The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  Rebecca looks up at the sky. “I don’t miss Daddy,” she says. “I don’t.” Then the tears start to roll down her face. I pull her closer and hold her to me. That’s when I remember her the day we left California. She was the one who was sitting in the car. She was the one who had packed a bag. Long before I had realized I was trying to leave, she’d been planning.

  At some point when I was growing up I realized that I had no love left for my father. It was as if each time he hit me, or came into my room at night, he’d draw a little of it out of me, like blood.

  It didn’t hurt to feel nothing for him. I assumed, as I grew up, that he had done this to himself I had to become desensitized; if I had continued to feel as strongly as I had when I was little, I would have surely died that first time he came to my room.

  I can tell from Rebecca’s face, and even from the temperature of her skin, that she is thinking about what it means to love your father, and whether or not he is worth it. Because once you get to that point, I am not sure you can return.

  “Sssh,” I say, cradling her head. I’d do anything to keep her from having to get there. I’d go back to Oliver. I’d make myself love him.

  In the distance a Jeep drives up. I can just see it, a dot far off by the barn. I see Joley get out of the car; the other person I know must be Sam. Even from this far away, my eyes connect with Sam’s. Although I cannot tell what is going through his mind, I find myself trapped, entirely unable to turn away.

  52 SAM

  For the past two days, I’ve had a headache. Not a normal headache, either—but one that starts back by my ears and works its way across my eyes, over the bridge of my nose. I’ve never had a headache this bad, not in twenty-five years. Which makes me believe it’s all on account of Jane Jones.

  This morning I walked in on her in the shower, and she took it all the wrong way. I had an appointment to get to, and when I’m running late and Joley or Hadley is showering, they don’t care much if I come in and do my business. Maybe I’m just not used to having ladies in the house. But anyway, this one happens to keep getting underfoot.

  Joley and I are on our way back from Boston, where we’ve had one hell of a successful meeting with a buyer from Purity who renewed our Red Delicious contract. I can’t say I much like Regalia—she’s fat and always eats more at lunch than I do—but she signed us on again. “I think this is the start of a very long, prosperous relationship for both of us, Sam,” she said today over her quiche. She lowered her eyes, giving me this look. It’s funny, I started taking Joley along to meetings with the female buyers or supermarket chains because he always turns a head and knows how to lay on the charm. He’s got all that social finesse I never was good at. But Regalia has a thing for me. So, being the businessman, I smiled at her and winked. Sometimes I think it’s dishonest to do that—but then again, one in a million produce buyers is a woman, and I might as well use what I’ve got to cut a deal.

  Joley’s driving. We’ve just passed the hand-painted sign that welcomes you to Stow when he starts to speak—he’s been quiet since we left Boston. “I want to talk to you about my sister, Sam.”

  “About what?” I say, drumming my fingers on the dashboard. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re having a good time with her. Enjoy it.”

  “Yeah, well, I figure I’d better get in all the time I can before one of you kills the other one.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Joley. There’s nothing going on with us. We’re just steering clear of each other.”

  “What made you get off on the wrong foot?”

  “Oil and water don’t mix,” I tell him, “but that’s no reason they can’t both sit in the same jar.”

  Joley sighs. “I’m not going to push you, Sam. I’m sure you’ve got your own ideas about this. But—for my sake—I wish you’d cut her a little slack.”

  “There’s no problem,” I say.

  Joley looks at me. “All right.”

  He pulls into the driveway, and when we get out of the Jeep, we can see Jane and Rebecca in the distance. I catch Jane’s eye. It’s like we’re locked together; neither one of us is about to break away first. That would mean losing. “Are you coming?” Joley asks, heading off in their direction.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, still staring at his sister. “I’m going to start dinner.” I swallow hard and turn away, feeling her still staring, boring through my back.

  Inside, I hack at zucchini and potatoes, setting them into pots, ready to boil. I quarter two chickens and dip them in flour and then fry them up. I slice up almonds for the vegetables and I shell fresh peas. These are all things I have learned from my mother. I do almost all the cooking here; if I left it to Hadley or Joley we’d be eating Chef Boyardee.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, I ring the rusty triangular bell on the porch for dinner. Joley and Jane and Rebecca come in from the east side of the orchard, Hadley comes in from the west. They file upstairs to the bathroom to wash up and then one by one fill in the places around the table. “Dig in,” I say, helping myself to a chicken breast.

  Joley tells his sister all about Regalia Clippe, a conversation I tune out. After all, I was there. I concentrate on watching Hadley, who’s being awfully quiet. Usually at the dinner table you can’t get him to shut up long enough to eat. But tonight he’s pushing his peas around on his plate, colliding them with the mashed potatoes.

  We all go on eating for a while so that the only noise is the scraping of silverware against my mom’s old country plates. Joley holds up his drumstick and waves it at me, nodding, his mouth full. When he swallows, he tells me how good it is. “You know, Sam,” he says, swallowing, “if the orchard ever folds you could go into gourmet catering.”

  “I don’t call fried chicken gourmet. Besides, it’s just food. No reason to make a big deal about it.”

  “Sure there is,” Rebecca says. “She doesn’t cook this well.” She lifts her elbow in the direction of her mother, who puts down her knife and fork and just stares at Rebecca.

  “So what did you two do today?” Joley asks. Jane opens her mouth but it’s clear that Joley’s talking to Rebecca and Hadley. Hadley’s face reddens to the top of his neck. What is going on here? I try to catch Hadley’s eye but he’s not looking at anyone. My fork slips out of my fingers, hitting the edge of my plate.

  The noise makes Hadley jerk his head up. “We didn’t do anything,” he says, testy. “All right? I had a lot of stuff I had to get done.” He mutters something, and then crunches his napkin into a ball and aims for the garbage pail. He’s off by several feet, so he winds up hitting Quinte, the Irish setter. “I’ve got somewhere I have to go,” he says, and then he almost knocks his chair over getting up from the table. He slams the door when he leaves.

  “What’s his problem?” I say, but nobody seems to know.

  The disruption makes everyone sort of quiet again, which is just fine with me. I’m not one for talking through dinner. Then out of the clear blue Joley’s sister starts to speak. “Sam,” she says, “I was wondering why you don’t grow anything but apples.”

  I exhale slowly through my nose. I’ve fielded this question at least a million times from dumb, pretty girls who thought this was a good way to act interested in what I do. “Apples take a lot of time and effort,” I say, knowing damn well I haven’t answered her question.

  “But couldn’t you make more money if you diversify?”

  That headache starts to come back. It’s near enough to drive me crazy. “Excuse me,” I say to Jane, “but who the hell are you? You come in here and two days later you’re telling me how to run things?”

  “I wasn’t-”

  The pain is shooting now, straight down the back of my neck. I start sweating. “If you knew a damn thing about farming maybe I’d listen.”

  Maybe I’ve been talking rougher than I should have. She looks up at me and she’s practically crying. For a second—just a second—I feel awful. “I don’t have to take this,” she says, her v