Chapter Seventeen
As August goes on, our weekly calls with Amanda become something to dread.
I still relish the opportunity to remind her I exist, show her what a valuable asset I am, and hopefully plant the idea in her head of me returning to work on her team.
But I hate seeing what it does to my coworkers—to hear their ideas shot down, see them speak less and less in meetings, watch the baffled yet defeated looks they exchange whenever Amanda raises a suggestion that clashes horrifically with the premise of the apple festival.
Most recently, it was pondering aloud if we could add the slogan for Ryser’s new antioxidant sunscreen as a tagline under all festival marketing materials.
But I managed to politely point out that Greenstead Apple Festival: Shield against sun damage with the power of antioxidants might send a misleading message about the UV protection abilities of apples.
It’s always a relief when the Monday morning meeting comes to an end and the atmosphere of our little office returns to that casual, relaxed state once again.
It’s all the more fun on this particular Monday: We’re going on a field trip.
In hopes of ensuring that our only sponsors aren’t diaper rash cream and foot fungus products—which aren’t confirmed yet, but every Monday we fear Amanda will announce she’s secured FootHeal First as an official sponsor—we’ve taken it upon ourselves to seek out local sponsors to balance out the mix.
And when Bertram Mason, owner of Greenstead’s apple orchard, told us he’d be delighted to not only continue the tradition of being the festival’s official apple provider but also serve as a sponsor, it seemed like a perfect fit.
Before long, Bertram invited us down to the farm to see his orchard, taste his apples, and talk sponsor logistics in person.
Which is how Arun, Tessa, Randy, Jen, Marina, and I find ourselves seated at a picnic table on his farm overlooking the orchard.
A large umbrella above us mercifully shields us from the sun’s glare, though the humidity remains stifling.
Bertram doesn’t seem to notice it as he gives a thorough history lesson about each of his thirteen apple varieties and passes bowls of apple slices around for us to taste.
“Doesn’t this taste exactly like the last one?” Tessa whispers.
Marina, Jen, and Arun stifle their laughs while Randy tells Bertram he can absolutely pick up on the subtle grassy notes of the apple skin.
Bertram passes around a Ginger Gold after talking about its distinct sharp flavor.
With its yellowish hue and faint blush, I can see that it looks different from the last apple, but I can’t taste anything remotely sharp.
From the concentration on Marina’s face, neither can she.
Her eyes rove around, as if she’s trying to make her palate detect the sharpness through sheer force of will.
“I can’t tell you how much it means to have this festival back,” Bertram says.
“I’d been going to that festival every year since I was a kid, until it stopped.
There’s nothing else like it. This is a really special thing y’all are doing, I gotta say.
” He lifts his blue baseball cap, ruffles the gray hair underneath, and repositions it.
“You know, my favorite photo of my brother and me was taken at that apple festival back in the seventies.”
From the front pocket of his faded flannel shirt, he produces a weathered photo and passes it around.
I study the grainy photo of two boys, one about six and the other taller and thinner, about ten, grinning, each throwing an arm around the other’s shoulders.
The younger boy’s face is painted like a lion, the other like a tiger.
“You’re the lion?” I ask. I see traces of Bertram in the younger boy, that bulbous nose, the round shape of his eyes.
“Sure was,” he says. When the photo returns to him, he takes a long look at it before tucking it back into his pocket.
“My brother’s not around anymore,” he says, “but that apple festival always made me think of him.” He smiles softly to himself, then reaches for the next bowl of apple slices.
Before he picks it up, he stops and turns to us.
“You’re doing a face-painting booth, right? ”
Those of us around the table quickly exchange looks. I don’t remember face-painting at the festival I used to attend. It must have been from before my time.
“Of course,” Arun says, and I make a mental note to add Find a face-painting artist to our list of to-dos.
It hits me then, hearing Bertram talk about how much the festival means to him, that it’s not just me whose memories of the festival are intertwined with a special bond.
This festival is about more than Ryser PR, more than me trying to prove myself to Amanda, more than the Ryser Cares office having a reason to feel useful again, more than Marina and me.
It’s even bigger than the community center we’re trying to save.
It’s about every single person in Greenstead who loves this place and chose to call it home.
It’s about the people who keep making that choice, day after day, year after year, even as their world quietly crumbles around them.
How many people like Bertram have memories of this festival that they hold dear and would love the chance to revisit?
How many others have been getting their hopes up for this, looking forward to it, ever since we announced that we’d be reviving it?
And how would they feel if they showed up expecting cotton candy and face-painting and saw nothing but foot cream and Ryser ads?
I decide then and there that I’m going to be firmer with Amanda about what this festival should be. In our next Monday call, I’ll politely insist that we uphold the festival’s integrity instead of trying to cram it with Ryser promo and personal care sponsors. Greenstead deserves better.
“Now, this one’s a personal favorite of mine,” Bertram says, passing the next bowl of apple slices around, “but I’m biased because I invented it.”
As he did with all the other apple varieties, Randy pops the whole slice into his mouth. “Oh!” he exclaims. The rest of us glance over at Randy, who’s now chewing with a pained look on his face. “What a unique flavor.”
Bertram laughs. “Got a real kick to it, right?”
“Definitely a kick.” Randy guzzles the rest of his water down.
“What do the rest of you think?” Bertram asks.
Exchanging tentative looks, we reach into the bowl for a slice as Bertram watches in anticipation. And, even though Randy is giving us a subtle but frantic shake of his head, we slowly bring our apple slices to our mouths.
A tangy, peppery, astringent flavor explodes on my tongue. I force my wince into a smile and keep chewing, chewing, chewing through the strangeness.
“Interesting,” Marina says.
Arun coughs. “Definitely unique,” he chokes out.
“What…is it?” Tessa asks, sounding like she’s afraid of the answer.
“I bred it to have a distinctive mustard flavor,” Bertram explains proudly.
“O-oh,” I say, because I have no idea what to say to that.
“What inspired that?” Jen asks.
At the same time, Tessa asks pleadingly, “Why?”
“The flood, of course,” Bertram says. “My crops were useless that year, and the next. The mustard sank into the soil, gave the apples a weird taste. It went away over the years, but I wanted to create an apple inspired by that juxtaposition of flavors. The bitter, the sweet. Spent years trying to figure it out, but I finally did it. This apple is Greenstead’s history in the palm of your hand.
” Bertram takes a slice from the bowl and crunches into it.
“I’m thinking this would be the perfect apple to feature at the festival. Wouldn’t you say?”
“It is…unique,” Randy says, looking around at the rest of us.
“Unique, yes,” Arun agrees. “But I’m not sure that—”
Bertram’s face falls. “You don’t like it?”
“No, we do,” Randy rushes to say. “It’s just…an acquired taste.”
“Exactly.” Bertram snaps his fingers and points at Randy. “Acquired taste. Sophisticated shit is always acquired. Took me years to acquire a taste for caviar. I still hate it, if I’m being honest. But I acquired it.”
“Why not feature an apple with more mass appeal?” I ask.
“Like the Honeycrisp?” Bertram supplies in a monotone voice. Enthusiastic murmurs go around the table.
“I love Honeycrisps,” Jen says.
“Who doesn’t?” Bertram mutters under his breath. “Look, I’ve spent a lot of effort creating this thing. It took me over twenty years to get right, and I’d really like to show it off at the festival. I’d pay extra for the privilege.”
“So you’re willing to pay us more to feature your…mustard apple…in our festival programming?” Arun asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“I guess that’s reasonable,” Arun says, looking around the table. We all nod in reluctant agreement.
“What do you call it?” Tessa asks.
Bertram beams. “The Honey Mustard.”
“That’s just confusing,” Marina whispers, and I have to act fast to suppress my laugh.
Bertram sends us home with a basket of apple muffins and a warm sentiment that he’s excited to be working with us.
As we’re making the long trek through the field back to the parking lot, Arun asks if the Honey-Mustard apple taste is still lingering in anyone else’s mouths, and the others are quick to agree.
They joke about the apple’s strange flavor, but I don’t join in.
My mind’s too full with thoughts of a younger Bertram and his brother, the lion and the tiger, what this festival means for him, for everyone. How I’d eat a dozen Honey Mustard apples, off-putting taste and all, before I’d let Amanda walk all over our festival any further.
I add another item to my mental to-dos, this one more abstract but no less crucial: Protect the festival .