The Apple Orchard

Tess felt an unbidden shudder of sympathy for the little girl Miss Winther had once been. “I’m so sorry. No child should have to witness that.”

Miss Winther held out the necklace, the facets of the large pink topaz catching the light. “Could you...put it on me?” she asked.

“Of course.” Tess came around behind her and fastened the clasp of the necklace, feeling the old woman’s delicate bone structure. Her hair smelled of lavender, and her dress under the pink shawl was threadbare and faded. Tess felt a surge of emotion. This find was going to change Miss Winther’s life. In a single transaction, the old woman could find herself living in the lap of luxury.

Miss Winther reached up, cradling the jewel between her palms. “She was wearing it that day. Even as they were taking her away, she ordered me to run for my life, and that is just what I did. I was very lucky in that moment, or perhaps there had been a tip-off. A boy who was with the Holger Danske—the Danish resistance—spirited me to safety. Such a hero he was, like the Scarlet Pimpernel in the French Revolution, only he was quite real. I wouldn’t be here today if not for him. None of us would.”

None of us...? Tess wondered who she was referring to. Ghosts from the woman’s sad past, probably. She didn’t ask, though; she had other appointments on her schedule and couldn’t spare the time. And knowing the human cost of the tragedy made Tess feel vulnerable. Still, she was taken by the old lady’s sweetness and the air of nostalgia that softened her features when she touched the reclaimed treasure around her neck.

We’re both all alone, we two, thought Tess. Had Miss Winther always been alone? Will I always be?

“Well, I’m certainly glad you’re here.” The old lady’s smile was soft and strangely intimate.

“This is the appraisal on the piece. I think you’ll be very pleased.”

The old lady stared at the document. “It says my mother’s lavaliere is worth $800,000.”

“It’s an estimate. Depending on how the bidding goes, it could vary by about ten percent up or down.”

Miss Winther fanned herself. “That’s a fortune,” she said. “It’s more money than I ever dreamed of having.”

“And not nearly enough to replace your loss, but it’s quite a find. I’m really happy for you.” Tess felt a glow of accomplishment and pleasure for Miss Winther. In her frayed shawl, surrounded by old things, she didn’t look like a wealthy woman, but soon, she would be.

All the painstaking work of restitution had led to this moment. Tess spread a multipage contract on the table. “Here’s the agreement with Sheffield Auction House, my firm. It’s standard, but you’ll want to go over it with a contracts expert.”

A timer dinged, and Miss Winther got up from the table. “The scones are ready. My favorites—I make them with lavender sugar. It’s an old Danish recipe for autumn. You sit tight, dear, and I’ll fix the tea.”

Tess pressed her teeth together and tried not to seem impatient, though she had more appointments and work to do at the office. Honestly, she didn’t want a scone, with or without lavender sugar. She didn’t want tea. Coffee and a cigarette were more to her taste and definitely more suited to the pace of her life. She’d been running since she’d rocketed out of grad school five years before, and she was in a hurry now. The quicker she brought the signed agreement to her firm, the quicker she earned her bonus and could move on to the next transaction.

However, the nature of her profession often called for forbearance. People became attached to their things, and sometimes letting go took time. Miss Winther had gone to a lot of trouble to make scones. Knowing what she knew about the Winther family, Tess wondered what the woman felt when she reminisced about the old days—fear and privation? Or happier times, when her family had been intact?

As she bustled around her old-fashioned kitchen, Miss Winther would pause every so often in front of a little framed mirror by the door, gazing at the necklace with a faraway look in her eyes. Tess wondered what she saw there—her pretty, adored mother? An innocent girl who had no idea her entire world was about to be snatched away?

“Tell me about what you do,” Miss Winther urged her, pouring tea into a pair of china cups. “I would love to hear about your life.”

“I guess you could say finding treasure is in my blood.”

Miss Winther gave a soft gasp, as though Tess’s statement surprised her. “Really?”

“My mother is a museum acquisitions expert. My grandmother had an antiques salon in Dublin.”

“So you come from a line of independent women.”

Nicely put, thought Tess. Her gaze skated away. She wasn’t one to chat up a client for the sake of making a deal, but she genuinely liked Miss Winther, perhaps because the woman seemed truly interested in her. “Neither my mother nor my grandmother ever married,” she explained. “I’ll probably carry on that tradition, as well. My life is too busy for a serious relationship.” Gah, Tess, listen to yourself, she thought. Say it often enough and you’ll believe it.

“Well. I suspect that’s only because the right person hasn’t come along...yet. Pretty girl like you, with all that gorgeous red hair. I’m surprised some man hasn’t swept you off your feet.”

Tess shook her head. “My feet are planted firmly on the ground.”

“I never married, either.” A wistful expression misted her eyes. “I was in love with a man right after the war, but he married someone else.” She paused to admire the stone once again. “It must be so exciting, the work of a treasure hunter.”

“It takes a lot of research, which most people would find tedious. So many dead ends and disappointments,” said Tess. “Most of my time is spent combing archives and old records and catalogs. It can be frustrating. But so worthwhile when I get to make a restitution like this. And every once in a great while, I might find myself peeling away a worthless canvas to find a Vermeer beneath. Or unearthing a fortune under a shepherd’s hut in a field somewhere. Sometimes it’s a bit macabre. The plunder might be stashed in a casket.”

Miss Winther shuddered. “That’s ghoulish.”

“When people have something to hide, they tend to put it where no one would want to look. Your piece wasn’t stored in a dramatic hiding place. It was tagged and neatly cataloged, along with dozens of other illegally seized pieces.”

Miss Winther arranged the scones just so with a crisp linen napkin in a basket, and brought them to the table.

Tess took a warm scone, just to be polite.

“It sounds as though you like your work,” Miss Winther said.

“Very much. It’s everything to me.” As she said the words aloud, Tess felt a wave of excitement. The business was fast-paced and unpredictable, and each day might bring an adrenaline rush—or crushing disappointment. Tess was having a banner year; her accomplishments were bringing her closer to the things she craved like air and water—recognition and security.

“That sounds just wonderful. I’m certain you’ll get exactly what you’re looking for.”

“In this business, I’m not always sure what that is.” Tess sneaked another glance at the clock on the stove.

Miss Winther noticed. “You have time to finish your tea.”

Tess smiled, liking this woman almost in spite of herself. “All right. Would you like me to leave the contract with you or—”

“That’s not necessary,” the old lady said, touching the faceted pink topaz. “I won’t be selling this.”

Tess blinked, shook her head a little. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My mother’s lavaliere.” She pressed the piece against her bosom. “It’s not for sale.”

Tess’s heart plummeted. “With this piece, you could have total security for the rest of your life.”

“Every last shred of security was stripped from me forever by the Nazis,” Miss Winther pointed out. “And yet I survived. You’ve given me back my mother’s favorite thing.”

“As you say, it’s a thing. An object you could turn into comfort and peace of mind for the rest of your days.”

“I’m comfortable and secure now. And if you don’t believe memories are worth more than money, then perhaps you’ve not made the right kind of memories.” She regarded Tess with knowing sympathy.

Tess tried not to dwell on all the hours she’d spent combing through records and poring over research in order to make the restitution. If she thought about it too much, she’d probably tear out her hair in frustration. She tended to protect herself from memories, because memories made a person vulnerable.

“You must think I’m being a sentimental old fool.” Miss Winther nodded. “I am. It’s a privilege of old age. I have no debt, no responsibilities. Just me and the cats. We like our life exactly as it is.”

Tess took a sip of strong tea, nearly wincing at its bitterness.

“Oh! The sugar bowl. I forgot,” said Miss Winther. “It’s in the pantry, dear. Would you mind getting it?”

The pantry contained a collection of dusty cans and jars, its walls and shelves cluttered with collectibles, many of them still bearing handwritten garage sale stickers.

“It’s just to the right there,” said Miss Winther. “On the spice shelf.”

Tess picked up the small, footed bowl. Almost instantly, a tingle of awareness passed through her. One of the first things she’d learned in her profession was to tune into something known as the “heft” or “feel” of the piece. Something that was real and authentic simply had more substance than a fake or knockoff.

She set the tarnished bowl on the table and tried to keep a poker face as she studied the object. The sweep of the handles and the effortless swell of the bowl were unmistakable. Even the smoky streaks of age couldn’t conceal the fact that the piece was sterling, not plate.

“Tell me about this sugar bowl,” she said, using the small tongs to pick up a cube. Sugar tongs. They were even more rare than the bowl.

“It’s handsome, isn’t it?” Miss Winther said. “But the very devil to keep clean. I was not in a terribly practical frame of mind when I picked it up at a church rummage sale long ago. It’s been decades. Rummage sales have always been a weakness of mine. I’m afraid I’ve brought home any number of bright, pretty things that just happened to catch my eye. Once I get something home, though, it’s anyone’s guess whether or not I’ll actually use it.”

“This is quite a find,” Tess said, holding it up to check the bottom, and seeing the expected hallmark there.

“In what way?”

Could she really not know? “Miss Winther, this bowl is a Tiffany, and it appears to be genuine.”

“Goodness, you don’t say.”

“There’s a style known as the Empire set, very rare, produced in a limited edition. I’d have to do more research, but my sense is, this could be extremely valuable.” Not that it would matter to the old lady, who preferred her artifacts to cash. “It’s a lovely piece, regardless,” Tess conceded.

“What a surprising aspect of your job,” Miss Winther said, clasping her hands in delight. “Sometimes you stumble across a treasure when you’re looking for something else entirely.”

Tess watched the sugar cube dissolve in her cup. “It keeps my job interesting.”

“Tell me, is this something your firm would sell?” asked Miss Winther.

“It’s possible, though even with the sugar tongs, a single piece—”

“I didn’t mean just the bowl. I meant the entire set.”

Tess dropped her spoon on the table with a clatter. “There’s a set?”

Two

Seated at a view table in San Francisco’s best bar, Tess was drinking a dirty martini, salty with olive brine. The olives were the closest thing she’d have to dinner. As always, she had worked right up until happy hour.

She worked. That was who she was and what she did with herself. She worked...and she counted herself lucky to have a job she loved. Yet meeting Miss Winther, seeing the old lady all alone with her cats, had unsettled Tess. The encounter tapped into her most secret fear—that she would go through life alone and end up surrounded by treasures with no one to share them with. Working kept her from thinking too hard about how alone she was.

Backing away from the thought, she reminded herself of today’s accomplishment and of the fact that she had good friends to celebrate with. She and her friends had a standing happy hour at the Top of the Mark, crowning the historic Mark Hopkins Hotel perched at the pinnacle of Russian Hill. It was a San Francisco landmark, ultra-touristy, but known locally for its stunning views, well-made martinis and live music.

Thanks to her peripatetic childhood, she’d grown up with very little in the way of friends and family. Yet here in the heart of San Francisco, she’d made her own family, a small and convivial tribe of people like her—young professionals who were independent and ambitious. And fun—gypsies and geniuses, hard workers who also remembered to kick back.

There was Lydia, an interior designer who was a constant source of client referrals for Tess. She found things like Duncan Phyfe sofas and Stickley tables stashed in people’s attics and storage units. She understood the adrenaline surge of a treasure hunt better than anyone Tess knew. The third member of their trio was Neelie, a wine broker who sometimes did business with Sheffield House. She had brought a new guy along tonight, Russell, who couldn’t keep his eyes off her boobs. Neelie kept sending secret text messages to Tess’s phone: Well? What do you think of him?

He can’t keep his eyes off your boobs.

You say that like it’s a bad thing.

The two of them grinned at one another and lifted their glasses.

“You two look like you’re up to something,” said Jude Lockhart, a guy Tess worked with at Sheffield.

“That’s because we are,” she said, patting the seat beside her.

Jude gave each of them a kiss and shook hands with Nathan, who was Lydia’s steady boyfriend. Neelie introduced him to Russell, her date.

Tess loved the ease and charm of her friends; she loved that they were all still young and fun enough to meet and hang out after work. She especially loved that tonight, she had something to celebrate and friends with whom to share her news.

“I hit the jackpot today,” she said.

“Ooh, spill,” said Neelie. She turned to her date and explained, “Tess is a professional treasure hunter—really. She’s like a modern-day Indiana Jones.”

“Not exactly,” said Tess. “I didn’t have to fight off any snakes today.” She told them about finding the Tiffany service at Miss Winther’s. “It turns out she used to be a garage sale addict and a bit of a hoarder. Most of the things she had were junk, but I found some other pieces, too.” She described the set of Ludwig Moser cordial glasses, a smallish woodcut image, pencil-signed by Charles H. Richert, and a jade cuff from pre-war China. With no particular sentimental attachment to any of the pieces, Miss Winther had cheerfully agreed to consign them to Sheffield House.

“Damn, girl,” said Neelie, lifting her green apple martini. “Good work.”

Everyone around the lounge table raised their glasses. “If you don’t watch out, you’re going to get yourself promoted,” said Jude.

Tess felt a thrill of nervousness. She knew she was being considered for a position in New York City, a big move in more ways than one. It would represent a huge leap for her, vaulting her to the top of her profession. Jude regarded her with a combination of respect and envy. Somehow, they’d managed to be associates without becoming rivals.

When Tess had first met Jude at an auction in London, she’d developed a severe crush on him. After all, it wasn’t every day you met a guy with an Oxford education and the face of a matinee idol. The crush hadn’t lasted, though. She quickly discovered they were too much alike—skittish about relationships, mystified by people who flung themselves into crazy love and ended up getting hurt. Eventually, the two of them had settled into a comfortable friendship. They were work colleagues, drinking buddies, and sometimes during the lonely times of the year—like the holidays—they pretended together that the loneliness didn’t matter.

“Leave it to Tess to find a fortune in some old lady’s pantry,” said Lydia, snuggling close to Nathan. The two of them shared a private look, then Nathan gestured at a passing waiter.

Jude nodded. “Tess seems to have a thing with little old ladies. My favorite is that time she found the program from a Giants game, signed by Willie Mays, in a client’s piano bench along with her sheet music.”

“She remembered he was ‘such a nice young man,’” Tess said, smiling at the memory. “She had no idea she was sitting on a treasure every time she sat down at the piano to play ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’”

“I swear, you have the Midas touch,” said Neelie.

She laughed. “Hey, don’t put that on me. Remember, Midas was the guy who turned everything to gold, including his little kid.”

“I thought you didn’t like kids,” Jude pointed out.

“But I like Cheetos. What would happen if all my Cheetos turned to gold?”

“The world would come to an end,” said Lydia. “Besides, you do too like kids, Tess. You just don’t want to admit it and seem uncool.”

“I like kids and I’m totally cool,” Neelie pointed out. “And you’ll come around, Tess. Even people who don’t like kids fall in love when they have their own.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Jude protested. “Watch it, Russell, my man. That ticking sound you hear? That’s her biological clock.”

Russell put his arm around his date. “I think I can handle her.”

“I don’t need handling,” Neelie protested. “Cuddling, yes. Handling, not so much.”

Tess’s phone vibrated, signaling an incoming call, and she paused to check it. Not recognizing the number, she let it go to voice mail. There, she thought. I’m not all work and no play. I can resist a buzzing phone.

“Speaking of things that are great...” Nathan gestured at the waiter, who had just showed up with a bottle of Cristal and a tableside bucket.

“Cristal?” said Tess. “I didn’t realize my work story was that awesome.”

“There’s more awesome news.” He stood up as two older couples entered the bar area, a few younger people trailing behind.

“What’s going on?” Jude asked.

With obvious excitement, Nathan introduced everyone to his and Lydia’s parents, and various brothers and sisters. Family resemblances were fascinating to Tess. Lydia’s two sisters looked like slightly skewed versions of Lydia herself, sharing her nut-brown hair and button nose. Nathan’s dad was tall and gangly like his son. An air of excitement swirled around them.

Families were the ultimate mystery. As much as they fascinated her, they also struck her as messy and complicated. Yet she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what it must feel like to be surrounded by people you were connected to by blood and history.

Her friends were her family, her job was her life, and she had a dream for her future. But every once in a while, an intense yearning slipped in, sharp as a slender blade.

“Lydia and I wanted to get everyone together tonight,” Nathan was saying. “Our families and our closest friends. We have an announcement.”

“No way.” Neelie clasped her hands over her mouth, and her eyes sparkled with delight.

Tess’s heart sped up, because she suddenly knew what was coming next.

Nathan smiled with a glow of happiness so intense, Tess imagined she could feel the warmth of it. “Mom and Dad, Barb and Ed, we’re engaged!” Lydia took a small green box from her pocket and placed the diamond solitaire on her finger.

Lydia’s mother squealed—squealed—and the two of them shared a hug, their eyes closing blissfully. The sisters joined the group, and the two families comingled. Hugs and handshakes made the rounds. Neelie, ever the organizer, immediately took charge of finding out the date, the venue, the wedding party, the wine list.

Watching the happy couple, Tess was surprised to feel the burn of tears behind her eyes and a lump in her throat. “Congratulations, my friend,” she said to Lydia. “I’m so, so happy for you.”

Lydia clasped Tess’s hands. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. Can you believe it, me, getting married?”

Tess laughed past her tears. “We used to swear marriage was for girls who have no imagination.” She recalled the late-night dorm-room drunk-a-logues they used to indulge in when they were roommates just out of school. Whatever happened to those girls? Tess didn’t miss the drinking, but she did miss the camaraderie. Even as she felt a surge of happiness for her friend, there was another feeling tucked away in a dark corner of her heart. She felt the tiniest twinge of envy.

“That was before I learned what this kind of love felt like.” Lydia gazed adoringly at Nathan, who had abandoned his glowing-with-happiness look and was now chugging a beer, oblivious to the female sentiment. “Now I’m unbearable. Lately all I dream about doing is keeping house and making babies.” She giggled at Tess’s aghast expression. “Don’t worry. It’s not contagious.”

“I’m not worried. Just promise me you’ll talk about other things, too.”

“Of course we will. No talk of domesticity until it’s your turn.”

Tess admired the ring, a brilliant marquise cut diamond in a platinum setting. It was remarkable, seeing her friend so proudly displaying it, a glittery symbol declaring to the world that someone loved her, that she was no longer going it alone. “Don’t hold your breath,” Tess said. “I don’t actually want a turn.”

“You say that now. Just wait until you’ve met Prince Charming.”

“If you spot him, feel free to give him my number.”

Lydia went to show off her ring to her sisters and in-laws-to-be. Neelie was already taking down dress sizes for the bridal party. Still a bit startled by the emotion that sneaked up on her, Tess dabbed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin.

“I completely agree,” Jude said, moving next to her. “This is a tragic turn of events.”

“Don’t be mean. Look how happy they are.” She watched as Lydia’s family gathered around her—mom, dad, two look-alike sisters—and felt a lump in her throat again.

“Look at you, swept up in the romance of it all,” Jude said, studying the happy couple. Lydia and Nathan couldn’t keep their eyes off each other.

She sighed. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Come on, Delaney. You just said not to hold my breath until it’s your turn. Don’t go all soft and mushy on me.”

“Why not? Lots of people like things that are soft and mushy.”

“People in old age homes, maybe.”

“Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Then pour me another drink. I’m celebrating tonight, too,” she reminded him.

He refilled her champagne flute. “Ah, yes. We’re celebrating the fact that you’ve done the firm out of a Holmstrom original.”

“Don’t be bitter. We’re getting a mint condition Tiffany service, right down to the sugar tongs. The other things, as well.”

“I’d rather have it all. What was the old lady thinking, that hanging on to the necklace is going to bring her mother back from a Nazi death camp?”

“Gee, how about I ask her exactly that?” Tess drank more champagne.

“Okay, sorry. I’m sure you tried your best.”

“She’s a nice lady. Kind, filled with stories. I wish I had more time to spend with her. Do me a favor, and get a ton of money for her Tiffany.”

“Of course. I’ll send over our best appraiser. By the way, Nathan’s brother is checking you out.” He glanced over her shoulder.

“And?”

“And, are you available?”

“If you mean, am I seeing someone at the moment, the answer is no.”

“What happened to Motorcycle Dude?”

“Rode off into the sunset without me,” she confessed.

“And Popeye the Sailor Man?”

She laughed. “The navy guy, you mean. Eldon sailed off into the sunset. What is it with guys and sunsets?”

“You seem heartbroken.”

“Not.” In order to have her heart broken, she had to give it into someone’s care, and she simply wasn’t willing to do that. Too dangerous, and men were too careless. Both her mother and her grandmother were proof of that. Tess was determined not to become a third-generation loser. Tess knew what she was good at—primarily, her work. In that arena, she was in control; she had been raised to keep a firm grip on things. Matters of the heart, however, were impossible to control. She found intimacy unsettling, especially in light of her friends’ defection to marriage and even starting families.