The Cherry Harvest (7 page)

“Not to eat,” Kate said quickly, “but to trade. After all, what are my rabbits worth if I can't make it at the university?”

CHARLOTTE PUT THREE QUARTS
of goat's milk into the front wicker basket of her bicycle and two butchered rabbits into the back and then peddled down Orchard Lane, fat tires bumping along the gravel. The lane led through rows and rows of cherry trees, fragrant now with pink and white blossoms and buzzing with bees. Within two months, blossoms would turn to fruit, and as long as God didn't damn them with pestilence, flood, drought, disease, or frost, Charlotte would be making cherry pies by the end of July. Drought was unlikely at this point, but the others remained real possibilities. At the end of the lane Charlotte veered onto County Trunk Q, north toward town.

In summers past, this road hummed with traffic, families heading for orchards and beaches, merchant trucks delivering supplies. But there were few tourists now. And with tires and gasoline in short supply, the only vehicles Charlotte passed were occasional farm trucks hauling feed or animals.

But here was crazy Walter, sitting proud on the seat of his hay cart filled with junk, tapping the hind end of his ancient mule. With
his long gray hair and beard, he could be Jesus's own grandfather. He waved and gave a toothless grin. Charlotte waved back.

When Charlotte reached Turtle Bay, the early sun was slanting across the paved road, touching the town with golden light. She rode past the Farmers' Co-op, Ginny's Dress Shoppe, the credit union, and the barbershop where Old Man Berger's yellow mutt lay sleeping. Down the street she breathed in the yeasty warm fragrance wafting from the open door of the bakery. And there was Ellie Jensen, putting up a sign on the window of her dry goods store.

“Morning, Charlotte.”

“Morning, Ellie.”

Charlotte parked her bicycle in front of Zwicky's Market. Inside the clean, orderly shop, Catherine Zwicky readily accepted the goat's milk in trade for a pound of potatoes, a quarter-pound of flour, a tin of salt, a cup of Crisco, and a small jar of applesauce.

Charlotte put her bundles into the baskets and pushed her bicycle down the block to the butcher shop. Through the plate-glass window she watched the butcher's widow arranging fresh cuts of meat in the cooler, then opened the door, setting the bell jangling. “Morning, Olga.” She gave the old woman the warmest smile she could muster.

Olga wiped her hands on her bloodstained apron and pushed strands of gray hair back into a tidy bun. “Mornin', Charlotte.”

Charlotte placed the package on the counter. “Two of Kate's young rabbits. Dressed, ready for stewing.”

Olga's eyebrows went up. She untied the string around the newspaper wrapping, a bit of a smile playing on her lips. “What would you like?”

“I need a roast for dinner. Something special. Enough for four.”

“Four? Is Ben home?”

Charlotte was startled with the possibility, then regained her composure. “I wish he were.” But no, men and boys didn't return from war unless they were wounded. “I mean, I wish this war would
end and they'd all come home.” She caught sight of the photograph of Olga's son, Martin, hanging behind the counter. Thirty-seven years old, Charlotte's very age, missing in action somewhere in Asia. Shortly after Olga and her husband received the telegram, the butcher had a heart attack. Now Olga was alone.

The widow blinked fast for a moment, wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

Peering into the meat cooler, Charlotte's eyes flashed on a pink pork tenderloin, large enough to stretch for two days. It was worth more than the rabbits, Charlotte knew, but that was what she wanted. “The pork, is it fresh?”

“Just this mornin'.” Olga nodded. “Eric Engel, ya know, does business with hog farmers downstate, brought in a good haul. I got so much in the storage freezer, gonna make sausage tonight.”

Ah, so that was why she was letting it go so easily. “I'll take it then.”

Olga smiled as she wrapped the beautiful roast in white butcher paper.

As Charlotte left the shop she noted that Olga was placing Kate's rabbits prominently in the cooler.

HEAT LIGHTNING COURSED THROUGH THE HUMID SKY
. A coming storm.

It was late in the afternoon when Charlotte lit the kitchen stove. For two nights now they'd had the lightkeeper's fish for dinner. Tonight would be a roast. She hummed as she pulled the roasting pan from the cupboard. So long since she had used it! She oiled the roast and set it in the pan and salted it.

That was when she saw them, Thomas and that Becker fellow walking toward the barn. And there was Kate, riding into the yard. Charlotte watched as Thomas motioned Kate over and brought her into their conversation.

She didn't like it, this prisoner coming into her home, Thomas expecting his wife to serve a killer. Charlotte stared at the beautiful roast. Becker could have eaten his prison rations with the rest of them. She stood for a moment, watching the three of them. Maybe she should cancel the whole thing—the invitation, Kate's lessons. No good could come of it.

When Charlotte opened the oven door, heat pulsed out like anger. She slid the roast in and slammed the door shut.

Holding to the countertop, she took a deep breath to calm herself. No, if this man was to tutor Kate, Charlotte wanted to meet him, decide for herself before any lessons began. If she didn't like him, she'd end it. In the meantime, they'd have a hearty meal.

Kate came through the door, smiling. “I'll be down in a minute to help with supper.” She hurried toward the stairs.

The enthusiasm in Kate's voice worried Charlotte, and only grew when Kate returned to the kitchen dressed in a flattering skirt and a pretty blouse with ruffles.

“You're so fancy for kitchen work.” Charlotte tried to sound nonchalant. She herself wore a simple housedress, as she did every day. “It's not as if we're having company. This man's a prisoner.”

“Mr. Becker is a teacher.” Kate took an apron off the hook, pulled the neckband over her head, and tied the waist straps. “Besides, if Ben were taken prisoner, we would want the Germans to show respect.”

Charlotte tensed. “Ben is fighting for freedom and justice.” She looked into her daughter's soft blue eyes. “Maybe this man can teach you math, but he fights on the side of evil.”

THE KITCHEN WAS WARM
and moist with humidity. Charlotte was stirring the pork gravy when she saw the two men approach the back door, dark clouds gathering behind them. She wiped perspiration from her forehead and glanced toward the cupboard drawer where she kept the revolver.

The German was not tall like Thomas, but broad in the shoulders. He moved easily in a strong fit body. Must be about thirty.

As they entered, Charlotte kept her back to them, ostensibly checking on the potatoes Kate was mashing.

“Char,” Thomas said, “this here's Karl Becker.”

When Charlotte turned to look at him, a wild animal lurched inside her chest. She had expected a penitent prisoner, but this man exuded self-confidence, control.

He had close-cut hair like the rest of them, but it was growing out a bit, dark, neatly oiled and combed. His mouth was a straight line, serious. He had a hard jaw and blue-gray eyes that made her stare. Not the warm blue of Ben's eyes, she was glad of that. No, these were icy eyes, wolf eyes, reflecting rather than inviting. She shuddered.

“My wife, Mrs. Christiansen,” Thomas said.

“Mrs. Christiansen.” Becker stood at attention, gave a slight bow. She was relieved he didn't click his heels.

Why had she agreed to this? This Nazi in her home? She wiped her hands on her apron to steady herself, then faced him, eye-to-eye, unsmiling. “You'll join us for supper.” Not a question, not requesting an answer, not even a howdy-do. No, it had been decided for him. She would go through with this tonight, and that would be the end of it. She need never see him again.

“
Danke
.” He breathed in deeply through flared nostrils, as if Charlotte's words had entitled him to the sensual pleasures of her kitchen. She felt perversely exposed.

“Such an aroma I have not enjoyed in so long.” The edges of his mouth curved up gently, a deceptively innocent smile. And dimples! Evil people weren't supposed to have dimples. She must have been staring because he raised an eyebrow, and his eyes grew warm, open, intimate, as if seeking some deep secret within her. Her cheeks burned.

The breeze through the window carried Becker's musky scent to her. She had to get away from him.

“Thomas, please show Mr. Becker to the parlor.”

When the two men had left, Kate was at Charlotte's side. “Mother, are you all right? Everything's ready to serve.”

Charlotte had forgotten her daughter, forgotten everything except the visceral presence of that man in her kitchen. “Just give me a minute.” She hurried out through the door and ran until she reached a budding cherry tree. She put her hand against the solid trunk and inhaled the earthiness of the fertile soil. Thomas had told her that Becker was intellectual, but she sensed something else, something more physical—this man lived in his body.

A wind from the west cooled her cheeks and brought the taste of coming rain. Lightning coursed across the sky, followed by a long rolling thunder. Another flash. She breathed it in, then walked slowly back to the kitchen.

THE SMALL DINING ROOM TABLE SEATED FOUR
. There were leaves somewhere but they hadn't been used for years. After they were settled, Charlotte realized that Becker was sitting at Ben's place, and she resented him for that.

He ate in a peculiar way, keeping the fork tongs upside down in his left hand, pushing things with the knife in his right. His English had a formal accent to it, British perhaps, but he had a pleasant tenor voice, melodious almost, and she disliked him for that too.

He was asking Kate questions about how she spent her days. Kate told him about riding her bicycle to Turtle Bay, caring for her rabbits, visiting Josie at the lighthouse. Was he fishing for enemy information? Charlotte thought of Marta's warning and changed the focus of the conversation. “How do you find the work in the orchard?”

“I enjoy to work in your orchard, to get my hands dirty.”

“Well, then, you need to know that Mr. Christiansen is the number-one cherry grower in all of Door County.”

“My congratulations.” Becker held up his glass of water to Thomas as if to toast.

“He brings in the best yields year after year,” Charlotte said. “He went to the university and specialized in . . . what's that subject?” She looked to her husband.

“Agronomy. But I didn't quite finish.”

“You would have if it weren't for the fire.” Charlotte turned to Becker. “He's an expert on yields and pests and diseases, and everyone asks for his help and he always gives it.”

Thomas nodded. “I like helping the other growers. It's good for all of us.”

Becker took a bite of pork roast, swallowed, then glanced back and forth from Thomas to Charlotte. “Did you both grow up in this area, may I ask?”

Thomas patted his mouth with his napkin. “Mrs. Christiansen grew up on a dairy farm downstate.” He grinned. “When I tasted her pies, I knew she was the one.”

“Just because of my pies?” Charlotte tossed her hair and laughed.

He winked toward Becker. “I asked her to make me a cherry pie, and she said she would if she had the cherries. She wanted an orchard and I wanted a cherry pie. So we had to get married.”

Kate laughed. “Oh Father, that's silly.”

“All right. That wasn't all. Char—Mrs. Christiansen—is one of the best businesswomen I've ever met, smart as any man I know.” He paused, serious. “She runs this farm like a well-oiled engine.”

“You've got to taste Mother's cherry pie.” Kate looked so pretty. She sat up tall and straight and proper, her long blond hair pulled aside with a bobby pin, wide blue eyes trained on this man Charlotte feared. Charlotte watched Becker's response. Any sign of interest would be the end of the lessons.

“I feel blessed to be on your farm,” he said to Thomas. “You are all kind. You treat us as if we belong.”

“We feel blessed as well,” Thomas said. “It was actually Mrs. Christiansen's idea for you to work in the orchard.” He scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Christiansen,” Becker said. “I grew up on a small farm. I like helping to grow things. Cabbages, potatoes, turnips, greens. And flowers. My
Mutter,
she loves flowers.” Becker's dimples deepened. “You must love flowers as well, Mrs. Christiansen.”

Flowers, yes, she did love flowers, but she didn't have room in her garden for such extravagance.

“You grew up on a farm but decided to leave, to teach?” Thomas asked. “Same as me. Whaddya know.”

“No. I wanted to stay on the farm. My brother, he will inherit it. He is married with children. His family lives there with
Mutter
.”