Sunrise Point (Virgin River #19)(71)

“What made you come home?”

“I was done,” he said. “I went as far as I could go and I missed the damn apple trees.”

“And Maxie,” she said. “You missed Maxie.”

“I did. It must have killed her for me to join the Marines, but she never said a word except, ‘You have to do what you have to do.’ And she used to always say, ‘If it was easy, anyone could do it.’ She was never discouraged by anything. One year we had a bad early freeze—messed up a lot of our crop and you know what Maxie said? She said the apples would be doubled and better than ever the next year—that nature suffers to fill a void. And they were.

“After four years of college and a little over six in the Corps, it finally occurred to me I might not have her forever and I came home. Some days I think that was the smartest thing I ever did. Some days I wonder if I won’t die of boredom one of these years.”

“Tom,” she said, almost shocked, “are you bored?”

“It has occurred to me there might be more to life than picking apples… .”

“Oh, no… I couldn’t imagine a better life! I could live the rest of my life on that orchard! I could be happy forever in that big, warm kitchen.”

He smiled at her. “You said you wanted a lot.”

“That is a lot!”

“What makes you so sure you could be happy in that life forever?” he asked her.

“Some things you just know! I mean, I was pretty disturbed to find out I was pregnant not once but twice, but would I consider life without my girls? Never! They are my life!”

“What about trips to Jamaica?” he asked her. “Front-row seats at an NBA playoff game? Lots of great restaurants ten times better than this one?”

“Could that be fun?” she asked with a shrug. “I suppose so. But would it be more important, more meaningful than home cooking, soft old quilts, warm fires, fresh fruits and vegetables every day of the year?” She shook her head. “I like that I have something to show for my hard work that really endures, I guess. Lasts longer than a trip to the islands.”

“Another argument for finishing college,” he pointed out to her.

Right at that moment their meals arrived and the waiter lingered by the table to be sure they didn’t need anything. Nora carefully cut off a tender piece of marinated chicken and popped it in her mouth. She chewed slowly. Her chin came up, her eyes softly closed and she savored it. She swallowed and opened her eyes, smiling. “And there’s an argument for good restaurants. Incredible.”

* * *

There might’ve been one or two down moments in their date, Tom thought. Especially at the onset in the quiet, nervous drive to Arcata, at the confession about owing someone money on the house she occupied, about how tough times had led her to the greater dreams of a solid, secure, stable life. But once the salads were done and the main course arrived, she was a chatterbox. She wanted to tell him everything about her experience in his grandmother’s kitchen, how the girls became more animated by the minute, all that she learned from Maxie about baking, from Maxie and her girlfriends about life.

“And this apple festival thing you’ve got going on,” she said.

“Maxie’s idea,” he admitted. “She convinced Grandpa to start it when my dad was a kid. Back then they drew up posters and printed flyers, took them around to businesses on the coast, nailed a few to telephone and light poles…”

“I was not even mildly prepared for what was going to happen, then when the people swarmed in, I was overwhelmed! It’s more than buying apples to them, Tom—they want to be a part of what you and Maxie do. Almost every room in the house was full of people visiting, catching up with neighbors, eating, juggling each other’s babies. Did I tell you I helped make about three hundred sachets with Maxie and her girls? She had dried apples, cinnamon sticks and cloves and we tied them into little bundles. And I can now bake cinnamon rolls.”

“You’ve come a long way since terrible coffee,” he said.

“I lied about how my father liked it,” she admitted, laughing.

“I know that now. Good fake, though.”

Although she was stuffed and he really didn’t need to eat another bite, he insisted on ordering coffee and dessert. He loved the way she relished every new taste, every luxurious bite of something that for her was indulgent. One dessert of cheesecake, two forks.

“You know what I hope? I hope you always have that sense of wonder for simple things.”

She just laughed at him. “Oh, I’m sure we’re safe there. I’m kind of hoping to have some wonder over extraordinary things someday.”

He dipped his fork into the cheesecake and held it toward her mouth. She shook her head and said, “Oh, I can’t…” But he persisted until she let her lips close over the fork. Her eyes closed again, that luxury of excellence on her tongue, and he almost got aroused. His heart pumped and so many emotions swept through him—possession, adoration, titillation, excitement. Feeding her seemed to do something for him. He tried to reason with his feelings—it was a silly bite of cheesecake! But he couldn’t wait to share that fork, to put his lips where hers had been.

He’d never felt like this before.

Soon they were walking across the square to his truck and he grabbed her hand, holding it. It was almost as though she hadn’t noticed—she was doing a recap of the meal, the ambiance of the restaurant, the added delight of a dessert she absolutely did not need. He listened with a smile; he found listening to her comforting. She had no idea how cute she was. And as they walked, he leaned down enough so that he could catch a whiff of her hair—sweet, flowery, clean.