The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (36 page)

Dylan Chadwick, working in his Crofton orchard, heard it. Whenever he heard a train, he imagined Amanda and Isabel aboard it. He imagined them getting away, traveling to beautiful, hidden destinations, seeing the world while waiting for him to find them. He remembered that last day, all three of them in the car, speeding through midtown Manhattan toward Penn Station.

They had almost made it. He would have flashed his badge, seen them aboard, watched the train pull out. They would have called him from the Longwood Hotel, when they'd reached Wilmington, Delaware. But they never made it out of New York. They never made it past West Thirty-third Street.

Limping through the orchard, Dylan carried a step ladder, a ten-foot pruning saw, and a light chainsaw. His second life, as a farmer, didn't include badges, bad guys, or getting shot. It involved apple variety and rootstock, good planting, site selection, pruning and training, and proper fertility. It involved honeybees.

He'd used his pension, and the money he'd gotten for disability, to buy this land from his father's estate. He had expected to return to the area, the prodigal son, keeping the hundred-acre orchard in the family; he had expected his brother and sister-in-law to be ecstatic. Although their own yard—a gift from the old man during his lifetime—abutted the property, they had barely set foot in the orchard. Their emotions regarding his keeping their father's dream alive had turned out to be complicated.

They invited him to their home for holidays, to their daughter's school for spelling bees and class plays—and that, for Dylan, had turned out to be complicated, in turn. Chloe was Isabel's age. So every play, every concert, every game he saw her in reminded him of Isabel. He wondered whether Chloe minded that Uncle Dylan had stopped attending her events. She was fifteen, and he doubted she really noticed.

His brother had. He told him it wasn't fair to Chloe, that life was hard enough as a teenager, that she needed all the family she could get. Dylan couldn't help any of that, any of the tragedies that separated children and parents. But his brother's words ate at him; even more, he remembered that moment alone with Chloe after Isabel's funeral.

The train whistle sounded again.

Dylan leaned against the trunk of the old tree to listen. He could almost see his wife and daughter in their seats, reading books or maybe playing cards. Would Isabel still like cards? She had loved to play hearts and setback at eleven, the year she had died.

Turning back to his job, Dylan looked for the old tree's first scaffold whorl, then set his ladder, climbed it, and went to work on the light slot—a place where branches were pruned to allow light to reach all lower leaves and fruit.

Late March was prime pruning time—the dormant season, after the last severe freeze and before the start of new growth; time to remove all dead and diseased wood, all dried apples; time to clear the light slots on as many trees as he could get to. Dylan often worked from first light till last—sometimes till just after dark, when the moon was full—trying to bring the orchard back to what it once had been.

The dormant season.
When things sleep. Sometimes they slept just until the spring thaw, when the sap started running again; sometimes they slept much longer.

Balancing on the ladder, trying to ignore the way his leg throbbed and was numb at the same time, Dylan reached for his pruning saw. He thought back to when he was a boy, out here with his father: it might have been this very tree.

“Follow the rule of thirds,” his father would say. “Remove about a third of the excess limbs each year for three years. It took the tree more than one year to become overgrown. It will take more than one year to correct.” The lessons were good, and they came between swigs from a jug of hard cider.

It was from his father that Dylan had learned about pruning during the dormant season.

The train whistle had jarred Dylan awake today—this chilly March day with the first hint of springtime sunshine. The sound was distant now, the train probably pulling into the Twin Rivers station. He wondered who would be geting on, who would be getting off. There were probably families reuniting, even now.

Some families. Lucky ones. Others weren't so lucky.

The dormant season.

JANE PORTER RODE THE TRAIN, HER FOREHEAD PRESSED TO
the window. The landscape was bone-familiar to her. She knew these rolling hills and open meadows the way she knew her own breath. There were too many new houses, too many cut-down trees, but she looked past that to the wild acres, the apple orchards, the gnarled old trees with their branches turning pink for spring.

Leaving New York, she had felt detached about this trip. She didn't like to fly, so she took the subway from her Chelsea apartment to Penn Station, then climbed aboard Amtrak for the pleasant ride along the Connecticut shoreline to central Rhode Island. Part of her hoped she would just go home, help Sylvie get their mother into the nursing home, and leave as soon as possible. That part of her hoped she'd just take care of business, then leave.

The other part of her, the part that had hung the “Gone Fishing” sign on her bakery door and left a message forwarding her customers to a friendly competitor, knew that wasn't possible.

Didn't every true sage say, “You can't go home again”? Jane had grown up in the country, back when Twin Rivers was rural, before the malls and all the new houses, and she had watched the birds build nests. She would climb the trees to count the eggs, and she would watch the babies hatch, then fledge, and finally fly away.

“Why don't they come back?” she remembered crying to her mother, inconsolable because the three baby robins that had hatched in May had disappeared by June.

“It's the way of the world,” her mother had said, hugging her. “Baby birds learn to fly, and they go off to dig their own earthworms and lay their own eggs. Just like human babies—you'll see.”

“I'll never go away,” Jane had promised that day.

“You will,” her mother had said. “Just the way you're supposed to.”

Jane had shaken her head, stubborn about her mother's words the way she was about everything.

“Station stop Twin Rivers,” the conductor called through the train. “Twin Rivers, forward end of the car. Watch your step getting off the train, and thank you for riding Amtrak.”

Jane stood by her seat, pulling her bag down from the overhead rack. Then, carefully, she reached for the big cake box. Stiff from the ride, she slung her knapsack over one shoulder and began to make her way toward the front of the car. When the conductor offered to help her, she shook her head. She was too independent for that; let him help someone who needed it.

At the train door, she shielded her eyes, looking up and down the platform. A few people were here to meet the train; she saw Sylvie right away. Emotion seized her heart. Her little sister.

Jane hadn't seen Sylvie in two years, and she look exactly the same: blond, radiant, as gorgeous as a movie star. But of course Sylvie didn't know it, and still dressed like a Depression-era waif in her long floral dress and blue wool coat.

Coming forward, Sylvie waited at the bottom of the train stairs. Jane dropped her suitcase and gently lowered the cake box, then threw both arms around her sister. Sylvie's hair smelled like orange blossoms. She was blushing, and her cheeks were wet. So were Jane's. They both surreptitiously wiped their tears on each other's shoulder, then raised their faces, dry-eyed.

“Your train was late,” Sylvie said, making it sound more like conversation than accusation.

“I know. Sorry.”

“Did you have a good trip?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“What's this outfit?” Sylvie asked, smiling slightly, plucking Jane's black leather sleeve.

“Um, my jacket?”

“You want to look like one of the kids? Or are you trying to be tough?” Sylvie asked, smiling to take the sting out of her words. It was a Porter family tradition.

Jane smiled back, holding off on her response: “You want to look like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm till you're forty?” Instead she picked up her bag and the cake box; Sylvie didn't make a move to take either of them from her. They headed toward the parking lot, and Jane asked, “How's Mom?”

Sylvie's smile evaporated. “Not very good,” she said. “She had that fall, and she really gashed her leg. With her diabetes, there's always an increased risk of infection. Plus, the doctor who stitched her up commented about all her bruises.”

“Maybe he'll report you to the state.”

“That's not funny, Jane!”

“I know, I'm sorry,” Jane said quickly, but Sylvie's cheeks and lips were tight with hurt. “I know you take great care of her.”

“I gave up my career to do it.”

Jane nodded.
No comment,
she thought. Instead she said, “I was just kidding. It was stupid. Let's not fight.”

“We're not even in the car yet,” Sylvie said. “It starts the minute you get home.”

“I know,” Jane said, feeling tension pop between her shoulder blades. “I'm really sorry.”

Sylvie nodded. She opened the hatchback, and Jane threw her bag inside but held on to the cake box. They both reached up to close the door, and Jane saw their hands together, side by side: they were the exact same size and shape. Sisters' hands. She wanted to hug Sylvie again and never let go. Living in the city, she missed having relatives nearby. She missed having the blood connection of family. More than anything, she missed her sister.

“Be careful with Mom,” Sylvie said warningly. “Don't go seeking out the past or anything, okay? She can't take much upset.”

“I won't upset her,” Jane said.

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“I suppose there's a cake in that box,” Sylvie said, casting a glance down at Jane's lap.

“Yes.”

“Did you
forget
she's diabetic?

Jane didn't reply. Her earliest memories included seeing her mother inject herself with insulin. She also remembered her mother having the occasional cookie, piece of pie, slice of cake. Not often, but sometimes. “I wanted to bring her something. It's the only thing I knew to make. . . .”

“She's very forgetful—she'd never take her insulin if I didn't give it to her. Her feet are in bad shape. And she wobbles. That's how she got the bruises. She's going downhill, Jane. . . .” Sylvie's voice caught.

“We'll figure it out, Syl,” Jane said. She looked her sister deep in the eyes. The connection was ancient and didn't really need words. In fact, words got in the way. So soundlessly, without any more speaking, they got into the car. Sylvie adjusted the radio to something classical. Jane tuned it out, turning her face to the window and holding the white cake box on her lap.

She scanned the windows of houses and cars, the faces of people on the street. She couldn't help herself. Ten minutes in Twin Rivers, and already she was doing something Sylvie wouldn't approve of. Jane wasn't sure exactly where to look, but she was seeking out the past.

If Sylvie would let her borrow the car, she'd drive to Crofton tomorrow.

THE PERFECT SUMMER
A Bantam Book / August 2003

Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved
Copyright © 2003 by Luanne Rice

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Published simultaneously in Canada

eISBN: 978-0-553-89774-6

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