21. SAM
CHAPTER 21
SAM
Before my dog can wake me Wednesday morning, my phone does. Seeing my grandmother’s name pop up on the screen, I answer immediately. Ethel Bedd never calls her boys just to chat. “Hey, Gran. Everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay,” she says, sounding very upset.
This has me sitting up, heart pounding. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes. I am very hurt. When I went downstairs to make coffee this morning, I found a note on the kitchen table. Do you know anything about it?”
Wondering why she thinks I’d leave her a note, I tell her no, swing my legs out of bed, put the phone on speaker, and head to the kitchen to start my own coffee.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“I swear, I didn’t leave you a note.”
“The note is not from you.”
Obviously , I think as I begin to fill the carafe with water.
“It is from Diane. ”
At the sound of her name, alarm bells go off. Hands shaking, I turn off the faucet. “What does it say?”
“It’s a very lovely letter thanking me for my hospitality—someone raised that girl with excellent manners—and apologizing for leaving without saying goodbye. She says”—paper rustles and Gran clears her throat—“‘I have other obligations I’ve ignored for far too long, so I’m afraid it’s time for me to move on.’”
What the hell?
“Did you say something or do something that would drive her away?” Gran asks.
“No, ma’am, I promise.” Sitting heavily at the counter that divides the kitchenette from the living area, I go over the previous night in my head. “We met up at trivia, then I drove her back to your place, said goodnight”—I, of course, leave out the heavy petting that ensued in the cab of my truck until Gomer tried to get involved—“and then went back to my apartment.”
“And why didn’t you ask her to stay at that apartment?”
My grandparents did an amazing job raising us, but we did not talk about sex or even relationships. I’m pretty sure Gran knows that Ethan and Alex sleep with their girlfriends, but no one has ever acknowledged that in front of her, as far as I know. “Um, because she’s been staying with you.”
“Well, she isn’t anymore,” Gran snaps.
“Gran, you know she was going to leave eventually. She has plans for her channel.”
“Is that what you want?”
It’s probably a terrible idea, but I find myself admitting to her what I haven’t been able to admit to myself. “Of course not. But I can’t do anything about it.”
“Did you tell her how you feel about her?”
“Um... What do you mean?”
“It’s obvious there’s something special between the two of you.”
“It is?”
“Samuel Daniel Bedd. Stop being such a numbskull. Why do you think I let your damn dog sleep on the couch for the past two weeks?”
“You knew about that?”
“Of course I knew, Samuel. I have eyes in my head, and you don’t shed. But I wanted to give you and Diane time to figure out that you’re perfect for each other.” She sniffs. “And Gomer is very good at fetching things. I kind of miss him.”
Gomer barks, hopping up from the floor where he’d been curled at the feet of my chair, and snuffles at the phone, probably trying to tell her he misses her too.
And then it hits me.
I might never see Diane again. Sliding down to the floor, I put my arm around my dog. How could I have let her go?
“Well,” Gran says, “it’s obvious what you have to do. Find her and convince her to come back.”
“I can’t do that, Gran,” I say, the back of my head thudding against the counter behind me.
“Of course you can. We’ll help you.”
“No. I can’t,” I argue, even though I want to. More than anything.
“So you do hate it here?” she asks softly. “You’re not planning to stay? ”
“No, Gran. That’s not it at all. I love it here,” I say, realizing how deeply I mean it as the words leave my mouth. “But I can’t ask her to come back because it will kill me when she leaves again.”
“But she might not leave. Especially if you do a good job of convincing her to stay.”
“She will.” My throat tight, my jaw tighter, I push out the words I need to make her understand. “Just like Mom and Dad did.”
“They didn’t leave you, Sam,” she says softly, but firmly. “They were taken from us. It was an accident. A horrible twist of fate.”
I hate hearing these words. The words that everyone used. When I knew the real story. “What if it wasn’t?”
“Wasn’t an accident? We know it was. The police reports?—”
“What if it wasn’t fate?” I grind out. “Or random? What if it was because of me?”
There’s a pause, a short one, but she definitely hesitates before asking, “What are you talking about?”
“I begged them to come home early, because I’m selfish,” I say, needing the words to be outside of me. Needing to release them from the tiny cage where I’ve held them so tightly and for so long. “I wanted to feel special because it wasn’t enough that they sacrificed so much for us. I asked them to drive back in time for the Science Olympiad just because I’d been invited to compete in more events than anyone else in the school. And they did. They left that night instead of waiting till the next day. And then they never came home.”
Tears blur my vision. Or maybe it’s the way I’ve presse d my fists into my eyeballs. “It’s my fault they’re dead. I told them I needed them, and that killed them.”
“Oh, Sam,” Gran says, her voice high and breathy. “I’m so sorry you’ve been carrying this. I’m sure they wanted to be there for you. They were so proud of you. But—” She breaks off and clears her throat before continuing. “There was a problem with the hopper on the grain cart. Your grandfather was very frustrated and told them about it. We’ve always thought they decided to come home early because your father wanted to help fix it. He was so much better with the machinery, the way Ethan is.”
She blows out a long sigh. “Your grandfather felt guilty about it for the rest of his days. I sometimes wonder if it may have colored how he treated you kids. He may have kept you at a distance because of it.”
The way I have , is what I think. But what I say is, “I thought he resented having to take care of us.”
“Oh no, honey. That I know for sure. And to be honest, I don’t think that either the science contest or the hopper was the primary reason they decided to leave early.”
When she doesn’t continue, I stare at the phone, squeezing it like that will make her keep talking. “What was it then?” I whisper.
“I found something after your grandpa died. I wasn’t sure whether to share it or not. But it might make you feel better. It was a note from your mom to your dad. She wrote him a poem and drew a little picture, telling him that she was pregnant again and she couldn’t wait to get home and share the news. It was dated the day they headed home.”
Before their car was crushed by a runaway semi.
“So it wasn’t your fault or your grandfather’s,” my grandm other says, her voice sounding far, far away. “Or anyone’s, really. It was just… a terribly sad accident.”
Gran musters the troops, and my entire family gathers for breakfast less than an hour later. Before we begin the brainstorming session, Gran places a hand on mine. “I have to apologize to you, Sam.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to bring up everything we talked about on the phone. As much as I want to be up front with my siblings, I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
“I overheard Jane on the phone telling Ginny Quick personal things about you and Diane right after I talked to you this morning.” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue. “I sent her packing. So you were right to be concerned about her.”
“Actually, it was Colleen who had a feeling about her,” I say. “But thank you. I guess Ginny might’ve been jealous.”
“Going forward, I will certainly get references and get Big John to run a background check before I let anyone else stay here. Luckily, Hetty is a jam-making fiend. It’ll be hard to replace her when she goes back to college.” She claps her hands. “Now let’s get to it. How is Sam going to win Diane back? We need a grand gesture for the ages.”
They come up with some excellent ideas, but nothing seems right. Not naming Baabara’s next lamb after her, nor building her an editing suite off the pole barn, nor promising to bring her breakfast in bed for the next ten years. My gut tells me that I need to do more than show up wit h a declaration of love and grovel for being an idiot and not telling her sooner, so I thank my family for the input and promise to tell them what I decide.
Something’s eating at Diane, and I think I have to figure out what it is before I can make a successful argument for why we can be together. The problem churns in the back of my mind all morning as I drive along the southern edge of Greene County from one appointment to the next. But it’s not until I crest a hill giving me a view of row upon row of apple trees that it finally hits me.
Her grandparents’ orchard. The loss of it to a developer must have upset her more than she admitted. Maybe she’s ashamed that she didn’t have the money to save it?
It’s easier than ever to keep my mouth shut during my final farm visit of the day because I just want it over with. I write down every question, every detail the feed corn grower says—because there’s no way I’m going to remember this conversation—take soil and water samples, and hightail it out of there so I can get to Kaaterskill Orchards before sunset.
Something tells me that I’ll find inspiration at the place where Diane was the happiest, and I make it there just as the sun’s flirting with the curves of the Catskills to the west. Walking around the multi-gabled farmhouse set on a rise, so similar to my grandmother’s house, I try to picture Diane as a kid. She probably didn’t spend her summer days thinking of ways to get back at bullies when the school year started like I did. Did she shell peas with her grandma on the porch? Pick wildflowers that they’d arrange in a milk bottle? It’s hard to picture now, with annuals stuffed in pots and bright pillows on the porch glider , out of place for a working farm and likely placed by the realtor for show.
It’s only when I turn to face the orchard that I remember: Diane climbed trees. So, Gomer at my side, I wend my way down the lanes created by the neatly planted rows of apple trees, hoping that a walk in a place she loves will help me figure out what to do.
I’m lost in thought, going over the past two weeks, when Gomer stops so abruptly I almost trip over him. Head cocked to the side, he stares into the branches of one of the larger apple trees and whines softly.
And then I hear what’s caught his attention: the staccato rap of a woodpecker’s bill. Pulling out my phone, I open the Merlin app and edge closer to the tree, peering up through the branches. I catch a flash of red and white, but it’s too high up to get a good photo with my phone, so I start the sound recording. Moments later, the drilling stops, and the bird lets out a high-pitched kwee-ahh .
When I hit the button, the app identifies the bird as a Red-headed Woodpecker with 98% certainty. The photo that pops up shows a red head and a white breast, tracking with the colors I saw when the bird jumped from branch to branch. After I hit the button confirming that “This is My Bird,” instead of the burst of confetti I usually get when I add a bird to my life list, my phone rings with an unfamiliar number.
I’m so discombobulated that instead of sending it to voicemail like I usually would, I answer. “This is Sam Bedd.”
“Hello, Mr. Bedd. My name is Jessica Ward, and I’m calling from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. ”
Looking around, feeling like I’m being watched, I say, “Okay?”
“Sorry to bother you, but we are monitoring sightings of the Red-headed Woodpecker. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Following her prompts, I forward the recording I made to her and then answer all her questions about what I’ve seen of the bird and the location.
“Is this your property, sir?”
“No, uh, my girl—” I falter, realizing that I can’t really call Diane my girlfriend if I don’t even know where she is. “Um, a friend of mine grew up here, but the property’s for sale.”
After walking back to the driveway, I read off the name of the realty company, adding, “It’s zoned for development, so the orchard may not be here for long.”
“Oh, hell no,” the woman says under her breath. “Um, can you hang on for a few minutes, please, Mr. Bedd? I may have some more questions, but I need to talk to my supervisor.”
I settle on the porch steps to wait, but the moment Gomer rests his head on my thigh, Jessica is back. “Thanks for waiting. I think that’s all we need. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Hey, uh, I actually work for the CCE. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Oh, cool.” She asks what division I’m in, and we chat a bit about her research. “Most people don’t want to hear the nitty-gritty, but we’ll be filing a stay on that property sale so the Bureau of Wildlife can sue to change the zoning. The Red-headed Woodpecker is on the endangered list. That orchard’s not going anywhere.”