into a marketplace, where shoppers could buy the fresh fruits and vegetables grown at the farm, along with a huge variety of other products, including both dessert pies and chicken pot pies, homemade apple cider, handcrafted goods, and the ever-popular cider donuts, cranked out by the dozens every day, and the hundreds on weekends.
During the summer they were busy with corn and had festivals during which employees grilled corn outdoors for visitors. Children romped in the play area and climbed all over the enormous wooden pirate ship that stood, apropos of nothing, in one of the front fields. But once school started up again the orchard was always quiet on weekdays, visited mostly by older folks and young mothers with preschool children. When apple-picking season got under way—and well toward Halloween, with the pumpkin harvest in full swing—the weekends were wonderful, happy, smiling chaos.
Come Saturday, there would be live outdoor music and children running amok in the hay maze. Parents and kids alike rode the hay wagon up to the top of the hill, filled bags with apples they’d picked themselves, and then trudged back down, laden with fruit. People lined up at the windows at the back of the barn to buy cider and donuts without even having to go inside.
In all her life, Keomany Shaw had never met a group of people who worked as hard as the owners and employees at Summerfields. The two women who owned the place, Tori Osborne and Cat Hein, were the kind of married couple that other couples envied. They fought, but they never went to bed angry, and whatever conflicts arose, neither of them ever seemed to worry that they would erode the foundations of the relationship. Keomany wished she could find someone—man or woman—who would give her life the peace and harmony that Tori and Cat gave each other. She admired the women, and all of the Summerfields employees, for the sincerity of their efforts.
Keomany lived among them, but as much as she tried to help out where she could, she also lived apart from them. Unlike the rest of the people who worked at the orchard and farm, she had her own business on the grounds. When Keomany’s original shop had been destroyed, along with her entire hometown, Tori and Cat had given her an entire corner of the big red barn and hung a sign from the ceiling— Sweet Somethings: Confections by Keomany Shaw . She had tried to argue with their generosity, but they insisted, and at last she had relented, not only because she did not want to seem ungracious, but because they were her friends, and she couldn’t imagine anywhere else she wanted to be.
Summerfields had become her home. She had her own bedroom in the big house far across the fields from the barn. Tori and Cat usually had one or two other friends and employees living with them at any given time—it was simply their nature—but Keomany had
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