Murphy’s face looked bored. Only her violent, destructive feet showed any anger. “My mom is the queen of denial. One time, she was laying on the horn because the car in front of us was letting someone out on the sidewalk, and when I told her that was obnoxious, she said she wasn’t doing anything. I said, ‘Mom, you’re laying on the horn.’ And she said, ‘No I’m not.’ That’s how my mom feels about denial. It’s just something you do even when you know no one believes you.” Murphy blinked up at the sky. “Whatever. I don’t care in this huge way. I mean, I want to know. I’m mad at her and everything. But I’m not like, ‘I miss my absentee dad,’ or anything. I’ve never thought about him all that much.”
She sat up and perused the items on Birdie’s shelves, clearly wanting to get off the subject. Birdie’s eyes trailed to the driveway, magnetized, as they had been doing all day.
“Birdie, why do you have Nicorette?” Murphy was looking at Birdie’s shelf. Sure enough, a pack of Nicorette gum was sitting on the middle shelf.
Birdie felt herself blushing. “I’m taking up smoking.”
The way Murphy looked at Birdie, tucking her chin and looking up from under her eyebrows, made Leeda laugh. It lightened the mood.
“If you want to take up smoking, which is idiotic, why are you chewing gum instead of actually, um, smoking?” Murphy pressed.
“I hate the taste of cigarettes.” Birdie had just thought smoking would be a good, cynical thing to do, given the circumstances.
Murphy blinked at her for a moment, and then relaxed, laying her head back down. “I bet my dad smokes.”
Birdie stared at Murphy thoughtfully. They lapsed into silence. Birdie could hear the creaking of the pecan trees over beyond the dorms carried on the breeze. She twirled her ring nervously, like it was a kind of rosary.
A car came and went down Orchard Drive, the hum of the motor faint in the distance. Majestic’s satellite ears followed it down the road.
Birdie had the feeling of teetering on a wire.
The sound of another vehicle echoed faintly across the grass. As it got closer, it wheezed. It could be a truck carrying rocks or lumber. But as it got louder, it squeaked and wheezed again, distinctly buslike. Murphy, Leeda, and Birdie looked at each other. Birdie’s heart fluttered up to her throat. Then Murphy bounced up and grinned at them, turning to slither down the ladder. Leeda followed her. Birdie grabbed Majestic and trailed Leeda, her hands unsteady on the rungs.
The bus chugged its way up the driveway, hands squiggling out of it to wave like the legs of a caterpillar. At the top of the driveway, it slowed with a squeal, let out a gasp of air, and stopped. A moment later, the doors came open with a hiss.
Out poured some of Birdie’s oldest friends. Birdie let herself be swept into the group for hugs and kisses and pats on the back. She made her way through the crowd, searching the faces, looking for the one who would save her from whatever the lostness was.
When the last passenger had emerged and they were all moving forward to meet the crowd, Birdie kept her smile big. She climbed up the bus stairs, like she was making sure no one had left anything behind, and scanned the empty aisle, the empty seats, the places where he wasn’t.
Contrary to popular belief, Poopie Pedraza of Darlington Orchard had not seen the Virgin Mary in the clouds once, but twice. The first time had been the day she’d arrived in Bridgewater. The second was the day that she’d met her employer’s niece, little Leeda Cawley-Smith, out in the front lawn, where she stood, three years old, tweeting at the birds. Poopie saw the cloud just then, directly overhead, and decided that this child was most likely destined to become a nun. She crossed herself and went back inside.
Twelve
Leeda woke in her dorm room in a bed across from Murphy’s. She’d been having a dream about Eric. Nothing exciting. Just being in a cab with him, talking for some reason about the bees at the orchard.
Now she blinked, studying the bare white walls, slowly focusing and looking at the floor where Murphy’s things had snaked their way across the room, claiming the entire width of it. She listened to the quietness in the building and out beyond the window, relishing the stillness until she heard someone open one of the doors across the hall.
As it had the summer before, getting up over the past few mornings had taken on a snowball effect. Whoever was up first, no matter how quiet they were, woke the others, and everyone started to get up and prepare themselves for a long day of work. Leeda slid out of bed, wide awake, and nudged Murphy to wake her. “Pickin’ time,” she whispered. Murphy growled at her before Leeda walked out into the hall.
In the kitchen, the women were eating quick bowls of cereal and oatmeal before heading out to the fields to pick. It had only taken a few days for the orchard work to fall into a pattern. Up at dawn, quick breakfast, and out to pick in the morning air before the sun got too hot. Then quit at midday to wolf down food and rest for an hour, usually in the shade of the common room, which wasn’t air-conditioned but was still many degrees cooler than outside. And then back to pick for the afternoon.
Last night, before she’d fallen into bed exhausted, after a lukewarm shower to wash away the peach juice, Leeda had promised herself that this morning she’d go back to Primrose Cottage and check on the ponies. But now that she was up, she knew that, as on the previous days, she wouldn’t do it. She’d spent a couple of afternoons on Uncle Walter’s computer, doing Internet searches on various pony, horse, and animal rescues and calling any that looked promising. But going back and dealing with Grey and the gaggle of little souls in the corral had been too unappealing.
So instead, when they were all done with breakfast, Leeda followed the others out into the fields. She and Murphy moved a few feet apart, their backs turned to each other, taking different sides of the same row.
They were picking June Princes, which grew in an area of trees up toward the front of the house. Behind her, Murphy, sweaty and flushed, swatted at the branches with a vengeance, knocking the peaches into the canvas harness attached across her chest and stomach. There was no use telling her she was going to bruise the peaches. Murphy didn’t know how to do things gently. Her hair was standing up halfway and lopsided, and her eyes were bleary. Murphy was no morning person, but she’d also been in a dark mood since the day she’d found the letter at her mom’s. She just didn’t like to admit it.
Leeda moved down the row slowly, picking expertly, doing a touch test on the fruits whose ripeness she doubted. If she picked them too soon, they wouldn’t taste sweet enough because they wouldn’t have time to draw in enough sugar. If she picked them too late, she knew, they would have already started producing ethylene, a chemical that ripened them, and they’d be overripe by the time they were sold. Their first summer on the orchard, Birdie had revealed to them that the world of peaches was more intricate and varied than they ever imagined. Clingstones, the ones that clung to their pits, ripened earliest, then semi-frees, and then freestones. Each variety was like a different dog breed with vastly different characteristics—the texture of the meat, the fuzziness of the skin, the strength and sweetness of the flavor.
They worked in silence, and the rustle of the leaves became hypnotic. There was the occasional flash of a white shirt or blue jeans or tan arms moving in the rows up ahead. Someone had started a fire in the eating area between the two gleaming white buildings, getting ready for lunch, and the smell of smoke and something peppery and thick drifted through the air.
Despite her restlessness to get back to New York, Leeda was content and happy, strength flowing through her body. Her muscles ached, but she already felt her limbs growing stronger, her body getting more fluid and muscular at the same time. The fresh air, which smelled amazing compared to the air of the city, was as refreshing as water to her; she took it in with big gulps. She felt calm and centered in a way that New York didn’t really allow.
“You know, it’s crazy about miniature ponies,” Leeda said. “What I was reading on the Internet. People keep
them for events, like parties, and then when they get old they just put them to sleep. And they breed these dwarves, only that kind of breeding is really bad for them, and they end up with health problems and things like that.”
“I thought you didn’t like ponies,” Murphy said.
Leeda shrugged, squeezing a peach gently to test it. She plucked it off the branch with a snap.
“I know I don’t like ponies,” Murphy muttered, more to herself than to Leeda. “I don’t know why people are so into miniature stuff. Dollhouses, croissants, ponies.” She shook her head at the tree in front of her. “So dumb.” She looked up at Leeda again, as if she’d just remembered she was there.
“I think I’m gonna take a couple of them to the fair. Kind of like a commercial for miniature ponies. Get the word out.”
“You should go over there too. Check on them.”
“Bleh,” Leeda replied.
“What’s the big deal?”
Leeda frowned. “The ponies just stare at me. Like they know about that time the one pony ate my ribbon and died. I think they hate me.”
“I don’t think ponies know how to hate,” Murphy offered ironically. “Especially miniature ponies. I think miniature ponies only think about rainbows.”
Leeda felt the weight of her basket with her hands and gave Murphy a look.
Murphy shrugged. “Okay, kidding aside. You can’t be good at everything.” She turned back to her tree, absently.
Leeda stared at her for a moment, confused about what she’d meant.
Murphy looked at her, noticing. “I mean, you like to be great at things, Lee. At everything. Maybe you’re scared you’re not good at ponies. Animals are too messy and unpredictable or something. It’s not like econ.”
“I know I’m not good at ponies,” Leeda said.
“Well, you don’t have to be good at it. You just have to be okay at it until you find a spot for them.”
Leeda blinked at Murphy, taking it in. Then she turned and walked up the row to the sorting shed. Birdie and Poopie were sitting there under an overhang in the shade, sorting the peaches into batches to sell locally, to ship, and—if they were mushy or damaged—to turn into cider. The two women looked nothing alike: Poopie—short, thin, and almond-skinned; Birdie—tall, fleshy, with skin like peaches and cream. But they moved with the same mannerisms, developed over years of skilled work, and the same sure hands. A few of the other workers were standing there, gently dumping the contents of their baskets onto the large table. They all stood, wiping sweat off their foreheads and nodding at each other, too tired to talk. Leeda dumped her peaches and then turned back down the row.
Halfway down, the sound of an engine drifted over to her, a car coming up the drive about forty yards away and out of sight. Leeda stopped at her next tree and leaned on one hip, pausing with a ripe peach in her hand, working the soft, mottled fuzz with her fingers, wondering who it was. She saw a sliver of a person crossing the grass toward the sorting shed. “No,” she said under her breath.
A moment later, Birdie was happily leading Grey down the row toward where she and Murphy stood. Majestic was nipping along at their heels.
“Hey,” Grey said, neither frowning nor smiling at her, just meeting her eyes in a direct blue gaze. He was holding the Chihuahua in his arms, a leash attached to its collar and balled up in his hands.
“Hi,” Leeda said, reluctantly polite. “Um, Murphy, this is Grey. Grey, Murphy.”
“The guy from the pony corral?” Murphy asked, letting her harness full of peaches dangle like a baby off her hips.
Leeda sighed an assent and looked to the ground at the peaches rotting there. She stepped on a dry leaf to make a crunching sound.
“I was wondering what you want me to do with this dog,” Grey said. “You haven’t been to the house, so…” Leeda looked down at the animal. He was still trembling, whether out of fear or excitement it was hard to tell. It looked, more than anything, like a trembling of longing. Like the dog was in a constant state of wanting something he didn’t have. He shot the same needy look at Leeda, Birdie, and Murphy, and then dolefully back at Grey.
Leeda was mesmerized by his wild, rampant insecurity. It made her feel heavy inside.
“Bird, do you want a dog?” she asked, suddenly hopeful.
Birdie, her long auburn hair all tangled and messy from sleeping in a tree, her cheeks rosy, had a picnic basket dangling from her elbow. Suddenly on the spot, she stared at the dog, her eyes dark and huge and sympathetic but dubious. “I don’t think Dad wants another dog.”
Leeda gave the Chihuahua one more glance and sighed. “I guess you just need to take him…” She looked sideways at Birdie, and then looked at Grey meaningfully. “…to those people. The ones you took them to when Grandmom was around?”
Grey looked between her and Birdie, confused for a second, and then—mercifully—just nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you want to come to our picnic?” Birdie chirped. Leeda gave her a death look, but Birdie remained oblivious to it.
Murphy turned and swiped away at the nearest tree as if she hadn’t heard.
“You’re killing the peaches,” Birdie said forlornly, staring into Murphy’s basket. Murphy looked too, guilty. Birdie tugged Grey by the sleeve and pulled him good-naturedly along with her.
Grey looked at Leeda questioningly. Leeda squinted back at him and followed the group into the trees.
They walked straight down one of the rows, heading deep enough in that they could see nothing but peach trees in any direction. Up ahead, Murphy swerved left into a stand of taller, older trees. These weren’t harvested anymore and grew wild and unwieldy. They held the occasional gnarled peach but nothing more. The dense rows gave way to a thin patch of woods that hung overhead, dappling them with more light than shade, but still, a welcome break from the unrelenting sun among the tiny peach trees.
Birdie, always kind, tried to make Grey feel at home. “Did you go to high school with Lee? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in town. I was homeschooled though. Ooh, look.” Birdie swerved out of line to a bushy plant full of purple flowers. She plucked a few delightedly. “Lilacs.” She thrust them toward Leeda’s face, and Leeda smiled, sniffing. Birdie could make something exciting out of anything on the orchard. She knew all the flowers, the species of birds, how much rainfall they could expect, where moss was likely to grow, which mushrooms were edible, and how long many of the trees had been in the ground. To walk across the property with Birdie was never just to walk through unnoticed space. She offered the lilacs to Grey next, but he shook his head, and Birdie looked slightly rejected. Leeda frowned at the back of his neck.
Up ahead, Murphy came to an abrupt halt, bathed in the sun while the rest of them were still dotted by the shade. She threw her arms up in the air in an exaggerated stretch, her baggy jeans, rolled up above her knees, drooping so that the waist sagged below her hips. “Aah, lake.”
She charged horselike down to the water while Leeda and the others just crested the clearing. Murphy was almost to where the lake lay like an inkblot. She teetered at the water’s edge with one foot in the air like a stork, pulling off a black-and-white Puma, a sock, and then swiped at the water’s surface with her toe, sending ripples emanating outward. Birdie smiled like lightning, blindingly bright, at both of them, and then she followed, kicking off her sandals and sinking down into the grass.
Grey stayed where he was, removed, holding tightly to the Chihuahua’s leash as the dog tugged and strained to follow the girls. He kept throwing glances at Leeda and then looking away. Leeda decided it wasn’t worth her time wondering why. She longed to follow her friends down to the water, which—this time of year—would still be cold despite the heat. But she hung back instead, not wanting to abandon a guest. She checked the ground carefully before sitting.
“Trying not to get dirty?” Grey asked.
“I’m looking for fire ants,” she said evenly. She looked up at him and then pointed to her legs. All down the f
ront of her shins were tiny white circular scars where she had been bitten one summer night.
Seeing that the area was safe, she knelt and began to unpack the picnic basket. The grass grew thin and fine and soft as fur here.
Grey stood awkwardly, his eyes still on the lake.
Leeda sighed, thinking any normal person would have made some effort to make conversation. She was at a loss as to how to talk to him.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asked.
He looked at her, then sat at the very edge of the blanket, like he couldn’t be far enough away from her.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” she asked, thinking this was the most pleasant conversation topic she could come up with. “Birdie’s farm?”
“I guess.”
Leeda tightened her lips. “You could just say yes,” she blurted out.
“Why?” Grey challenged her, finally looking interested and present.
“To be polite.”
Grey squinted across the lawn. “What’s so great about being polite? I’d rather be genuine.”
Leeda got flustered for a moment. But then she laughed, making sure he saw he wasn’t upsetting her. “And being rude is genuine? Who raised you, wolves?”
Grey didn’t reply.
Fuming, she started to unwrap the sandwiches. A few minutes later, after an agonizingly awkward silence, Birdie and Murphy came flopping up to them, half dry and half soaked, having done everything to get themselves wet except jump in the lake. Murphy lifted the bottom of her T-shirt to wipe her mud-splattered face. There wasn’t a guy alive who hadn’t checked Murphy out at some point or another, but Grey only stared down at the dog.
“So where are you from, Grey?” Murphy asked, too cavalier and restless to notice the tension between him and Leeda.
“Nowhere, really,” he said, looking at the dog instead of Murphy. “I just got out of foster care when I turned eighteen.” Leeda felt her throat tighten slightly. “I’m just moving around now.”