Chapter 9 - THE HOUSE WITH THE APPLE TREES
That summer, Morgan drove north to Door County.
The cottage stood at the end of a narrow gravel driveway, surrounded by tall grass and the apple trees her grandmother had planted decades earlier.
Its white paint was peeling.
The porch screens needed replacing.
One of the shutters hung crookedly beside the kitchen window.
But when Morgan stepped out of her car, she felt something she hadn't experienced in a long time.
Peace.
The air smelled of lake water, wildflowers, and warm earth.
She unlocked the front door.
Inside, everything was almost exactly as she'd left it.
Her grandmother's blue ceramic pitcher sat on the kitchen shelf.
A faded quilt covered the couch.
A wooden measuring chart on the pantry door still marked Morgan's height from age four through sixteen.
She traced the pencil marks with her fingertips.
At the bottom, in her grandmother's handwriting, were the words:
Our Morgan. Always growing.
Morgan's eyes filled.
"Hi, Grandma," she whispered.
She opened the windows and let the summer breeze move through the rooms.
Then she walked to the screened porch.
Her grandmother's rocking chair stood in the corner.
Beside it was a small wooden table.
Morgan sat down.
For several minutes, she simply listened to the birds.
Then she began to cry.
Not because she was frightened.
Not because someone had threatened her.
But because she had almost lost this place.
The house where her grandmother taught her to bake apple pie.
The porch where they watched thunderstorms roll across the lake.
The kitchen where Clara used to say, "Never let anybody convince you that your heart is too expensive to keep."
Morgan had thought that sentence was about sentimental things.
Now she understood it differently.
Her grandmother hadn't left her the cottage because it was valuable.
She'd left it because she wanted Morgan to have somewhere she could always belong.
Morgan wiped her cheeks.
"I'm keeping it," she whispered.
And she did.
With careful budgeting and help from local contractors, she began restoring the property.
She repaired the roof.
Replaced the damaged porch screens.
Repainted the kitchen a soft yellow, just as Clara had always wanted.
On weekends, she invited friends to help clear the orchard.
Her coworker Danielle arrived with gardening gloves and three homemade sandwiches.
Arthur Bell brought a box of old-fashioned cabinet handles he'd found at an estate sale.
Evelyn Price showed up one Saturday carrying a toolbox and announced that she was much better at fixing doors than talking about feelings.
And Eleanor came with a small lavender plant.
"For the porch," she explained.
Morgan laughed.
"You're going to make this place smell like your trench coat."
Eleanor smiled.
"Then you'll never forget me."
Morgan placed the lavender beside the steps.
"As if I could."
By September, the cottage looked alive again.
The apple trees produced more fruit than Morgan could use.
So she began delivering baskets to neighbors.
Then she started baking pies.
Her grandmother's recipe was written on a stained index card in careful blue ink.
Three cups of sliced apples.
A little lemon juice.
Cinnamon.
Nutmeg.
And one instruction written across the bottom:
Always make enough to share.
Morgan followed it.
Soon, neighbors were stopping by on weekends.
Some came for pie.
Some came to help in the garden.
Some simply wanted to sit on the porch and talk.
May you like
The cottage had once been the one thing Julian wanted her to sell.
Now it was becoming the place where Morgan remembered who she was.
