as she left his office, she blew out a sigh. One day down. Only three hundred and sixty four to go.
“You knew Rick Ethier was going to be taking over from Nelson, so why are you so angry?” Sam Ellison asked, crouching down beside another sapling.
“I guess the reality was harder than the idea.” Becky dug her hands into the sun-warmed dirt of the new apple orchard. An early-evening breeze fanned away the warmth of the sun, and she could already feel the peace of the orchard easing away the tension of the day. “I mean I just found out before I went to camp. That hardly gave me time to get used to the idea.”
“You’ll get used to it. Hand me the budding knife please.”
She pulled the small, but deadly sharp blade out of the toolbox her father carried with him and watched while he painstakingly cut a T shape in the bark of the young sapling. “I got the impression from Colson that he’s quite proud of his grandson,” Sam continued. “Rick’s travel articles are quite insightful.”
“As are his nasty book reviews.” Becky couldn’t keep the disdainful tone out of her voice, netting her a light frown from her father. “I still don’t understand why such a prestigious magazine chose my book to review.”
“That was a year ago, Becky.”
“And since then, the publisher has been pretty hesitant about buying another book.”
“Your editor is behind you.”
“He’s been great, but if he can’t sell it to the marketing people who seem to have a copy of that nasty review branded on their brain tissues, I’m just spinning my wheels.” She leaned forward, yanking an isolated stalk of grass from the newly cultivated dirt. “I don’t know if Rick even realized it’s my book he slammed—a casualty of his cutting words. I’m left bleeding on the sidelines while he moves on, blithely unaware of what he had done.” With a dramatic flourish she raised her face to the sky and pressed her hand to her chest.
“When you’re finished declaiming, you can hand me that whip please. The Alberta Red.”
“See, not even my own father appreciates my pain.” With a grin Becky plucked a tree branch out of the bucket of water. She carefully sliced the bud off it herself, taking a large piece of bark with it. Turning it over she plucked the pith away from the backside of the slice and handed it to her father.
“Change isn’t always a bad thing, Becky. Life is always about adapting.” He inserted the slice in the cut, against the live flesh of the sapling, pulled the bark back over top and secured it with a rubber band. “Rick can bring in a new way of looking at things.”
“He talks about finding a new direction for the magazine, but how can he when he doesn’t know the community it targets?”
“That can be good. He’ll bring his own perspective and skills to the magazine. Like bringing new genetic material into the orchard and grafting it onto established and mature stock.”
“Except he’s only here for a while, which makes me wonder if the ‘graft’ will take. He’s a wanderer, just like Trevor was.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still mooning over him?” Sam held out his hand. “Can I have that pine tar please?”
Becky handed him a small tin and a flat stick. “Hardly mooning. Trevor was a high school romance and a reminder to stay away from guys who can’t commit.” She curled her legs closer to herself and hugged them. “Anyway, Rick said he’s only going to be around a year. Maybe less. That’s hardly long enough to make a real difference. I’m sure he wants to go back to his traveling. Last I heard it was Malta. Before that Thailand.”
Sam wrapped protective covering over the wound and gave Becky an indulgent smile. “Seems to me you know a fair bit of what is going on in Rick Ethier’s life.”
Becky avoided his eyes. She could try to make some lame excuse about her knowledge of Rick’s comings and goings but she had never been a very good liar.
“How in the world did you and Colson even connect?” Becky asked, handing her father his toolbox as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Years ago, Colson lived in Calgary and had courted your grandmother. He decided the real money was back East, but she wouldn’t leave Okotoks.” Sam gave Becky a hand up. “Maybe he is taking a short trip down memory lane, buying this magazine.”
“And taking a very reluctant passenger with him. Rick.”
“Well, you make sure to invite him out here sometime.”
Becky sighed as she slipped her arm through her father’s. “Give me some time to get used to the idea that he’s even here in Okotoks. In my office.”
The heat emanating from the dark plowed ground gave way to a soft coolness as they entered the older orchard.
“I’m going to have to get rid of some of these trees,” her father mused, looking up at the gnarled branches. “Though I hate to.”
“‘Every tree that does not bear fruit must be cut down and cast into the fire,’” Becky quoted, giving her father’s arm a jiggle as if to remind him.
“God gives us lots of chances. I think I might let these trees go another year or two.” He reached up and touched one branch, the dearth of apples on it a silent testimony to their uselessness. “I can still take a few cuttings from them.”
“You say that every year, Dad,” Becky said with a smile.
Becky’s maternal great-grandfather started this orchard when he first immigrated from Holland. It was a gamble to expect to create an oasis on the harshly bald prairie. But the soil proved fertile and the poplar trees planted as windbreaks shot up, creating a refuge necessary for the apple trees to flourish. Irrigation came from a creek that flowed through the property.
The orchard had gone through three generations and various changes. Becky’s mother, Cora, inherited the orchard. When Cora Bruinsma married Sam Ellison, he slowly worked his way into the family business, helping to cultivate the orchard and keeping the magazine going at the same time.
Becky grew up with her time split between the hustle and bustle of the magazine and the peace of the orchard. Her first love was writing, but her home was her sanctuary. Her plan had been to stay at home until she had her second book published and a contract for another. Only then would she feel she had the financial wherewithal to buy a place of her own and move out.
Which hadn’t happened yet.
And if she didn’t get working on this next book, wasn’t likely to happen for at least another year.
“Going West. Becky speaking.” Becky tucked the phone under her ear, she pushed the sleeves of her sweater up and drew the copy of the article she had been working on toward her. Sneaking a quick glance at her watch—2:15 p.m. She had fifteen minutes yet.
“Becky? This is Gladys Hemple. I do the cooking and preserves column.”
“What can I do for you, Gladys?” Becky’s pencil flicked over the paper, striking out, putting in question marks.
Gladys didn’t reply
