Chapter 23 - The Apple Tree
The apple tree arrived in October.
Emma had researched for two years.
Twelve varieties became six.
Six became three.
Finally, she chose Honeycrisp.
“It survives cold,” she explained.
“So do we,” Daniel said.
He was healthy enough to dig, although everyone yelled at him when he tried.
Vincent dug the hole.
Margaret carried cider.
I stood on the porch with the instructions.
“You’re too deep.”
Vincent looked up.
“I know how to dig a hole.”
“You said that about the bookshelf anchor.”
“That bookshelf is standing.”
“It leans.”
“Architectural character.”
Emma pointed.
“Mom is right.”
Vincent sighed.
“Betrayal.”
We planted the tree near the back fence.
It looked painfully small.
Two branches.
A thin trunk.
No fruit.
Emma stared at it.
“When do we get apples?”
“Maybe next year,” I said.
“Maybe longer,” Vincent added.
She looked horrified.
“That’s terrible.”
Daniel laughed.
“Welcome to agriculture.”
We tied the trunk to two supports.
Emma pressed the soil with her boots.
Then she hung a tiny wooden tag from one branch.
I read it.
THE WAITING TREE.
My chest tightened.
“Why that name?”
She shrugged.
“Because we waited a long time.”
“For apples?”
She looked at me like I was slow.
“For everything.”
Vincent stopped moving.
Emma continued matter-of-factly.
“We waited for Dad to learn stuff.”
Daniel became extremely interested in the shovel.
Margaret looked away.
Vincent crouched.
“You did.”
“We waited for Mom to stop being sad.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“And I waited for my big teeth.”
That saved us.
Everyone laughed.
Emma grinned.
Then she ran inside for cider.
Vincent remained beside the tree.
“That hurt.”
“She wasn’t trying to.”
“I know.”
He touched the wooden tag.
“I made her wait.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t give that time back.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Does that ever stop being true?”
“No.”
He nodded.
Then something changed in his face.
Not despair.
Acceptance.
“I think I finally understand.”
“What?”
“Forgiveness doesn’t rewrite the story.”
“No.”
“It just changes what happens next.”
I reached for his hand.
“Sometimes.”
That winter, the tree went bare.
Emma worried it had died.
“It’s resting,” I told her.
“How do you know?”
“Because the roots are still alive.”
She accepted this reluctantly.
My New York assignment ended in December.
I chose not to stay permanently.
Not because of Vincent.
Not because of Emma.
Because Rebecca offered me leadership of the studio’s public-design practice in Chicago.
My name went on the door in January.
CLAIRE BENNETT, PARTNER.
I stood beneath it for a long time.
Vincent came by after work.
He saw the name.
His eyes filled.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You look emotional.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
He touched the letters lightly.
“Because you used to introduce yourself as Claire Moretti before anything else.”
I looked at him.
“And now?”
“Now I think you could introduce yourself as Claire and people would wait to hear what that means.”
I almost cried.
Instead, I kissed him.
Not carefully.
Not tentatively.
For the first time since our divorce, I kissed him without feeling the past standing between us.
When we separated, he looked stunned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“So are you.”
“That was different.”
“Yes.”
He took a breath.
Then wisely said nothing more.
Outside, snow began falling.
At home, the apple tree disappeared beneath white branches.
It would not produce fruit for months.
Maybe years.
Still, every morning, Emma checked it through the kitchen window.
May you like
Not because she doubted it would grow.
Because she finally understood that some things worth having did not arrive quickly.
