Page 90 of Under Story

“Really? What would you do instead?”

“Don’t laugh. It’s only an idea. But I keep thinking that I want to buy an apple orchard.”

Laurel chokes down a strawberry whole.

“Well,” Clare says, “at least you didn’t laugh.”

“I love the idea. But why?”

Clare looks down at her cake. “Look at what’s happened these past hundred years: droughts and food shortages, fires and floods. We’ve just about bled the earth dry. I want to be like you—someone who takes care of it. I know I’d have to go back to school. I liked the forest biology course I took in college.”

“I’d help,” Laurel says. Then, before she can stop herself: “There’s an orchard off the beltline, near McFarland.”

“Is it for sale?”

“I don’t think so. But we could keep an eye on it.”

To have the orchard again!—Laurel’s whole spirit inflates. She also thinks of Pete. For more than a year, Laurel has resisted the impulse to ask about him, but this time, she doesn’t stop herself.

“Mom,” she ventures, “do you know anything about my father?”

Clare sets down her fork.

“In my head,” she says, “I’ve asked you that so many times.”

“Why would you ask me?”

“Well, the overtakers will contact you, won’t they? You’re the one with the genetic link.”

“That’s right,” says Laurel. “Of course.”

Clare frowns. To dodge the inquiry in her expression, Laurel scans the crowd. Eli stands under a tree, fielding a gaggle of Clare’s friends. He lifts his eyes, as if he senses Laurel’s, and excuses himself. The older women are clearly miffed to see him go.

“Careful,” Clare says when he joins them. “Lois is a man-eater, and she doesn’t care who’s married.”

“Close call, then,” says Eli.

Thankfully, Clare is distractable: as the fiddler speeds up, she seems to set aside the question of Laurel’s father.

“I love this song,” she says. “Let’s dance.”

“You go ahead. We’ll watch,” says Laurel.

Clare has already danced with Eli’s father and led a grapevine the length of several songs. She even took a turn with Walter, swaying under an oak tree while guests looked on nosily.

“For goodness’ sake,” she says, “you two haven’t danced all night. By the looks of it, you could be the ones divorcing.”

Laurel cringes at Eli, but he’s smiling, relaxed in the way he always is by beer, though she can tell he isn’t drunk. He puts his bottle down and says, “Why not?”

Thank God, it’s not a slow song, and no one pays them much attention. At first, they maintain an arm’s length of distance, moving less together than in tandem. Eli has always been surprisingly fearless about dancing in public: he has natural rhythm and a skateboarder’s deftness. He extends his hand for a spin, drawing her out, and suddenly they’re dancing like they have at countless weddings in the past, Laurel doing a shimmy, Eli leading an exaggerated dip. Only when the band packs up do they peel off for water.

“Gazebo,” says Eli, panting.

They bring their cups to a structure on the outskirts of the party, six-sided with stone steps and a layer of blown-in leaves. Eli rolls up his shirtsleeves. Laurel carries her sandals in one hand. When they sit, she fans her dress over her thighs.

It occurs to Laurel that she’s happy. “We still make a good team.”

“Against all odds,” says Eli.