Very soon he realized it wasn’t music—she was crying. His pace quickened as he looked for her. “Nora?” he called. But she didn’t answer; her sobbing became closer and more ragged. He felt panic rise; his fear for her surpassed all other thoughts.
Finally he saw the satchel in which she carried water and lunch and the shadow of her bent knee on the far side of an apple tree. Her crying was very close. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against the tree, her face covered with her hands. Three long strides brought him to her and he instantly fell to his knees in front of her.
“God, are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head and turned her red, wet eyes toward him. But she didn’t answer, she simply cried.
He put aside the sandwich and gently grabbed her shoulders. “Nora, talk to me. Tell me what happened, what’s wrong.”
She just shook her head and sobbed.
He pulled her against him and held her. He whispered to her, shhhh and, it’s okay. He rocked her a little bit. And finally, through her tears she choked out, “I remember.” And then she cried some more.
Tom had always hated it when girls cried. He had always thought it either weak or manipulative. But when Nora gripped the front of his shirt in her hands and held her face against his chest, weeping, he found it curious that those thoughts didn’t even come to mind. His shirt was getting all wet and he didn’t care. And while he wished he knew exactly what caused these tears, he was willing to soak them up until she was ready. All he wanted was to take care of her. He wanted to comfort, stop the tears, ease her worry, feed her half of his sandwich.
He held her for a long time before she took a few deep, uneven breaths. Against his chest she said, “All of a sudden I remembered. I was up in the tree, on top of my ladder, and I remembered.” Then she leaned back a little bit and still gripping his shirt with some desperation she added, “I just remembered. Jed…my father…said that he was divorced when I was four but stopped coming for his visits when I was six and for all these years I believed my parents divorced when I was six. I remembered so clearly, coming home from first grade and asking if Daddy was coming home.” She shook her head. “I lost two years of my life. Two whole years. And I just got them back.”
He threaded his fingers into the hair at her temples and, just as he’d seen her do at least a dozen times, he combed back her hair until it came free of the ponytail. He spread it over her shoulders and smiled into her eyes. “Does a little girl of four remember so much, anyway?”
“Yes. What I remember now is hiding under the bed, behind my mother’s heavy curtains, in the closet or outside. Because when my dad came to get me, there was always a terrible fight—lots of yelling. My mother screamed at him. He was so passive—he would keep saying, ‘I just want to take Nora for the day and I’ll bring her back on time,’ but my mother made it so horrible, so scary, that I was terrified and I shook all over. I wet my pants and she blamed my daddy. Oh, God, I remember.” She swallowed convulsively. “And then when I got home, she was crazy all night, sometimes all week. I remember telling her I didn’t want to go with Daddy, thinking it could make her better. I told him he shouldn’t come because it made Mommy too mad and made Mommy cry. I remember.” Huge tears rolled down her cheeks. “I sent him away, Tom. He never came again. Never called, never sent cards, never showed up for birthdays or holidays. And my mother used to say, ‘You’re better off—he was an abusive ass.’” And she dropped her head against his chest again.
Tom sat back on his heels, facing her. He ran his hands down her hair. He’d wanted to touch it for a long time, but he never imagined it would be like this.
“I used to remember things,” she said. “Very small things—standing on my stool to do dishes with him in a sink that wasn’t our sink. Or going bowling when the ball weighed half as much as me and Daddy laughing so hard. Or reading in a park, then going on the swings, then getting ice cream—all nice memories that didn’t seem abusive to me. My mother said those things never happened and that I invented them. She said he abused me and I had buried memories.” She lifted her head for a moment. “I did—but they weren’t the kind my mother suggested they were.”
He ran a thumb across her cheek under each eye. “Are you crying because you remember?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Because suddenly I realized I hadn’t remembered—that two whole years had been gone from my life. That my mother is really dead and nothing was ever worked out with her. That my father came back to tell me she was dead and that he was sorry.” She sniffed. “Do you have any idea what I’d have given to hear my mother say that? That she was sorry?”
He leaned his forehead against hers and gently massaged her shoulders. “Of course I do,” he said. Because he’d like to know what the hell happened between his parents and had accepted that he never would.
“Of course you do.” She took a deep breath. “I have to get a grip. It’s time to get back to work…”
“Not just yet,” Tom said. He reached for the sandwich and opened the paper towels. “Do you have water in that?” he said, jutting his chin toward the satchel. When she nodded he asked, “Will you share it with me?”
“Sure,” she said with a sniff, pulling out a big bottled water that she refilled at home every night.
He chuckled and put the sandwich on the ground on one of the paper towels, handing the other to her. “You need this for your eyes and nose. I’ll share mine.”
She obediently wiped the wet off her cheeks and blew her nose, but her eyes instantly filled again. “Thank you, Tom, but I don’t think I can eat anything.”
“I know that’s what you think,” he said, handing the sandwich toward her. “I want you to take a couple of bites. Maybe you’ll feel a little better. Don’t worry,” he said with a laugh. “I can eat what you can’t finish.”
“Why did you do this?” she asked, taking a very small, experimental bite.
He smiled, a little naughty. “Maxie went to town to shop. All the way to the coast. No one’s watching me, making assumptions.”
“Ah,” she said, chewing. “You’re afraid Maxie will think you like me.”
“I’m sure she already thinks that. She’s noticed I give you rides. She notices everything. But a ride and a lunch—I don’t want her getting all worked up, like I’m taking it to the next level. Because I’m not taking it to the next level.”
“Because we’re employer and employee,” she said, helping him out.
“Uh-huh, and friends. Come on, we’re friends. Aren’t we friends? I watched you blow your nose—that’s very intimate. Isn’t it?”
She laughed in spite of herself. She also took another bite of her sandwich. “You’re a very sensitive man, underneath it all.”
He gave her a serious look. He shook his head. “I don’t know about sensitive—but I’ve been to Iraq and Afghanistan with the Marines. I’ve seen grown men cry for their mothers. I’ve promised to visit their wives if they don’t make it.”
She was frozen, he could see that. She coughed and nearly choked, swallowing hard. “God,” she said. “I can be so selfish. What I’ve been through is nothing compared to war.”
He gave another stroke to her long, wonderful hair, hoping he didn’t get mustard or pickle juice on it. “Don’t do that to yourself, Nora. You’ve had your own war. You’re allowed to feel the weight of it. This has been traumatic for you.”
Her eyes filled again, but she seemed to will them to dry right away. “See? Very understanding of you.” She handed her half sandwich toward him.
“I think you took three bites. Small bites. Can you try a little harder? I really worked to build that thing.”
She laughed again, but she took a bite. And she thought, Oh, this is scary. Because if someone like Tom could actually like her, it would be unimaginably wonderful. If a genuinely good man who happened to live inside a very large, hard, sexy body felt the slightest attraction…
But she took another bite. “It’s very good, in fact.”
“What’s in the sandwich you bring every day?” he asked.
“What do you think? PB and J. Berry’s favorite. I make her have a banana or, these days, apple slices with it. Protein, carbs and fruit.”
He took a giant bite of his half. After he swallowed he said, “Teach her how to spread the peanut butter right on apple slices. Or, take some apple butter home today—peanut butter and apple butter make a mean sandwich. And let’s hook you up with some cider. It might be too much for the baby, but Berry can handle the cider—so full of vitamins, it’ll rock her world.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Could eliminate the nap—it seems to fill little kids with energy. But it’s good energy.”
“You are definitely the apple man,” she said.
“I love apples.” He grinned and nodded toward her. “One more bite. And can I have a slug of that water?”
“Of course.” She handed him the bottle. And she took yet another bite. “You have a gift here, as well,” she said, nodding toward the huge sandwich.
“Are you feeling a little better?” he asked.
She nodded. “I apologize. It hit me out of nowhere. The memories, then the crying, then the anger, then grief, then… I don’t know what happened. But thank you. I’m a lot better.” She held the sandwich toward him. He lifted both brows and she took one more bite. “That’s it,” she said. “Kill it. If I get hungry again a little later, I have my PB and J.”
He started on what was left of her half. “Why’d you name your daughter Berry?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I was alone, scared out of my mind and the only friends I had were the people in the drug-infested motel where I lived or the ones I met in the welfare or Medicaid lines and I just wanted a cheerful, happy name for the baby I had no idea how I would support or take care of. I liked it. The name.”
He frowned. “You were in a bad place.”
“Bad. Place.”
“And now?”
“Good place. The nicest job I’ve ever had, though I might not be saying that in a couple of months when the cold sets in. The kids are happy, healthy. I support them in a town that has welcomed us in spite of the fact that we really come from nothing. I’m very grateful. Life is actually good, despite the fact that I have some issues to work through.” She took a sip of water and handed it to him. “I need to get to work.”
“Not yet,” he said. “I think the best thing to do is for you to take the afternoon off—check in with Reverend Kincaid. Talk to him awhile…”
“I’d like to, but you pay better,” she said, smiling tolerantly.
He stood up and held out a hand to help her to her feet. “The investment will be worth it,” he said. “If Noah is helping you navigate this minefield, as you say, today’s meltdown might be worth the time away from apple picking.”
“You’re probably right,” she said. “That sandwich. That was nice. Even if you only did it when Maxie wouldn’t know.”
“Well, a guy has to be crafty when he has a grandmother like Maxie. She’s a little on the pushy side. Come on, we’ll swing by the house and grab some cider and apple butter and I’ll give you a ride back to Virgin River.”
* * *
A few days later, after talking to Noah and thinking things over, Nora phoned her father. “I remember now,” she said. “I sent you away.”
Finally he saw the satchel in which she carried water and lunch and the shadow of her bent knee on the far side of an apple tree. Her crying was very close. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against the tree, her face covered with her hands. Three long strides brought him to her and he instantly fell to his knees in front of her.
“God, are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head and turned her red, wet eyes toward him. But she didn’t answer, she simply cried.
He put aside the sandwich and gently grabbed her shoulders. “Nora, talk to me. Tell me what happened, what’s wrong.”
She just shook her head and sobbed.
He pulled her against him and held her. He whispered to her, shhhh and, it’s okay. He rocked her a little bit. And finally, through her tears she choked out, “I remember.” And then she cried some more.
Tom had always hated it when girls cried. He had always thought it either weak or manipulative. But when Nora gripped the front of his shirt in her hands and held her face against his chest, weeping, he found it curious that those thoughts didn’t even come to mind. His shirt was getting all wet and he didn’t care. And while he wished he knew exactly what caused these tears, he was willing to soak them up until she was ready. All he wanted was to take care of her. He wanted to comfort, stop the tears, ease her worry, feed her half of his sandwich.
He held her for a long time before she took a few deep, uneven breaths. Against his chest she said, “All of a sudden I remembered. I was up in the tree, on top of my ladder, and I remembered.” Then she leaned back a little bit and still gripping his shirt with some desperation she added, “I just remembered. Jed…my father…said that he was divorced when I was four but stopped coming for his visits when I was six and for all these years I believed my parents divorced when I was six. I remembered so clearly, coming home from first grade and asking if Daddy was coming home.” She shook her head. “I lost two years of my life. Two whole years. And I just got them back.”
He threaded his fingers into the hair at her temples and, just as he’d seen her do at least a dozen times, he combed back her hair until it came free of the ponytail. He spread it over her shoulders and smiled into her eyes. “Does a little girl of four remember so much, anyway?”
“Yes. What I remember now is hiding under the bed, behind my mother’s heavy curtains, in the closet or outside. Because when my dad came to get me, there was always a terrible fight—lots of yelling. My mother screamed at him. He was so passive—he would keep saying, ‘I just want to take Nora for the day and I’ll bring her back on time,’ but my mother made it so horrible, so scary, that I was terrified and I shook all over. I wet my pants and she blamed my daddy. Oh, God, I remember.” She swallowed convulsively. “And then when I got home, she was crazy all night, sometimes all week. I remember telling her I didn’t want to go with Daddy, thinking it could make her better. I told him he shouldn’t come because it made Mommy too mad and made Mommy cry. I remember.” Huge tears rolled down her cheeks. “I sent him away, Tom. He never came again. Never called, never sent cards, never showed up for birthdays or holidays. And my mother used to say, ‘You’re better off—he was an abusive ass.’” And she dropped her head against his chest again.
Tom sat back on his heels, facing her. He ran his hands down her hair. He’d wanted to touch it for a long time, but he never imagined it would be like this.
“I used to remember things,” she said. “Very small things—standing on my stool to do dishes with him in a sink that wasn’t our sink. Or going bowling when the ball weighed half as much as me and Daddy laughing so hard. Or reading in a park, then going on the swings, then getting ice cream—all nice memories that didn’t seem abusive to me. My mother said those things never happened and that I invented them. She said he abused me and I had buried memories.” She lifted her head for a moment. “I did—but they weren’t the kind my mother suggested they were.”
He ran a thumb across her cheek under each eye. “Are you crying because you remember?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Because suddenly I realized I hadn’t remembered—that two whole years had been gone from my life. That my mother is really dead and nothing was ever worked out with her. That my father came back to tell me she was dead and that he was sorry.” She sniffed. “Do you have any idea what I’d have given to hear my mother say that? That she was sorry?”
He leaned his forehead against hers and gently massaged her shoulders. “Of course I do,” he said. Because he’d like to know what the hell happened between his parents and had accepted that he never would.
“Of course you do.” She took a deep breath. “I have to get a grip. It’s time to get back to work…”
“Not just yet,” Tom said. He reached for the sandwich and opened the paper towels. “Do you have water in that?” he said, jutting his chin toward the satchel. When she nodded he asked, “Will you share it with me?”
“Sure,” she said with a sniff, pulling out a big bottled water that she refilled at home every night.
He chuckled and put the sandwich on the ground on one of the paper towels, handing the other to her. “You need this for your eyes and nose. I’ll share mine.”
She obediently wiped the wet off her cheeks and blew her nose, but her eyes instantly filled again. “Thank you, Tom, but I don’t think I can eat anything.”
“I know that’s what you think,” he said, handing the sandwich toward her. “I want you to take a couple of bites. Maybe you’ll feel a little better. Don’t worry,” he said with a laugh. “I can eat what you can’t finish.”
“Why did you do this?” she asked, taking a very small, experimental bite.
He smiled, a little naughty. “Maxie went to town to shop. All the way to the coast. No one’s watching me, making assumptions.”
“Ah,” she said, chewing. “You’re afraid Maxie will think you like me.”
“I’m sure she already thinks that. She’s noticed I give you rides. She notices everything. But a ride and a lunch—I don’t want her getting all worked up, like I’m taking it to the next level. Because I’m not taking it to the next level.”
“Because we’re employer and employee,” she said, helping him out.
“Uh-huh, and friends. Come on, we’re friends. Aren’t we friends? I watched you blow your nose—that’s very intimate. Isn’t it?”
She laughed in spite of herself. She also took another bite of her sandwich. “You’re a very sensitive man, underneath it all.”
He gave her a serious look. He shook his head. “I don’t know about sensitive—but I’ve been to Iraq and Afghanistan with the Marines. I’ve seen grown men cry for their mothers. I’ve promised to visit their wives if they don’t make it.”
She was frozen, he could see that. She coughed and nearly choked, swallowing hard. “God,” she said. “I can be so selfish. What I’ve been through is nothing compared to war.”
He gave another stroke to her long, wonderful hair, hoping he didn’t get mustard or pickle juice on it. “Don’t do that to yourself, Nora. You’ve had your own war. You’re allowed to feel the weight of it. This has been traumatic for you.”
Her eyes filled again, but she seemed to will them to dry right away. “See? Very understanding of you.” She handed her half sandwich toward him.
“I think you took three bites. Small bites. Can you try a little harder? I really worked to build that thing.”
She laughed again, but she took a bite. And she thought, Oh, this is scary. Because if someone like Tom could actually like her, it would be unimaginably wonderful. If a genuinely good man who happened to live inside a very large, hard, sexy body felt the slightest attraction…
But she took another bite. “It’s very good, in fact.”
“What’s in the sandwich you bring every day?” he asked.
“What do you think? PB and J. Berry’s favorite. I make her have a banana or, these days, apple slices with it. Protein, carbs and fruit.”
He took a giant bite of his half. After he swallowed he said, “Teach her how to spread the peanut butter right on apple slices. Or, take some apple butter home today—peanut butter and apple butter make a mean sandwich. And let’s hook you up with some cider. It might be too much for the baby, but Berry can handle the cider—so full of vitamins, it’ll rock her world.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Could eliminate the nap—it seems to fill little kids with energy. But it’s good energy.”
“You are definitely the apple man,” she said.
“I love apples.” He grinned and nodded toward her. “One more bite. And can I have a slug of that water?”
“Of course.” She handed him the bottle. And she took yet another bite. “You have a gift here, as well,” she said, nodding toward the huge sandwich.
“Are you feeling a little better?” he asked.
She nodded. “I apologize. It hit me out of nowhere. The memories, then the crying, then the anger, then grief, then… I don’t know what happened. But thank you. I’m a lot better.” She held the sandwich toward him. He lifted both brows and she took one more bite. “That’s it,” she said. “Kill it. If I get hungry again a little later, I have my PB and J.”
He started on what was left of her half. “Why’d you name your daughter Berry?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I was alone, scared out of my mind and the only friends I had were the people in the drug-infested motel where I lived or the ones I met in the welfare or Medicaid lines and I just wanted a cheerful, happy name for the baby I had no idea how I would support or take care of. I liked it. The name.”
He frowned. “You were in a bad place.”
“Bad. Place.”
“And now?”
“Good place. The nicest job I’ve ever had, though I might not be saying that in a couple of months when the cold sets in. The kids are happy, healthy. I support them in a town that has welcomed us in spite of the fact that we really come from nothing. I’m very grateful. Life is actually good, despite the fact that I have some issues to work through.” She took a sip of water and handed it to him. “I need to get to work.”
“Not yet,” he said. “I think the best thing to do is for you to take the afternoon off—check in with Reverend Kincaid. Talk to him awhile…”
“I’d like to, but you pay better,” she said, smiling tolerantly.
He stood up and held out a hand to help her to her feet. “The investment will be worth it,” he said. “If Noah is helping you navigate this minefield, as you say, today’s meltdown might be worth the time away from apple picking.”
“You’re probably right,” she said. “That sandwich. That was nice. Even if you only did it when Maxie wouldn’t know.”
“Well, a guy has to be crafty when he has a grandmother like Maxie. She’s a little on the pushy side. Come on, we’ll swing by the house and grab some cider and apple butter and I’ll give you a ride back to Virgin River.”
* * *
A few days later, after talking to Noah and thinking things over, Nora phoned her father. “I remember now,” she said. “I sent you away.”
