The Apple Orchard. Сьюзен ВиггсЧитать онлайн книгу.
Please do not look in the fridge.
“Thanks,” he said, and she heard the refrigerator door open. “Maybe I’ll grab something to drink.”
She cringed as he said, “You’ve got a stack of notebooks and papers in your fridge.”
“Why, yes,” she said casually, returning to the kitchen. “Yes, I do.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Because there was no more room in the freezer.” His puzzled expression made her want to laugh. “Those are my handwritten notes and papers. They’re one-of-a-kind. I have no backup copy until I get them typed up.”
“So you keep them in the refrigerator.”
“If the place burns down, they’ll be safe in there.”
He nodded. “Good plan.”
“And to answer the next obvious question, yes, I have a fireproof safe. But I misplaced the combination and it’s too small anyway.”
“What is it that you do?”
“I’m a provenance expert. I authenticate things—art, jewelry, family heirlooms.”
“Sounds...unusual. Interesting.” He swung the refrigerator door wider and checked out the shelves. She had a supply of key lime yogurt, some boxed Chinese leftovers and a twelve pack of the only beverage she drank regularly—Red Bull. The energy drink was probably all kinds of bad for her, but it kept her from falling asleep on the job.
Dominic held a bottle up to the light. “Is this even legal?”
“Don’t judge,” she said, whipping a pair of purple lace panties off the lamp where she’d hung them to dry. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.
“Nice panties,” he said.
Okay, so he’d noticed.
“Again I say, don’t judge.”
“Never,” he promised and twisted the cap off the soda bottle. He took a swig, and she could see him visibly trying not to gag. “You can tell a lot about a person by the place where she lives,” he observed.
“Oh, really? What can you tell about me?”
“You like puzzles.” He gestured at a stack of newspaper crosswords, anagrams and brain teasers, all of them obsessively completed.
“So sue me. What else?”
He perused a collection of yellowed documents and daguerreotypes. “You live in the past.”
“No. I study the past for my work. I live in the here and now, which is perfectly fine for me. It’s wonderful for me.”
“Right. Got it.”
She knew he didn’t mean to seem critical when he said she lived in the past, yet she felt criticized, as though she’d done something wrong. “I have a fascination for puzzles and old things. At least I’m not a hoarder. Please tell me you don’t think I’m a hoarder.”
“I don’t think you’re a hoarder. Your collection of old things is fascinating. I’ve never met a girl who had a he’s-at-home.”
“As far as you know,” she said.
“As far as I know. Tell me about the desk,” he said, gesturing at Nana’s kneehole postmaster desk. It was by far the most dominant object in the place, almost architectural in its size and presence.
“I thought you were analyzing me,” she said, trying to keep it light. She hoped they would both manage to keep things light between them, but it was hard. Because even though she barely knew this guy, she liked talking to him way too much. She liked the way he looked at her, the way he actually seemed to care.
“I am,” he said. “Tell me about the desk.”
He had to ask. It was the one thing in her apartment that was truly personal, truly hers, not some object with a history that had nothing to do with her. “My grandmother had a shop in Dublin. When I was a girl, I spent a lot of time with her there because my mother was always traveling for her work. Nana was a dealer in art and antiques.”
“That’s cool. You lived in Ireland?”
“Up until I came to the States for college.”
“A redheaded Irish woman,” he said.
“Don’t ask me if I have a temper to match. Then I’d have to hurt you.”
“Thanks for the warning. So your desk...”
“Was in Nana’s shop. Antiques and ephemera, she used to tell people—called Things Forgotten. I can still picture her there, working at the desk. She was beautiful, my nana, and Things Forgotten was my favorite place in the world. To a little kid, it seemed magical, like a world filled with treasures.” Tess couldn’t deny the feelings that came over her as she shared her private memories with this stranger, as if telling him about some nostalgic dream was going to help her finally make sense of her life.
Sometimes, in the middle of a tedious or frustrating transaction, or when she stood in an endless airport security line just knowing she was about to miss a connecting flight, Tess thought about Nana’s shop. She imagined what it might be like to try a different path. Every once in a while, she wondered what it might be like to take a risk and open her own elegant antiques shop, one that had the same look and feel of the shop run by her grandmother, long ago. It was where the fondest memories of her childhood lay, hung with the ineffable scent of nostalgia—the dried bergamot and bayberry her grandmother kept in glass bowls around the place. She merely thought about it, though, because there was no way she would give up her hard-won role at Sheffield’s.
“Do you get back to see her?” asked Dominic.
“She passed away when I was fifteen.”
“Sorry to hear that. It’s nice that you kept her desk.”
“Is it? Sometimes I wonder if it’s an albatross dragging me down.”
“An anchor.”
“I like that better.” Turning away to hide a smile, she zipped up her bag. “Ready,” she said. “I guess. I’m not really sure how to be ready for any of this.”
He picked up her bag. She scanned the place one more time, then followed him outside.
She was surprised to see a taxi waiting on the street in front of the house. When he’d offered to take her to Archangel, she’d assumed he would be doing the driving.
“Isn’t it, like, sixty miles to Archangel?” she asked.
“Seventy-eight. It’s in the northern part of the county.”
“Who’s picking up the fare?”
He held the rear passenger door for her. “We’re not taking a taxi all the way.”
“Then—”
“I’ve got a faster way to travel.”
* * *
Tess stood on a floating dock at Pier 39, regarding the twin-engine plane, bobbing at its moorings. Nearby, piles of glossy brown sea lions lazed on the floating docks, occasionally lifting their whiskered faces to the sun. San Francisco had its own ocean smell, redolent of marine life and urban bustle—diesel and frying food, fresh breezes and the catch of the day.
“If you’re trying to impress me,” she said, eyeing the small plane, “it’s working.”
He didn’t say anything as he placed her suitcase in a wing compartment. Then he took off his suit coat and tucked it in, as well. She was not surprised to see a label from a well-known tailor. Yet, although the suit was well cared for, it was definitely not new.
He unlocked the cockpit and unfurled the mooring ropes. He had the shoulders and arms of a longshoreman, yet he moved