The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  When I shut off the water and go to pull the shower curtain away, I notice for the first time how thin and white it is. I hold my hand up in front of it and I can see straight through. It’s practically transparent, which means he probably saw everything. Everything.

  I rub a corner of the mirror dry so that I can check my face for new or deepening wrinkles. I stare at myself a little longer than usual, paying attention to the look in my eyes. I start to wonder what exactly Sam saw. I wonder if he liked it.

  • • •

  “Wait!” I call down from the bedroom window. “Don’t leave without me!” Joley, who’s standing outside with Hadley and Rebecca, waves—he’s heard. I run past the mirror, tucking a stray hair behind my ear, and head for the stairs.

  As I am going down I pass Sam going up. He grunts at me. I don’t make much of an attempt to acknowledge him, either. I can feel my whole face turning red.

  “Where are we going today?” I say, stepping onto the bright brick patio that overlooks the orchard.

  Joley smiles when he sees me. “Not too far. I’ve got to go into Boston with Sam this afternoon to meet a produce buyer.” He’s wearing a shirt I sent him last year for Christmas—Polo, with wide rugby stripes in plum and orange. It’s faded, which makes me happy: he must have liked it. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Fabulously,” I say, and I’m not lying. This is the second night we’ve stayed in the Big House, and for the second night I’ve been fast asleep by the time I hit the pillow. Part of it might be all the time we’ve been spending in the sun, letting summer catch us off guard. But part of it also has to do with the bed itself: a double four-poster with a feather mattress and an eiderdown quilt.

  Hadley is showing Rebecca how to twist the stem of a cattail around its furry head, and then pop the head off, a projectile. He hits me on the leg. Rebecca thinks this is just delightful. “Oh, show me again,” she says. I walk towards them, a moving target.

  “She made me do it, I swear,” Hadley shields his eyes from the sun.

  I like him. I did right off the bat, but part of that was due to the contrast between Hadley and Sam. Hadley’s simple: what you see is what you get. And he’s been awfully nice to Rebecca. Since we’ve come to the orchard, he’s adopted her. She follows him like a puppy, watching him prune trees or do bud-grafting things or even chop wood. Every time I’ve seen Hadley recently, I’ve seen Rebecca.

  Rebecca wraps the stem of the cattail, with Hadley’s help. “Now just put your fingers in the loop,” he says, gently moving her hand, “and pull.” She bites down on her lower lip as she does it. The head of the reed shoots over my head and lands on Joley.

  Joley moves towards us, his hands buried in the pockets of his shorts. “So where are we headed today, crew?”

  “We could take them into town,” Hadley suggests. “We could take them to the supermarket so they can see where our apples end up.”

  “That sounds like a thrill a minute,” Joley says.

  “Don’t feel you have to entertain me,” I say. “I’m happy just hanging around here. If you two have things to do we can occupy ourselves.” I spent all of yesterday with Joley, trailing him from tree to tree as he worked. He said there was no reason he couldn’t graft and talk at the same time. We talked about the places I’d seen en route to Massachusetts. We talked about Mama and Daddy. I told him what Rebecca’s grades were last spring; what Oliver had been planning to do off the coast of South America. And in return he taught me the names of the apples grown at Hansen’s. He showed me how you can take a young budding branch and make it become part of a tree that has been dying. He showed me trees that have survived this process and trees that haven’t.

  It is so good to be with him. Just standing at his side reminds me how empty it is when he isn’t around. I really believe that we can think directly into each other’s minds. Many times when we are together, we don’t bother to talk at all, and then when one of us does begin to speak, we realize we have both been wallowing in the same sharp memory.

  Joley and Hadley are talking about what’s going on this afternoon at the orchard. It turns out Hadley will be busy too, as acting supervisor when Sam’s gone. I assume, though, like Joley, he’ll offer to take Rebecca along with him while he works. They both look at each other, and then they say simultaneously, “Ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?” Rebecca says. “What about it?”

  “We should definitely take them to Buttrick’s,” Hadley says, “no question about it. They have Holsteins penned up in the field, the ones whose milk they use for the ice cream.”

  “It’s only eleven.” I haven’t even had breakfast.

  “That’s all right,” Joley says. “They open at ten.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Joley grabs my hand and starts pulling me towards the blue pickup truck in the driveway. “Stop being such a mother. Live a little.”

  Hadley offers me the passenger seat in the cab, saying he can ride in the flatbed with Rebecca. Joley turns over the ignition and just as he shifts into reverse, Hadley leaps off the truck. “Wait a second,” he yells, and he runs into the garage. He comes back with two bright striped folding beach chairs, and tosses them to Rebecca.

  I peer through the tiny window in the cab and watch Hadley set up the chair for Rebecca. With a grand sweeping stately gesture, he helps her into it. She’s laughing; I haven’t seen her so happy in a long time. “He’s a nice guy.”

  “Hadley?” Joley says, backing up the hill and turning the truck around. He looks in the rearview mirror, presumably to check what’s going on in the back of the truck. Rebecca’s chair, which is sliding, crashes her into Hadley’s chair, and she lands awkwardly, splayed across his lap. “He is nice. I just hope for everyone’s sake he isn’t being too nice.”

  I check through that dusty little window, but it all seems innocent. Hadley, laughing, helps Rebecca back in her chair, and shows her how to anchor herself by holding on to the sides of the truck. “She’s just a kid.”

  “Speaking of kids,” he says, “or for that matter, their parents—you never did tell me what your game plan is here.”

  I fiddle with the glove compartment, opening it and then locking it and then opening it again. There’s nothing in there but a map of Maine and a bottle opener. “What game plan? I thought we were on vacation.”

  Joley looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Sure, Jane. Whatever you say.”

  I find myself slouching down in the passenger seat and putting my feet up on the dashboard, the very thing I tell Rebecca not to do. We pull up to a stop light, and I can hear Hadley’s and Rebecca’s voices carrying. “Eighty-two bottles of beer on the wall,” they sing.

  Joley glances at me. “I won’t bring it up anymore. But sooner or later—probably sooner—Oliver is going to show up at the orchard and demand an explanation. I’m not sure you’ve really got one, yet, either. And I’m positive you won’t know what to say when he orders you to get back in the car and go home with him.”

  “I know exactly what I’m going to say,” I announce, to my own surprise. “I’m going to tell him no.”

  Joley slams on the brakes and I hear the thump of two chairs against the back wall of the cab. Rebecca says, Ow. “You’ve got a little girl back there who doesn’t know what’s going on in your head. Do you think it’s fair to waltz her out of her home and then spring on her the surprise that she’s not going back? Or that she’s not going to live with her father? Have you asked her what she thinks about all this?”

  “In not so many words,” I say. “What would you do?”

  Joley looks at me. “That’s not the issue. I know what you should do. Don’t get me wrong: I love having you here, and I can be all selfish about that, but you don’t belong in Massachusetts now. You should be back in San Diego, sitting at your kitchen table with Oliver, talking about what went wrong.”

  “My brother the romantic,” I say dryly.

  “The pragmatist,” Joley corrects. “