Page 1 of The Idiot

CHAPTER 1

Murphy

Each time I think I’ve made progress on this orchard, all I have to do is look in any direction to prove me wrong. The rows upon rows of trees, inundated with ripening apples, are a daunting sight. I’m one man trying to do the work of two.

There’s certainly no time for self-pity. I’m the last man in the Malone family and this is Malone Orchard. Sighing, I climb up onto the tractor. The carburetor sputters as I turn it over.

Not now. Please, not now.

Just make it through the season. I’ll work on you all winter. I promise.

It answers with a chuff and then a rumble, coughing to life. Stepping on the clutch with a grateful heart, I drive further down the path between the trees than I would like. I can just carry my picking bags a little farther until I catch up to where I park it and the wagon. The less I have to start the old beast, the better.

My cousin Danny sure picked a great week to take off to a music festival with his girlfriend. Not that I’d be much better off if he were here. I’m thankful he helps out, but not all relatives are created equal. If Dad were still alive, we’d havebeen done with this pass already. That man was a force to be reckoned with.

Mom would be out here if she weren’t at work, but I’m glad she got stuck on day shifts at the hospital this month. She’s got no business being on a ladder with her bad hip, and she’s on her feet enough as it is in the ER. No fifty-five-year-old should have to have two jobs, anyway. I need to buckle down, so she doesn’t try picking up my slack when she gets home.

I told Dad before he died that I could handle this. I hope he’s not looking down, seeing how I barely manage it most days.

God, I miss him. I miss his affability and the wonder that was his work ethic. It’s been three years, and I still feel like I’m a sullen toddler trying to fill a giant’s shoes. He must have been exhausted every single day of his life. How in the hell did he do all of this?

Jumping down from the tractor, my knee lets out a pop, and a discomforting twinge shoots up my leg. I don’t know why I thought enlisting in the Army for a term after high school would be like a vacation from the orchard. Point and shoot. Stop the bad guys. Who needs to run? Only cowards run.

Boy, was I wrong. It was like the damn Boston Marathon every morning. Thirty miles a week for four years—I’m lucky I have any cartilage left.

My enlistment got me out of Wenatchee for a while and broadened my horizons, but I don’t miss it. One deployment is enough to make anyone kiss the grass where they came from.

Hitting theplaybutton on my music app, the ethereal intro of ABBA’s ‘Chiquitita’ brings a sense of serenity. That’s at least one bonus to working solo today—I can indulge in my favorite band rather than be forced to listen to Danny’s grunge metal.

Grabbing up my picking bag out of the apple wagon, I head back toward where I left off. The breeze filtering through the trees cools the warmth on my skin left by the August sun. Honeybees float around, minding their own business, alighting on the apples, performing nature’s miracles. No matter how many aches and pains I have, no matter how few hours in the day to do what I want, I certainly can’t complain about a lack of peacefulness.

Maybe I’m a simple man. Maybe it’s because, through my service, I’ve seen some of the world. Or maybe I’m just sentimental over fond memories of my youth, but it’s so damn beautiful here there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather grow old. It’s perfection on earth if you ask me.

I think I needed this—a day to myself. I’ve been in such a rut lately that Mom is starting to notice, which only makes the rut feel deeper. I’m not supposed to make her worry. I’m supposed to make her life easier now that Dad is gone. It’s been difficult to accomplish that with this sense of unrest that has been looming over me for months.

Auggie nudges his nose against my leg. His brown eyes are full of concern as his shaggy tail swishes back and forth. Fantastic. I’m even depressing my dog.

“I’m fine,” I assure him, giving the place behind his ears a scratch.

Staring down at him, I know my problem wasn’t needing a day alone. His moon eyes, so full of affection, too closely resemble a sight that’s haunted me for months.

That couple. That damn couple at Rouge the last time I went to Seattle. Why am I thinking about them again?

Moving my ladder over to the next tree, I remind myself it’s probably because it’s been three months since I’ve been backthere. It’s not for lack of need that I’ve neglected myGrindrprofile and my trips to the city. I want to be touched. Boy, do I ever, but I don’t think that’s enough anymore. I’m afraid that couple ruined my escape for me.

They were so… in love, I could taste it, taste it until I choked on it. I’ve witnessed the makings of casual hookups countless times at that club and others. Heck, I’ve contributed to my share of them. Dancing, grinding, flirting—those are things I’ve become accustomed to seeing each time I walk into Rouge. But that couple… they were off script. Their body language ensnared me. I couldn’t look away.

They sat at the bar with their backs to it, so they were facing the dance floor where their friends were partying it up. And there they stayed all night. The dark-haired one leaned his head on the other guy’s shoulder like it was a reliable resting place, an extension of his own body. Talking, laughing, affectionate looks—their evident bond was captivating. All night, they either held hands or casually traced the back of the other’s neck as though it wasn’t a conscious thought, but a need to feel ‘their person.’

Rubbing my chest, I wish I could snuff out the ache around my heart each time I remember them and the loving way they gazed at each other. I think my problem is thatIwant a ‘person.’

Auggie lets out a whine. Oh, brother. I’m standing here lost in thought over strangers. Maybe I’ve finally watched too many soap operas with Mom if I’m daydreaming about romance.

I don’t care if soap operas aren’t high-brow entertainment—I’m still catching the next episode ofBreathlesswith her tonight when she gets home. It’s our thing, and that show is a damn masterpiece. I’ll crawl into bed with Auggie afterwardand do all this over again tomorrow. That’s my life, and it’s worked out fine for me for years.

Right. Then why am I torturing myself with things that don’t grow on trees?

Even if I wanted to find ‘my person,’ this is Wenatchee, and I live in the damned country. Every acquaintance of mine is another orchard owner—straightorchard owners. Iknowthis. I decided years ago that my love of the land was greater than my need to find a soulmate. I’m not leaving. This is my home. I’ve got no right to lament the fact that the only warm body to have ever shared my bed is Auggie. It’s my own doing. Scratching itches has worked my entire life.

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