The orchard was huge, bigger than any farm I was accustomed to. This was beyond a farmers’ market farm, beyond a roadside stand farm, and much more expansive than Reggie Stuckey’s farm, which was tiny compared to Stephanie’s behemoth. Though Frugit Orchard was beautiful, it had a distinctly industrial feel to it; it was so large and so pristine, I could easily imagine robots shining fence posts and steering tractors. There was just no way this place could look the way it looked by using mere human labor.
But there were no robots in sight as I exited the woods and arrived onto the orchard’s wide, deep front lawn.
Back a ways and in the middle of a valley that was mostly apple trees was Southfork—or at least that’s what my mother called it, because it looked so much like the mansion from the Dallas television show. It was necessary that the house be big; anything smaller would have been dwarfed by the rest of the orchard. Since Stephanie was—or claimed to be—single, unless she had a lot of company, the house must have a constant noise of her echoed footsteps.
Precise rows of apple trees fanned out over the rest of the visible land, seemingly into eternity. There was a barn behind the house, but it was hardly noticeable.
Every time the sun rose, it did so from behind the property, glorifying each inch of acreage. I’d seen the place at sunup; it was stunning.
It had been a few years since I’d ventured out to have a look at Frugit (our nickname for the entire orchard) and I couldn’t remember why I’d made the trip. I’d never once before seen Stephanie working outside, but today was different. She was at the edge of the house and the north orchards, standing on a fence slat and looking toward the trees. She was dressed in tight jeans and a red-and-green button-down shirt. I wondered if she’d been doing some sort of holiday photo shoot. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair was loose and evenly wavy. She glanced in my direction and even from a distance of about fifty yards I could see her wrinkle her nose at my old orange truck.
“Be extra well-behaved while I go talk to the tall, intimidating lady with the great hair, okay?” I said to Hobbit.
Hobbit whined, but it was in the affirmative.
Stephanie didn’t hesitate, but stepped off the fence and walked purposefully toward me. I knew she was somewhere in her early fifties, but she seemed ageless. She was perfect: not only her hair, but her body, her clothing choices. I guessed she sported a precise pedicure under those tan leather cowboy boots. I steered the truck up the driveway and met her at the edge of the property.
My door decided to protest a little more loudly than usual as I pushed it open. I plopped myself off the seat and onto the ground.
“Good girl,” I said to Hobbit when I’d closed the door.
“Can I help you?” Stephanie said as she shaded her eyes with one hand and put the other on a hip. In that pose, she belonged on a postcard.
“I hope so,” I said as I walked toward her. She’d stopped moving, so I thought one of us should close the space. “My name is Becca Robins and I work at Bailey’s Farmers’ Market.” I extended a hand.
I truly thought she’d ignore my gesture, but she surprised me and reached out. “Okay, well, what can I do for you?”
“I . . . well, I was wondering about something.”
Stephanie squinted and began to look impatient. “I’m not setting up a stall at a farmers’ market. My business is too big for that. My apples are too good. Seriously, I’d kill the other apple growers’ business. Not my style. I figure there’s room for us all.”
I paused. Wait, what? She’s being altruistic? I was completely caught off guard.
When my pause went on too long, she smiled quickly and then said, “So, have a nice day.”
I spoke just as she turned to walk away. “Wait, no, I don’t want to talk to you about putting a stall in Bailey’s. I want to talk to you about your ex-husband, Brenton Jones.”
I had her attention again. “Is he okay?”
“Yes, he’s fine.”
“What about him do you want to discuss?”
“Well, first, I wondered if the two of you had been married, but you just confirmed that, so thank you.”
Stephanie Frugit drew her eyebrows together but then relaxed them back to normal an instant later. She smiled. “You might be the first person I’ve ever met in a long time who thinks it’s okay to be so direct. You might not know this, but I’m a little like that myself,” she said.
“I’ve heard.”
Stephanie laughed. It was a loud, ringing laugh that made me want to laugh, too.
“Come in, Becca Robins from Bailey’s Farmers’ Market. I can pour you either an iced tea or a whiskey. You want something stronger or weaker, you’ll have to go elsewhere.” She turned, leaving me on my own to figure out the latch on the closed gate before I could trail behind.