The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  “Hey little lady,” the man whispers, “hey my pretty little lamb. I’m gonna come a little closer. I’m gonna come a little bit closer.” As he says this he is creeping forward, and then with a shout he sinks his hands into the wool of the sheep’s back. “Take this side. She’s young and feisty, and she’ll get away.”

  I do what he has done, and hunch over with my fingers roped into the fleece. All three of us walk out to the brown mat. “Where would you like me to put this?” I ask, wondering if I should just go off on my own to find Joley. God only knows how long this will take.

  “Put her over here,” the man says, nodding his chin several feet forward. He lets go of his side, and, following suit, I do the same. The sheep takes a quick look at me and runs away. “What are you doing! Catch her!” the man yells.

  Rebecca lunges at the sheep but it darts in the other direction. The man stares at me, incredulous. “I thought it would just stay put,” I say, explaining. The least I can do is catch the damn thing. I run to a corner of the pen and try to sink my fists into the wool of the sheep’s neck again. But suddenly I’ve lost my balance and though I reach for the fence, for Rebecca, I grab at nothing at all. I fall with an audible squelch and gag. “Rebecca,” I choke out, “get over here.”

  The man is laughing in the distance. He grabs the sheep like it is no trouble at all and hoists it onto the brown cloth mat. He shears the thing in seconds, while I am trying to shimmy sheep manure off of my legs. I can’t get away from the smell.

  “Tough break,” the man says, walking over.

  I’ve had about as much of this asshole as I can take. “I’m sure this isn’t appropriate behavior for a field hand,” I say, putting on my most educated cocktail-party voice. “When I tell Joley about this, he’ll report you to the person who runs the place.”

  The man offers his hand to me, but takes it away when he sees what’s covering my fingers. “I’m not too worried about that. I’m Sam Hansen. You must be Joley’s sister.”

  This idiot, I think, this fool who’s gone out of his way to humiliate me; this is the Boy Wonder Joley raves about?

  I turn away, from embarrassment or sheer anger or whatever, and whisper to Rebecca, “I want to clean up.”

  Sam takes us up to the Big House, as he calls it, the modest mansion of sorts that overlooks the hundred acres of apples. He rattles off dates and facts that I imagine are meant to impress us: it was built in the 1800s, it is filled with antiques, blah blah blah. He leads me up the spiral staircase to the second room on the right. “Your stuff still in the car?” he asks, as if this is my fault as well. “This was my parents’ room. You’ll fit into my mom’s stuff. Check in the closet.”

  He walks out and closes the door behind him. It is a pretty room with a four-poster, a night table stacked with curly maple Shaker boxes, and curtains and a comforter in wide blue-and-white awning stripes. There are no dressers or bureaus or armoires. I lean against the wall and wonder where Sam’s parents put their clothes, and when I stand up again the wall juts open, hinged from the inside, pressing open into a hidden closet the size of a room itself. “How neat,” I say to myself. When you close the closet, the wallpaper matches so exactly—blue cornflowers—you’d never know there was a door. I press against the wall again and it springs off its magnetic hook. Inside are four or five sundresses and skirts, not half as dowdy as I’d imagined. I pick a pretty madras, which turns out to be two sizes too big, and I belt it with a bandanna that has been tied to a hook inside the closet.

  I am tempted to leave the dirty clothes on the floor of this room but something tells me there won’t be maid service. So I gather them into my arms, inside out, and head downstairs. Rebecca and Sam are waiting. “What should I do with these?”

  Sam looks at me. “Wash them,” he says, and then he turns and walks out the door.

  “He’s a hell of a host,” I say to Rebecca.

  “I think he’s pretty funny.” She shows me where the washing machine is.

  “Thank God. I was expecting a scrub board.”

  “Are you coming or what?” Sam yells through the screen door. “I don’t have all day.”

  We follow him through the orchard, which I have to say really is beautiful. Trees spread their arms in octopus embraces, jeweled with waxy green leaves and bud necklaces. They are planted in neat, even rows, with plenty of room between them. Some have grown so big their branches entwine with the tree beside. Sam tells us which parts of the orchard are retail and which are commercial. Each patch of trees is cut by several roads, and the markers on the roads tell you what’s grown where and to whom it gets sold.

  “Hey Hadley,” Sam yells approaching a tree, “come meet Joley’s relatives.”

  A man steps off a ladder, which has been hidden by the trunk of the apple tree. He is tall, and he has an easygoing smile. I’d put him at the same age as Sam, by the looks of things. He grabs my hand and shakes it. “Hadley Slegg. It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  Ma’am. Such decorum. He’s obviously not a close relative of Sam’s.

  He walks with us towards the lower quarter of the orchard, where I imagine we’ll find Joley. I can’t wait to see him—it has been so long, really, I don’t know what to expect. Will his hair be longer? Will he speak first, or just hug me? Will he be different?

  “So I hear you’ve done quite a bit of traveling,” Sam says.

  I jump; I’ve forgotten he’s here. “Yes,” I tell him. “All across the country. Of course I’ve also been to Europe and South America, with my husband’s research.” I stumble a little over the word husband and I catch Sam looking at me. “Lots of interesting places, actually. Why? Do you travel?”

  “All the time. In spirit, at least.” He leaves it like that, cryptic, for a moment, long enough to make me wonder if there is more to him than meets the eye. “I’ve never been outside of New England, but I’ve probably read more books on travel and exploring than anyone.”

  “Why don’t you take a trip?”

  “You don’t get time off when you run a place like this.” He has a nice smile; he just doesn’t seem to use it a lot. “The second I set foot away from here, I think about all the things that are going wrong. It’s easier now that your brother’s here. Between him and Hadley I’ve split a lot of the responsibility. But it’s not like a regular business. You can’t reschedule a tree bearing fruit like you’d reschedule an appointment.”

  “I see,” I say, not really understanding at all. We walk a few yards without saying anything. “So where would you really like to go?”

  “Tibet,” Sam says without hesitation. It surprises me. Most people say France or England. “I’d like to bring back some of the Asian strains of apples and propagate them in this climate. In a greenhouse, if need be.”

  I find myself staring at him. He is young—younger than Joley—but he already has the beginnings of lines around the corners of his mouth. He has thick dark hair and a strong square chin and what looks like a perpetual tan. As for his eyes, you can’t tell anything from them. They are neon, really, blue but not like Oliver’s. They burn.

  Sam looks up and, embarrassed, I turn away. “Joley tells us you’ve run away from home,” he says.

  “Joley told you that?”

  “Something about a fight with your husband.”

  Sam is bluffing, I think. Joley wouldn’t tell people that. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

  “Well, in a way it is. What you do is what you do, but I don’t want any trouble going on here.”

  “Don’t worry. If Oliver shows up there won’t be a Tombstone showdown. No blood. I promise.”

  “Too bad,” he says. “Blood’s good for fertilizer.” He starts to laugh, surprised that I don’t find this funny at all. He clears his throat. “So, what do you do for a living?”

  I tell him I’m a speech pathologist. I look at him. “That means I go to schools in the San Diego area and diagnose children with speech problems caused by lisps, clef