I find Dad in the nearest orchard, up a ladder. The leafy branches of the peach trees are drooping with the weight of the fat orange globes attached to them. They look like thousands of miniature setting suns.
“Hi, Dad. Coffee for you,” I call.
“Great!”
There’s a wooden crate nearby so I use my foot to gently toe it over into an upside-down position before placing the tray on this makeshift table.
Dad, meanwhile, eases himself down the ladder, one hand gripping the rungs, the other clutching a wicker basket. He has a twig lodged in his unkempt hair.
“You be careful up on that thing,” I caution.
Although Dad used to be a groundskeeper, he was promoted to student services coordinator during his time at Indiana University Bloomington, and in recent years has spent more time sitting behind a desk than toiling outside in the elements.
“Always,” he replies with a smile, setting the basket down on the ground and groaning slightly as he straightens up, the buttons on his blue-and-black-checked shirt straining as he leans into a backward stretch.
The checks recall Anders in his large-checked black-and-mustard shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, worn open over a faded black T-shirt with black jeans and desert boots, though that outfit was a world away from anything my dad would wear.
“So, a storm is coming, hey?” I ask, trying to tug my thoughts away from Anders as I unpeel my banana.
“Looks like it,” Dad replies, scrutinizing the sky, his coffee cup now wedged in his hand. “Thunder and lightning, all things frightening.”
“That’s what Mum used to say.”
“I know she did,” he replies, not meeting my eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. He places his mug on the tray and turns over another couple of crates, gesturing for me to take a seat. “How was your night with Bailey?”
“Good. Feeling a bit rough today, though.”
“You two drink much?” Dad asks, assuming my flat mood is entirely to do with my hangover.
“Quite a bit.”
Dad tuts and shakes his head, his crate creaking. “So who’s the bad influence?”
I don’t know if he genuinely wants an answer or if he’s teasing me, but I think on it anyway.
“We’re probably both as bad as each other,” I decide, trying to remember if Bailey and I have only ever really clicked when we’ve been under the influence of alcohol.
She’s naturally outgoing and super sociable, and I come out of my shell more when I’ve had a few, so it wouldn’t surprise me.
Dad picks up a cookie, munching away contentedly. He still has that twig in his hair.
“I met your neighboring farmers,” I tell him. “One of them, anyway. They were out at Dirk’s.”
“Patrick and Peggy were at Dirk’s?” Dad asks with surprise.
“No, Anders and Jonas.”
“Oh. Well, Anders doesn’t farm.” He tells me what I already know. “Jonas does, though. He’s been taking over things from his parents.”
“Patrick and Peggy?”
“Yes.”
“I thought they all had Swedish names.”
“Yes, well, Peggy married into the family and it’s Patrik without ac.”
“Ah.” I abstractly pluck that letter out of the spelling of his name.
