As I was reversing out of the parking slot, my cell phone rang. Tanner. I put him on speaker and pulled onto the road, heading in the direction of the southern section of the island.
“I started looking into your ex-husband’s family’s business,” he said without greeting. “Did you know it’s been around since the late eighteen-hundreds?”
“I did. They’re quite proud of their longevity. I met a lot of his relatives over the years he and I were together. They weren’t much into retiring out of the business. Doug and his brother were always tight, but Roger’s wife never liked me,” I added. “I never liked her much either.”
“Is she a realtor?”
“Yes, and it definitely was not her in that SUV. Her name’s not Adelaide, and the woman I saw had dark hair. My ex-sister-in-law is a dedicated bleached blond. And I need to go, but I’ll call if anything interesting comes up.”
Shit. I forgot to tell Tanner about the other offers on the orchards, and trying to locate the memo app on my phone while negotiating the curvy section of road was a no-no. I stuck my phone down the front of my shirt, nestled between my breasts, and let that be enough of a reminder to text Tanner from the Pearmains’. He could make the calls today, and we could visit the orchards tomorrow.
I looped my bag across my body as I exited my car. The comforting buzz of bugs and a distant lawnmower gave the Pearmain property a sense of life it had been missing a few days ago. I knocked on the frame of the screen door and was greeted by the tang of fresh-picked lavender and melted honey and a short, shadowed form. Abigail’s face lightened as she shuffled across the wood floor to the door, and her smile soothed some of the lingering worry from my chest. It was so good to see Abi upright.
“Been expecting you,” she said, pushing the door open and stepping to the side. “Cliff’s visiting with his trees. Go on out through the back and yell if you can’t find him. I’m stirring up a new batch of soap, or I’d offer to sit a spell. We’ll have lemonade when you come back up.”
This was the Abigail I was familiar with: hospitable to a point and always with something going on in the kitchen. “Thanks, Abi. I’ll see you in a bit.”
The newer plantings were situated opposite from where Tanner and I had come across the trees with the tunnels. I ventured on to the wider, straighter path, newly mowed to either side and wide enough to accommodate a truck. I found Clifford checking tubular mesh cages protecting the saplings’ slender trunks.
“Mornin’, Calliope,” he called, waving.
“It’s almost noon, Cliff,” I answered, smiling back. “What’s going on over there?” I pointed past this section of the orchard to a gently sloping hill where evenly-spaced posts marched along four rows of bare soil. Mulch was mounded in low rows in between.
“We’re planning to try something new,” he said. “The two grandsons I spoke about been readin’ up on ways to plant more trees per acre. It’s called the tall spindle method.”
I knew other orchardists were using the method, most with success. It was a wise choice for those with smaller acreages. “Will you be able to maintain your organic grower status?”
“Oh, for sure.” He finished refolding the ends of the mesh and pocketed his wire snippers. “And we’ll look forward to having you here to inspect us.”
“I have no doubt you’ll pass.” I waited for him to put his hand tools in the ancient canvas bag he carried. “Cliff, if you’re ready, I’d like to talk about the hidden folk.”
“I suppose it’s time.” He sighed and studied his hands, his whole upper body seeming to sag under the weight of my request. “I don’t remember when I saw my first garden troll, but it must have been when I was a little kid.”
“Can you tell me how you came to be in possession of those two heads?” I led us to a weathered slab bench. Cliff joined me with an audible huff, dropping his bag onto the grass at his feet.
“My knees,” he explained. “They don’t bend so well.” He rubbed at his worn khaki pants and cupped a set of arthritic fingers over each knee. A long sigh escaped from the depths of his chest. “I came into possession of this orchard about two hundred years ago.” The look on my face prompted the old man to pretend punch my shoulder. “Surprised ya, didn’t I?”
“Two hundred years. That explains the wrinkles,” I shot back.
“Like your Tanner, I trained as a druid, Miss Calliope. I’ve lived a long time. But then I met Abigail.” He rubbed his knees again and lifted his chin, his gaze flickering over the vulnerable young trees. “Eventually I told her what I was, and although she wanted to join me on the path, she could not withstand the rigors of training. So, I made a decision. I’d had a long enough life, and it occurred to me the best way to honor my love for Abigail was to age with her.” He looked over at me suddenly. “We’re doing everything we can to make it to one hundred, but we have a pact that if one of us goes, the other will follow.”
“That’s quite a story, Cliff.”
He nodded. “This orchard will be in good hands. Our grandsons know what to expect.”
“You’re talking about more than what it takes to grow apples, aren’t you?”
Cliff nodded. “We sent the boys off to train as druids when they turned eighteen. They’re in their thirties now, but I imagine they’ll look a good ten years younger. And stay that way as long as they can.” He winked at me and rubbed his knees. “All of this will be theirs: the enchanted trees, the tunnels, the burial mounds. And they will share it with
