Free Sour Apples by Sheila Connolly Page B

persuasive when she wants to be. Does that answer your question?”
    Bree shrugged. “Sort of. Look, I know she’s your friend and all, but it’s my job to keep the orchard stuff on track, and for that I need you to be working with me, not off playing with your pal.”
    “Bree, I know that,” Meg said tartly. “And I’ll make that clear to Lauren, if I haven’t already. But cut me some slack, will you? I don’t get to see her very often. Is that your only problem with her?”
    “I don’t like the way she breezed in here and mostly ignored me. The only interest she’s shown toward me was whether my boyfriend could put her—or Rick—together with a local interest group. Hey, I’m a voter, too.”
    “I can see your point. Maybe she’ll learn as the campaign goes on—she’s still new to this.”
    “Maybe.” Bree stood up and took her dishes to the sink. “You ready to head up the hill?”
    Before Meg could answer, a truck pulled into the driveway. She expected it to be Seth’s, but she saw that it was Ethan Truesdell again. Meg took her own dishes to the sink and watched as Ethan slid out of the driver’s seat and stalked toward Seth’s office. Since Meg knew Seth wasn’t there yet, she wasn’t surprised when Ethan reappeared a few moments later and headed toward her back door. She opened it before he knocked.
    He said without preamble, “Where’s Chapin?”
    She studied him briefly: he looked worse today than he had yesterday. Not surprising—hearing that your wife had been murdered would hit anyone hard. She couldn’t begin to understand how he must feel. She realized why the oldplatitudes were still useful: you couldn’t say nothing. “He isn’t here yet. I was sorry to hear about Joyce,” she said.
    “Thanks. Did you know her well?”
    “Unfortunately not—I only met her once. It’s too bad we didn’t have more of a chance to talk, since we probably face a lot of the same problems, as small farmers.”
    Ethan sighed. “At least you can leave your apples alone now and then. Cows won’t wait.”
    Of course, no wonder Ethan looked so drained. Meg realized that on top of his bereavement, he was also probably handling all the work at the dairy at the moment, now that there was no one to share it with. Even Meg knew that cows had to be milked daily, no matter what else was going on, like grieving. She returned to Ethan’s original question. “I don’t know what Seth’s schedule is today. Did you try his cell phone?”
    “Yeah, but he’s not answering. He’s not at his house either. You expect him?”
    “I don’t know—I don’t keep track of his business.” Poor Ethan, Meg thought. He really looked strung out, and she felt sorry for him. “Look, you want to come in and wait for a bit? Have some coffee, maybe?”
    Ethan looked startled at the suggestion and then nodded. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.” He came into the kitchen, bringing a faint whiff of cow manure with him.
    Bree looked up, surprised that Meg had invited him in. “Meg, I’ll go out and set up the sprayer and haul it up to the orchard with the tractor. Don’t take too long, okay?”
    “I’ll be up soon, don’t worry. You want something to eat?” she asked Ethan, who looked as though he hadn’t eaten a real meal in days, which could well be true.
    “Don’t go to any trouble.” He sat heavily in a kitchen chair.
    “No problem.” Meg boiled water for another pot of coffee, stalling while she tried to figure out what to say to Ethan, whose wife was newly dead, whose body he haddiscovered, who police said had been murdered. A tragic accident was bad enough; murder was so much worse. When it was ready, Meg poured the coffee and found some blueberry muffins in the refrigerator, then sat down across from Ethan. “Have you always wanted to be a dairy farmer?”
    He started crumbling a muffin. “No way. I used to be an engineer. Cows were Joyce’s thing. I mean, like ten generations of her family were