Peaches (6 page)

Murphy watched in astonishment, then looked at Rex, who shrugged at her. He still hadn’t seemed to notice she had breasts. “That’s my girl.” When Leeda surfaced, he barreled in after her.

Murphy stared for another moment, then looked at the tree she’d been sitting under. She reached up to the long limb and wrapped her arms around it, pulling her feet to it like a monkey and yanking herself up. She stood on the limb, holding her hands back behind her against the trunk.

“Oh, Murphy, please don’t. The lake’s shallow. There’re rocks in here.”

Murphy smiled at Leeda, then took a running leap off the tree, squeezing herself into a cannonball and sailing far, far out. She landed and went under. The water was as cool and refreshing as a gin and tonic in August. She let out her breath and let herself sink to the bottom.

When she came back up, Leeda was on top of her, tugging at her by the shoulders to pull her out farther.

“Oh my God, are you okay? Are you okay?”

Murphy spit water in a big fat stream onto Leeda’s face. Leeda’s eyes widened for a second, and then she splashed her back, getting Murphy right up the nostrils. Murphy let out a loud “Ha!”

“You scared the hell out of me!” Leeda squealed.

“Ha ha ha.” Murphy looked over Leeda’s shoulder at Rex.

He had lounged back in the water, fanning his arms out slowly. “We’re very impressed,” he said, sounding the opposite of impressed.

Murphy scowled at him. But she felt the words anyway and the way he looked at her, like she was small. She turned to Leeda with a forced grin. “I think Dad’s mad at me,” she stage-whispered.

Leeda looked behind her at Rex, then down at the water. “There’s probably all sorts of snakes in here and lizards and stuff. I think I’m gonna get out.” As she turned to head to shore, Murphy tackled her waist.

They both went tumbling down, laughing, sending glossy rings rippling across the lake.

L
eeda stretched out on the bank, her wet hair slapping the backs of her shoulders, her chest heaving with her breath. Goose bumps crawled on her skin in the cool spring air. She hadn’t been swimming in ages. Lain by the pool, yes. The Cawley-Smiths had summer whenever they wanted, and she’d spent several winter weekends by pools in L.A., Miami, and the Keys. But she didn’t really like to get wet, and she rarely swam.

Beside her, Rex had splayed out on his back, holding her hand gently in his, the way he always did, like a big brother letting her know he was there. Murphy splashed around in the cold water, occasionally calling to them. “Hey, guys, there’s an alligator, help!” “I’ve got a cramp and I can’t make it to shore.” “Oh my God, what’s that?!” Duck diving. Back diving in little flips in the water.

Her energy was infectious. Leeda remembered Murphy from school clearly now. She was the kind of girl who had always intimidated Leeda—sharp, strong, acid. There was a small percentage of people at Bridgewater High who weren’t interested in Leeda Cawley-Smith in some way. She figured Murphy was probably one of them.

Leeda went to tons of parties. Her friends threw ones where just about everybody invited was nice to look at, there were vodka ice blocks instead of kegs, and everyone fooled around in the bedrooms and passed out. But Murphy was never at those parties.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Leeda called.

In response Murphy leapt into the air and sank beneath the water like a pin, then splashed onto her back and stroked to the other edge.

Leeda glanced at Rex from time to time to see if he was watching.

“I think she has more fun doing nothing than I ever do,” Leeda said.

Rex was looking at the sky. “I think it’s mostly show.”

Leeda watched Murphy a while longer, wondering.

“I guess we should go soon,” she said, yawning. “Hey, Murphy, are you ready to go back?”

Murphy emerged from the water dripping, looking like a fertility goddess with all her curves. “Sure. Whatever.”

They stood up and Leeda shivered, letting Rex put his arm around her and rub her shoulders to warm her up. She led them back through the pecan grove, where the dwarfy, droopy acres of peach trees were replaced by huge stately trunks with crackled, sheathy skins. When they reached it, Murphy let out a breath. “Wow.”

“It’s pretty, huh?”

“Sure,” Murphy said, regaining her edge.

The pecan trees were lined up in two perfect rows. Leeda knew from Uncle Walter that they were at least a hundred and fifty years old and still produced nuts. The Darlingtons had neglected the
pecans for years, but in the summers Poopie sent Birdie to gather them and made a mean pecan pie. Leeda knew it was time-consuming to harvest pecans, and for the first time it occurred to her that maybe they didn’t harvest them because they couldn’t afford to.

“It looks like the land of the giants,” Murphy said.

Leeda had never looked at it that way, but it was true. There was something creepy about the trees standing in rows, holding their branches out above them like the marines had held out their swords at her uncle Gabriel’s military wedding.

“I’ve always hated the woods,” Leeda whispered. “But I like this.”

“This isn’t exactly the woods.”

“I
know
that. I’m just saying, I don’t really like trees.”

Murphy squinted at her, her green eyes narrowed. “How can you not like trees? That’s like not liking water, or the sun, or breathing.”

“She just doesn’t,” Rex said irritably, squeezing Leeda’s arm protectively.

But Murphy didn’t acknowledge him. “You have a childhood tree trauma?”

Leeda nodded. Rex knew all her humiliating childhood stories, but Murphy looked dubious. It made Leeda want to defend herself.

“I used to really like climbing trees when I was little.” She paused, waiting for Murphy to ask her to go on, which Murphy didn’t. “Daddy said it wasn’t ladylike and I shouldn’t do it, but
you
know.”

“Did you have a little pony?” Murphy asked teasingly.

Leeda ignored her. “Anyway, one day I got stuck way up in
one of the trees in the backyard. I called for help, but nobody would come get me down. So I’m traumatized.” She finished quickly because Murphy looked bored, and Leeda prickled with annoyance and embarrassment, shutting her mouth in a tight line.

“Well, how long were you up there?” Murphy asked. Leeda could tell by the tone of her voice that she thought the whole thing was silly.

“Forget it.” She leaned closer to Rex.

“It was about six hours,” Rex answered for her. He always remembered everything.

“Six hours, really,” Murphy said, disbelieving.

Leeda sighed, frustrated, seeing very clearly how Murphy saw her and not liking it. “My mom came out on the deck with a drink in her hand and sat for about an hour and watched, but she didn’t lift a finger. I was crying and crying and she just watched me and drank.” Leeda paused again, remembering the day with the lump in her throat she often got when she thought of things her mom had done to show her how she didn’t measure up. “To teach me a lesson, I guess. I was out there way past dark. My sister thought it was hilarious.”

Murphy’s feet slowed down despite herself.

“I was crying hysterically and then I just stopped and kind of went numb. They sent a maid to get me.” Leeda shrugged, trying to downplay it now.

“That sucks,” Murphy finally said, sounding contrite.

“It really did,” Leeda agreed, and after meditating on it for a few seconds, she added, “I hate trees.”

A few minutes later they emerged along the property line,
where there was a rusted, wildly crooked fence lined with bushes marking the end of the property.

The girls sidled up to the bushes and peered over.

On the other side, it was a different world. A huge, rolling lawn, neatly and tightly trimmed, was punctuated with sand traps, bottlebrush, and imported Italian pines. In the distance was a huge clubhouse, lined on either side with enormous, identical stucco houses.

“Where did that come from?” Murphy asked, sounding shocked.

“It’s the Balmeade Country Club,” Leeda answered. “The owner’s a friend of my dad’s. Well, business friend. Rex works there, busing tables,” she said proudly, wanting badly to prove to Murphy that she wasn’t a snob.

Up until a few years ago she had spent much of each summer at the country club pool with Danay, drinking chocolate malts out of huge frosty glasses. The houses were exclusive, overlooking the eighteenth hole of the club’s golf course, and Leeda’s parents owned one. But she’d stopped going when Danay had left home. And now, with her feet planted in the thick grass of the orchard and the lake water still dripping from the ends of her hair, looking over the fence at the country club was enough to drain something right out of Leeda.

“The owner’s such a creep. He tried to feel me up at Steeplechase last year.” Leeda thought back to how Horatio had woven up to her last spring, a stirrup cup full of Jack Daniel’s in his hand, and stood so close to her that his knuckles kept grazing her chest. He was one of those guys who tried to touch you without you finding out he was touching you. It was also common family knowledge that he had long had his eye on the
Darlingtons’ property, though Walter and Birdie skirted the name Balmeade like the plague at dinner every night. Around the Cawley-Smith dinner table the opinion was that Uncle Walter was selling himself short by holding on to a relic like the orchard, and Leeda had always believed it must be true.

“Horatio Balmeade?” Murphy murmured.

“You know him?” Leeda asked, surprised. She didn’t think somebody like Murphy would.

Murphy was staring across the bushes like she was looking at a snake. She crossed her arms over herself protectively. “I hate him.”

Leeda was about to press further when Rex gave her a meaningful look and interrupted. He pulled Leeda tight to his body and spoke to Murphy over her shoulder.

“I think the Darlingtons hate him too. He wants the farm.”

“Uncle Walter would rather die,” Leeda said, not sure if she was criticizing him or not. She stared out from the shelter of Rex’s chest at the carefully controlled, carefully maintained grounds of the club and tried to imagine that same landscape being where the shaggy pecan trees and the budding peaches and the lake now stood. “But I don’t know if he’ll have much choice.”

Murphy laughed. “So Horatio Balmeade’s gonna take up farming?”

Rex shook his head. “He wants to put in townhouses. And extend the golf course.”

“You don’t know that,” Murphy said, frowning at Rex. Rex eyed her, equally annoyed, even though Rex was rarely annoyed with anyone.

“Well, that’s what Horatio Balmeade says. Over drinks. To people,” he sputtered.

Looking around, it was hard for Leeda to imagine the orchard in financial trouble. It was practically brimming with life. But dinner conversations at the Darlingtons’ told a different story. So did the sinking floors of the house and the outdated machinery. “Things are pretty bad,” she murmured, agreeing. It was sad, really. Leeda had lived in the same town her whole life, but she realized that having the orchard there had always made her feel like she had some kind of root planted in the ground.

“This place has been here forever.” Leeda knew the orchard was one of the oldest in Georgia. While most had either died completely or survived by tacking onto bigger, consolidated orchards (there were four major ones in the state), the Darlington peach orchard had somehow managed to survive. “Maybe they should just declare it a historic landmark or something.”

“You think everything’s so easy, Lee,” Rex said doubtfully.

“It’s toast,” Murphy said, actually agreeing with him.

Leeda looked at her, thinking about Danay in Atlanta. She would never be tromping around with Murphy McGowen in an orchard. She wondered if the orchard gave Danay that rooted feeling too and figured probably not.

“This is where I leave you,” Rex said, tugging Leeda toward him with one hand and giving her a chaste peck on the lips. Murphy watched the kiss curiously and gave Rex a halfhearted wave when he nodded at her before he turned and walked off.

They were standing at the north side of the pecan grove, the dividing line between the orchard and the country club about
thirty yards behind them. As they watched Rex disappear into the darkness, Murphy toyed with the idea of asking Leeda what the kiss had been all about. She’d never seen two extremely attractive people kiss with such lackluster abandon. Maybe they weren’t into PDA. Maybe Leeda didn’t have anything else in her. Murphy was pretty sure that Rex must, but she made her imagination stop at that.

The girls walked toward the dorms in silence, the glow of their dip in the lake fading behind them. The talk about the Balmeade Country Club had been a buzz kill. Murphy had always had a deep distrust for things that were perfect and sterile, like the view over the fence had been, and the fact that that view was connected with Horatio Balmeade was an added down note. The thought that it could spread and envelope the orchard was almost sadistic.

They came at the dorms from the far side of the Darlington house, and Murphy’s heartbeat picked up again as they made their way across the front of the house, skirting the circle of the porch lights. Murphy looked at the cloud-dipped moon. It was probably two. Maybe three.

“What’s that statue?” Murphy whispered as they passed the stairs of the porch and the railing where Poopie had left her little figurine.

Leeda smiled. “That’s one of Poopie’s saints. She has one for everything. If you want to sell a house or if you want to get pregnant or if you’re in trouble for evading your taxes. Everything.”

“Is that a…Mexican thing?” Murphy whispered, surprised she’d be asking Leeda a question about a foreign culture.

Leeda shrugged. “I don’t think so. Poopie’s into everything. New Age. Meditation. Saints.”

“Well, which saint is that?” Murphy asked.

Leeda squinted at it. “Actually, that’s Saint Jude,” she said, obviously proud she knew the answer. Murphy had heard of Saint Jude. Her mom had dated a deacon once. The meaning of Saint Jude was just on the tip of her tongue.

“What’s it the saint of?” she finally asked, caving.

They looked at each other, then Leeda bent to brush at her leg. Murphy’s eyes followed her hand to the crawling black blotches all over her legs. She gasped at the same time Leeda let out her first piercing scream.

“Oh, damn.” Murphy watched Leeda jump up and down on the lawn, slapping at her legs, flabbergasted, then chased after her, trying to slap at the fire ants too.

The lights in the house flared up.

“Yip! Yip yip!”

The door flew open, and the first one out to see what was wrong was Honey Babe, followed shortly by Majestic. And then there was Poopie Pedraza hurrying across the grass in a pink nightdress.

Murphy considered running. She scanned the porch as she looked for the best route. The house lights flicked on and created a wide circle around the statue of Saint Jude, and suddenly Murphy found her answer.

Saint Jude was the patron saint of lost causes.