The Parson's Waiting

to the States, though. His grandmother had done that. Hearing Maisey’s voice turning increasingly frail, even when her words had been stubborn, had worried him into taking an extended leave from the newspaper. He owed her for taking him in after his parents had died. He owed her even more for letting him go.
He’d vowed to stay in this crummy little pinpoint on the map through fall when the apples would be picked and when, with any luck, his grandmother’s health would be a bit stronger. He had no doubt that there would be another big story to tempt him then. There were always hot spots and too few reporters willing to risk their necks to cover the stories the way they needed to be covered.
Finishing his coffee, he took the cup inside, rinsed it and left it on the old-fashioned porcelain drainboard. If he was going to help out around here, it was time to get started. He needed to walk through the orchards and get a fix on what had to be done first. Maisey had sold off some of the land when keeping up with the acres of apple trees had gotten to be too much. But she’d been adamant about holding on to a few acres for him, declaring stubbornly that one day he might see this place as a refuge. There were enough trees left, their branches heavy with bright red fruit, for Maisey to make her locally famous pies and cobblers all through winter, plus extra to provide her with a small income from sales down at Luke Hall’s general store. She’d tended those remaining trees with loving care.
The rest of the property hadn’t fared as well, though. The barn, which had once housed Maisey’s tired old mare Lucy and Richard’s first cantankerous pony, was empty now. The white paint and green trim that had once matched the house had peeled so badly that the barn was mostly the soft gray shade of weathered wood. He doubted he needed a horse, but he vowed to give the barn a fresh coat of paint one of these days. Maybe it would be a symbol of hope for his grandmother. It was no wonder she was feeling so decrepit, when everything around her was falling into a sorry state of disrepair.
He’d noticed the same thing in the house. Even though the rooms smelled of lemon oil and the sturdy antique furniture gleamed from weekly polishing, the wallpaper was the same fading rose pattern that had already been old when he’d been a boy. It was time for a change. He resolved to take Maisey shopping for new paint and wallpaper in Charlottesville before the end of the week. Maybe his prejudice was showing again, but he doubted the hardware store in Kiley carried anything that hadn’t been on the shelves since the turn of the century.
His thoughts were still on changes to be made to the house when he finally reached the first dwarfed trees in the orchard, trees that had been pruned back for a century or more to keep the apples low to the ground for easier harvesting that wouldn’t damage the fruit. The scent of apple blossoms was long past, but he imagined he could smell them anyway. In reality, though, where the blooms had been, back in the spring, the branches were now loaded with nearly ripe apples. A few were actually ready for picking.
He reached up and plucked one to sample, rubbing it against his denim-clad leg until the red skin was polished to a shine. Just as he was about to take a bite, he caught a glimpse of color in a tree in the heart of the orchard. Attuned by years of self-protective instincts to paying strict attention to anything that seemed out of place, he moved cautiously toward that bright, unexpected patch of turquoise.
It was probably nothing more than a kid stealing apples, but Richard used a fair amount of care as he quietly approached the intruder. Slipping past the last row of trees, he suddenly came to an amazed stop. He felt a little like Adam must have felt coming upon Eve in the Garden of Eden.
The turquoise he’d spotted from a distance turned out to be a T-shirt worn atop a pair of shorts that, despite their modest cut, managed to show off an intriguing amount of long, shapely legs. The woman’s topknot of red hair had tumbled loose, falling in waves that hid her face. Her bare feet, unadorned by nail polish, were braced against the tree trunk as she clung to a branch with one arm and stretched to reach an elusive apple with the other. Despite her awkward position in the tree, her face, when he finally caught a glimpse of it, bore an expression of radiant serenity.
Richard was entranced. It had been a long time since he’d met anyone who looked so thoroughly, delightfully carefree.
“Is there something special about that particular apple?” he asked in a lazy, interested voice.
The woman’s grip on the branch slipped and she started to topple headfirst toward the ground. Fortunately for both of them, she wasn’t all that far off the ground and Richard had lightning-quick reflexes. He caught her and held her close, absolutely captivated by the flecks of gold in eyes the exact shade of warm brandy. His heart, which he could have sworn had turned to ice years ago, suddenly seemed not just to have thawed, but to have turned capable of pumping blood fast and furiously through his veins.
Maybe he’d just been too long without a woman in his arms. Thinking back to his recent last days overseas, though, he dismissed that. More likely, it was just the unexpected discovery of someone with such an intriguing combination of loveliness and innocence in a place where he’d least expected it. It felt something like finding a wildflower stubbornly blooming in a field where soldiers had died.
“So,” he said softly, “tell me about the lure