Chapter 5
five
JOAN
Filming started this week.
There was more traffic on the highway, new people crowded around brewery tables in the evenings, and if I listened hard from the fields, I could hear people shouting orders and equipment moving around.
Ian’s schedule was now unpredictable. Some days he had early call times, so he joined me for runs when he was able.
I made sure to keep my route the same in case he needed to find me.
It was easy enough to manage, on my part.
But it felt like a concession, a little like weakness where he was concerned.
My little visitor returned two days ago to watch me work on the tractor. George stayed for forty minutes and only asked two questions, but he watched and listened as I showed him what I was doing to the engine. I managed to confirm that he was in town with the movie people and was seven years old.
Similar to the first time I’d seen him, his watch buzzed after a while, and he told me to have a nice day before hurrying off in the direction of the set.
Now, he was standing on the step stool to my right, watching me prune some of the early varieties.
“How old is that tree?” George asked as he squinted into the early afternoon sunlight.
“Probably ten or twelve years old. I have records back in the office, but judging from the size, that’s about right.”
“Do the trees ever die?”
I glanced his way. His expression was a little more intense than the question warranted. I wondered for the umpteenth time what this kid’s life was like and what had molded him into the quiet, thoughtful, curious boy at my side.
“Sometimes,” I explained. “But that’s why I’m pruning.
When apple season is over, we try to keep the trees healthy and watch for any disease while they’re dormant.
But after a while, the older trees produce less and less fruit.
So we rotate them out every five to ten years and plant saplings in their place. ”
“Oh.”
I moved to the next tree, and George carefully shifted the step stool over. His watch buzzed for the second time in the last few minutes, but he ignored it.
“Do you need to go?”
He sighed. “Probably.”
“Are you going to get in trouble?”
His brows furrowed. He looked deeply offended. “Of course not.”
“So your mom doesn’t mind you running off and hanging out in the fields?” I kept my tone casual. He usually clammed up when I asked about his parents.
George shook his head. His dark hair flopped into his eyes, and he pushed it back. “Oh, I made you something.”
From the ground, beside the step stool, he produced a lunchbox he’d dropped there earlier. It was old-fashioned and metal with hinged latches. There was a race car on the front, but the paint was faded, and I couldn’t read the number on the hood.
Then George’s hand was in front of my face, dangling a bracelet. It was a circle of stretchy elastic with black-and-white letters and green, yellow, and red beads, like something a kid would make. Like a kid had made, apparently. For me.
I held the bracelet in the palm of my hand and flipped the round bubble letters until they were all lying flat. Apple Lady, it read.
Smiling, I met George’s gaze. “You made this for me?”
“Yep,” he replied easily, the p popping.
My smile widened as a strange, warm weight settled in my chest. Apple Lady. That might have been the nicest thing any kid had ever called me. His surprise was baffling, but also touching.
George was a mystery. And I still worried about him running all over the place by himself, but he was a sweet kid. Curious and smart, with amazing comedic timing. And I knew I was only seeing a small portion of who he was, but so far, he’d been very unexpected.
Most kids were silly and loud. Candace had been, when she was little.
I could remember being fifteen or sixteen, and Candace wanting me to play circus or watch her dance and sing.
But I’d been too old or uninterested in the games my baby sister had wanted to play, so I’d usually ignored her or foisted her off on Brady, who was only three years her senior.
It was probably why we hadn’t been close as kids.
I’d just never been the sort of person—even as a child—who wanted all the attention, who acted silly in order to get it. I’d been more like George. A little too serious. More introspective. It was like I could see the gears turning in his mind.
But I got the impression that George hadn’t always been so solemn. That perhaps something had caused him to be more mindful and adult, still innocent but less childlike. Maybe it was having an absent parent who didn’t care where he ran off to. I didn’t know.
But I did wonder.
His watch picked that moment to buzz again.
George ignored it and sat down on the step stool to get his lunchbox back in order.
“Is that your kit? What did you call it?”
“My emergency kit,” he replied without looking up.
Crouching down, I asked, “What’s in it?”
He held out things as he explained, “Band-Aids, ChapStick, a compass, binoculars, two granola bars, a pencil, a ruler, dental floss, matches, chewing gum, a flashlight, a whistle, and a drawing pad.”
I watched quietly as the boy carefully rearranged each item so it fit neatly into the metal box. And I wondered why a kid would have all that. Why would he be planning for emergencies?
Before I could figure out a way to ask, an engine sounded in the distance. As it grew closer, George and I both turned to see Ian on a baby-blue side-by-side driving down the tractor path before stopping beside us.
George sighed, latching the closure on the lunchbox.
He stood as Ian climbed out of the vehicle and said, “Georgie, can you please get in? It’s time to go back to set. Miss Sophia has been looking all over for you. You didn’t answer your watch. That’s why we got it for you, bud.”
“Well, she didn’t look here, or she would have found me,” the boy said. But instead of protesting, he walked right over to the side-by-side and climbed up.
What was going on? Was George Ian’s son?
Rising to my feet, I tried to catch Ian’s eye, but he wouldn’t look at me. I’d never seen him like this—jaw tight, shoulders tense, and so closed off he may as well have had a sign swinging from his chest warning people away. For the first time in weeks, the man wasn’t smiling.
Just before he slid behind the wheel, Ian’s eyes—cagey and dark—met mine. He nodded stiffly and said, “Joan,” before making a U-turn and heading back the way he’d come.
George raised a tiny hand and waved goodbye, and like an idiot, I stood there and waved back, the little beads on my wrist clicking together as I moved.
“So, he just took off with the kid and didn’t say anything?” Mac, Brady’s girlfriend, asked.
I nodded and grabbed another broccoli floret from the tray.
“He didn’t explain?” Mac’s sister, Bonnie, wondered.
“Nope,” I replied. “He left without a word.”
“That’s so strange,” Candace said as she chewed absently on a cheese straw.
We were gathered around the central island in Will and Becca’s kitchen. Becca was hosting book club, like she did most months, at the Clark homestead halfway up the mountainside.
It was a small group this month, just me, Candace, Mac, Bonnie, and Becca.
Becca had started the book club after moving to Kirby Falls last year.
She’d been visiting on an extended working vacation and happened to meet Will Clark, and fell in love.
She’d shifted her life from Michigan to North Carolina and hadn’t looked back.
The town loved her, and she was a genuinely nice person.
She’d been good for Will, too. Since we were neighbors, I’d known the Clarks most of my life.
With both of our families being in the apple business, our circles overlapped quite a bit.
“Can you imagine? Dorian Masters, a single father,” Bonnie said dreamily, like the prospect of having a child made the movie star even more desirable.
“Maybe the mother is an actress,” Candace offered.
“Maybe she died tragically, and Dorian is just doing his best to keep it all together,” Mac said dramatically.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, maybe Ian saved George from a burning building along with two dozen kittens. Y’all have been reading too many romance novels.”
Mac booed and threw a cube of cheese at me. I caught it and popped it into my mouth.
“And he never mentioned having a kid?” Candace asked at the same moment Becca said, “What do you mean ‘Ian’?”
My chewing slowed as I realized what I’d inadvertently admitted. I swallowed the glob of cheddar, and all eyes turned toward me, the romance-addicted book junkies suddenly very curious.
“Why would he have mentioned anything to you, Joanie?” Mac said, gaze narrowing. “Are y’all friends?”
Candace made a whoops face and put another cheese straw in her mouth.
Sighing, I reminded myself that these were my friends.
My closest friends. And they didn’t mean any harm.
They were just nosy. And Ian wasn’t simply some goofy, smiling bozo to them.
He was Dorian Masters, international celebrity and mega movie star.
They’d been buzzing with questions about the production as soon as Candace had told them about it at our previous book club meeting.
“We’ve been running together,” I admitted, and then reached for more broccoli like it was no big deal. It wasn’t a big deal, but I knew they wouldn’t see it that way.
Rapid-fire questions exploded from Bonnie, Mac, and Becca. Candace shoveled more cheese straws into her big mouth.
I held up a hand, and they quieted immediately. “We met when he first came to town, by chance. He was roaming around the property, checking out where they’d be filming. I didn’t recognize him because he introduced himself as Ian—his real name—and he was wearing sunglasses and a hat.”
Becca choked.
Mac groaned. “God, only you, Joan. He pulled a damn Clark Kent, and you fell for it.”
I glared, feeling my cheeks heat. But she merely clapped her hands impatiently and gestured for me to keep going.