Chapter 1
DOVE
Present day
“I’ve always thought the orchard was perfect for weddings.” My mom leans against the front porch railing. “Every spring it’s like the cycle of life starting all over again.”
From where we sit, the sun transforms the dew into a silvery blanket covering the ground. It’s late fall, post-harvest, and the peach trees aren’t yet coated in the milky white blossoms that will appear in spring.
We’ll go through Christmas and New Year’s, Mardi Gras and Valentine’s day. The bright yellow-orange leaves will fall away, and the branches will become open palms, reaching craggled fingers upward to heaven.
“The peach blossoms are hope.” I’m sitting on the front porch swing with my best friend Boo. “It’s like all the mistakes are erased, and we’re able to start over again.”
“Check this out.” Boo turns the iPad she’s holding to me. “For my dress, I really like this white linen.”
“Oh, I love that.” I take the device from her, zooming in on the photograph. “It’s filmy but not too thin. I like how it catches the light.”
Boo and I have been friends since we were little girls, and next spring, right here in LaGrange Orchard, she’s going to marry her long-time boyfriend Ricky the dentist from Shreveport.
Naturally, I’m her maid of honor, and we’re planning all the dresses and the hair and everything bride and bridesmaids-related, while her aunt Mindy, who is also my mom’s best friend and my uncle Sawyer’s wife, making her my aunt as well, is taking care of the rest.
Aunt Mindy is an interior designer, and before she married my uncle, she used to design fancy restaurants in Dallas. Now she has her own design firm and works on fancy events and hotels and rich peoples’ homes right here in Harristown.
In other words, she’s a pro.
“I like how it moves, and this is the veil…” She swipes the screen a few times to an image of a long, sheer piece of lace.
“Gorgeous.” I pull the shawl tighter around my shoulders, snuggling closer as we look at wedding photos on Pinterest.
Marriage is not on my agenda. Not that I’m opposed or anything. I simply have more practical matters on my mind.
After years of watching and helping my uncles with crop rotations and streamlining the harvest and increasing output, I decided to go back to school to get my graduate degree in plant pathology, specializing in fruit trees.
I’ve just finished all my coursework and exams at the small university in town. Then I’ll start working on my dissertation in the spring.
I figure once I’m done, I’ll work at the extension, maybe teach courses at the college in town. Our part of the state is pretty much exclusively farming country, and has been for generations, from the LaGrange Orchard all the way to the cotton fields in Delta.
I’ve grown up surrounded by hard-working stewards of the land, and every summer from the time I was old enough to catch a marked tennis ball, I’ve helped with the harvest.
I love this old place and the old ways. Sure, I’ve been in love before, but I’ve never met anyone outside my family who loved this orchard the way I do.
Except…
A little smile curls my lips as I remember a day so many years ago when I stood with a boy on the hill, holding hands and watching the sun setting over the trees. I said I’d marry him on the spot… sort of.
It’s like a scene from another life, when I was more impulsive and less worried about things like location and the other person’s dreams and how they might be a world away from mine.
I’m momentarily distracted by the past when I glance up to see my two uncles walking quickly from the rows to the peach shed. It’s still light out, and they grab shovels and an axe off the walls.
They’re frowning. No, it’s more than that. They look scared, and they exchange a glance that makes my stomach tense before heading out again. I stand, leaving the shawl on the swing beside Boo as I push through the screen door to jog after them.
“Dove?” Boo calls after me. “Are you coming back?”
“Give me a minute.” I wave at her as I follow the path they cut through the trees, down to the south end of the orchard.
I’ve never seen them look like that before, and it sent a cold wind blowing across my heart.
When I finally get to where they’re standing, my eyes widen. They’ve dug up the roots of a tree. Uncle Sawyer stands beside it, holding the axe, and I see he’s chopped off the bark.
His eyes are tense and focused as his younger brother, my uncle Leon kneels beside the trunk, sliding a gloved hand over the exposed interior.
His jaw flexes, and his chin drops. “It’s white,” he says in a grave tone.
Uncle Sawyer tosses the axe to the ground. He steps away, putting both hands on his head. Then he bends forward, bracing his knees like he might be sick.
All of this has panic twisting my chest. I don’t understand what they’re doing or why. Why they’re digging up roots and chopping off bark.
“What’s happening?” My voice is so small, so afraid.
They turn quickly, straightening, but they can’t hide their expressions.
“Dove.” Uncle Sawyer reaches out his hand. “Why don’t you go on back to the house now.”
I step away from him, going to stand directly in front of Uncle Leon. “Something’s wrong. Tell me what it is.”
My younger uncle drops his head. His shaggy, light-brown hair covers his eyes, and he passes his hand over his mouth.
Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine. “The trees are dying.”
Frowning, I look around us, at the rows of trees that have lost their leaves. They don’t look different. They look like all the other trees at this time of year, gray bark, bare branches.
But it’s only temporary. It all comes back in the spring. With the hope…
“I don’t understand.” I look from one to the other. “What do you mean dying? They’re not dying. It’s only winter. It’s—”
“It’s Armillaria. And it’s only a matter of time.” Sawyer’s voice is quiet. “It spreads underground, killing the roots. There’s no way to know how far it’s gone, but if we’re finding it here, we’ve already lost.”
Leon puts both hands on top of his head. He lifts his chin to face the sky, and his eyes squeeze shut as he shouts, “Fuck!”
My chest trembles. My mind races through everything I’ve learned about plant diseases. I’ve primarily focused my studies on issues we’ve dealt with first hand, powdery mildew, scab, and leaf curl.
We vaguely touched on Armillaria. It’s an oak fungus, primarily located in the Pacific Northwest. Scrubbing my forehead, I remember the professor saying it’s insidious because you don’t know it’s there. By the time the bright patch of honey mushrooms appears, it’s already well-established.
It’s the most aggressive predator in the fungal kingdom.
“We have to fight it.” The words burn in my throat, fisting my chest. “We can’t let it take the orchard.”
Uncle Sawyer’s lips are tight, and he gazes up the hill at my grandfather’s tree. Silence falls over the three of us, and he shakes his head.
He walks over and picks up the axe. “There’s no fighting this, Dove.”
“Yes, there is!” I meet his eyes, mine flashing. “I’ll talk to Dr. Platt tomorrow. We’re going to save the orchard.”
Fire is in my chest, and I’m not going down without a fight.
“Armillaria?” Dr. Platt’s black eyes widen. “Is he certain?”
“No.” I won’t even allow the possibility to take root in my mind. “It’s a guess. Jay Hidalgo found a patch of mushrooms, and my uncle Sawyer found a few dead trees. That’s all.”
My graduate advisor’s lips tighten, and his chin drops. “That’s enough.”
His voice is quiet resignation, and that fist is in my chest again. It’s angry and defiant, and I fight the urge to scream No!
“LaGrange Orchard has been in our family for generations.” My voice trembles. “The town was built around it. We have to fight this. We can’t just let it destroy everything.”
Dr. Platt nods, and he seems to shake off his dark feelings. He reaches out to briefly squeeze my arm.
“Armillaria has been studied on the West Coast since the 1980s.” He walks over to his laptop and types quickly. “In Oregon, they have what’s called the ‘Humongous Fungus,’ because it’s spread over three square miles of forest, draining the life out of everything.”
“What are they doing?” I’m desperate.
“Let me see… I know a professor at CalTech, Simon Smithfield.”
I step closer, looking over his shoulder. “Can he help us?”
“Well, he’s the top mycologist in the country, and a leading researcher of Armillaria root rot.” Dr. Platt inhales slowly. “If anyone can help you, he can.”
Crossing my arms, I slowly pace my professor’s small office, thinking. “Would you introduce us? Maybe I could spend next semester studying with him.”
“Maybe…” Dr. Platt types some more on his laptop. “I met Simon at a conference several years back. He’s a good guy. Former fireman. He was even part of a special program that tried to plant trees on the moon.”
My brows rise. “How did that go?”
“It didn’t,” my professor says with a chuckle. “They ultimately brought the moon trees back here and planted them on Earth, but he’s a good sport. Always up for a challenge. I think he might be your guy.”
“Please, Dr. Platt.” I drop my arms, returning to his side. “I have to meet him. If there’s anything I can do to save the trees, I have to try.”
My professor nods. “Either way, if Armillaria is here, you’ll want to include it in your research. I’ll make the introductions and let you work out the details. You’re a good student, and I’m sure Simon will appreciate your drive. He’s an old tree-hugger himself.”
“Thank you.” I swallow my tears, doing my best to hold my confidence steady.
The truth is, I’m terrified. I’ve never seen my uncles so afraid. At the same time, I’ve spent three years studying the worst diseases in the plant kingdom—and their cures.
I will go to Los Angeles and find a way to beat this thing. I won’t let our trees die. I won’t let this thing take it all without a fight.