Page 7 of Tamiko and the Two Janitors
That settled it for Melissa. Someone at Red Gate Farm neededher.
FOUR
The Oak Glen
Joe probably should have rejoined his family in making theirguest welcome, but as soon as he closed the gate behind their last customer andstowed the OPEN sign, he struck out through the orchard.
It wasn’t that Melissa wasn’t nice. But why was she evenhere?
Grandad’s mother supposedly had an Armstrong connection,which meant that Melissa was Dad’s second cousin’s daughter. Or something. Butno matter how Joe turned it around in his head, she was so distant a cousin,they might as well be strangers.
Joe didn’t mind dealing with strangers when they werecustomers. All you had to do was sell them a bushel of apples, a carton ofeggs, or a gallon of cider, and they went away. Melissa was a stranger who wasmoving in. Mom had promised him up and down that a busy college girl wouldn’tbe around much.
But heknewshe was here. And that was weird.
Usually, he was only aware of Tami, something they’d alwaysbeen told was a part of being twins. Joe liked the connection they shared. Itwas unique.
His sister was all the things he wasn’t—confident andcharismatic. She worked toward big dreams and fought for big ideals. He couldn’tbegin to compare, so he didn’t try. Tami was Tami. As far as Joe was concerned,the world was lucky to have her. And so was he. But he was himself. And he wasmosthimself out here, on their land, among their trees. And especially in the oakglen.
Joe slipped into his favorite retreat. The wide ring of oaktrees had been planted by Grandad some sixty years ago, back whenhewasa boy, and the orchard fanned out around it, hemming it in on every side. Overthe decades the oaks had put down their deep roots and climbed skyward, sendingout beamlike branches until their leaves touched. And in the very center, stooda tree unlike any other.
It was by far the largest tree on the property, visible fromthe highway if you knew right where to look. If people noticed it at all, theyprobably assumed their tree stood on a hill, but it was actually tucked down ina little hollow all its own. As if the person who planted it was trying to hideit. The oak glen was a shady vale of mossy stones and twisting roots where heand Tami had picnicked and played as children.
Joe settled among a dramatic swirl of roots that surroundedhim like smooth walls, curving up and away from his niche. This spot had alwaysfelt like a throne to him when he was little. On the flat stone nearby, Tamiused to set up a pretend kitchen and fix him meals of flower petals and grassblades, wild berries and green apples. And he’d lean back and count air ribbonsor potter around, boring the holes into which he planted his apple seeds.
Tami didn’t make it out here so much anymore.
Grandad did, even though the distance made it tough. But Joefigured this was a special place for the old man. He hadn’t picked the spot andplanted the trees for no good reason. Dad had once told him that Grandad was atwin, too, but his sister had died young. Maybe this was all for her. MaybeGrandad came here to remember.
Once, just a couple of winters back, Joe had heard Grandadrefer to this place as a “song circle.” When Joe asked about it, the old manbrushed it off in his usual gruff way, but the term stuck with Joe.
Maybe Grandad’s sister had liked to sing?
Joe doubted he’d ever get around to asking.
The day was getting on toward dinnertime when Joe heard thetractor engine cut out. Minutes later, Grandad was picking his way down thegentle slope. Probably sent to fetch him.
“Found you.” The old man grunted as he eased into aneighboring nook among the roots. “You’re a mite young to be so set in yourways.”
Joe couldn’t help smiling. “I take after you.”
“Might be,” he agreed.
Grandad pulled an apple from his pocket and passed it along,then extracted another for himself. They munched in companionable silence, butJoe guessed there was something on the old man’s mind. Was he worried aboutsharing their home with a stranger, too?
But when Grandad spoke, it was to ask about the tree. “Noticeanything different about her?”
“Can’t say for sure. I don’t see any fruit.”
This past May, for what Grandad assured him was the firsttime, there had been flowers in the uppermost branches of their lone tree. Tinywhite buds that opened into creamy flowers. To Joe, they seemed to shimmer, asif catching sunlight and sending it into the shadows. Best of all had been thescent. Every afternoon, when the sun-warmed flowers were at their mostintoxicating, they’d come to doze under the tree. Him with an old army blanket,and Grandad with his cushion from the seat of the tractor.
Joe missed that scent enough to long for spring again. “I’llbring the ladder next time. Maybe there are seed pods or nuts.”
“Unless she can self-pollinate, she won’t have anything tooffer.”
“Cross-pollinators?”
Grandad hummed skeptically. “Special tree, special case.”
