Fifty Shades Darker (book 5) novel Chapter 49

My mother and Mia are already at our table with a friend of Mia’s.

Grace welcomes Ana warmly. “Ana, how delightful to see you again! And looking so beautiful, too.”

“Mother.” I greet Grace and kiss her on both cheeks.

“Oh, Christian, so formal!” she chides.

My maternal grandparents join us, and after the obligatory hugs I introduce them both to Ana.

“Oh, he’s finally found someone, how wonderful, and so pretty! Well, I do hope you make an honest man of him,” my grandmother enthuses.

Inappropriate, Grandma.

Fuck. I stare at my mother. Help. Mom. Stop her.

“Mother, don’t embarrass Ana,” Grace admonishes her mom.

“Ignore the silly old coot, m’dear. She thinks because she’s so old, she has a God-given right to say whatever nonsense pops into that woolly head of hers.” My grandfather gives me a wink.

Theodore Trevelyan is my hero. We have a special bond. This man has patiently taught me how to plant, cultivate, and graft apple trees, and in doing so has won my eternal affection. Quiet. Strong. Kind. Patient with me. Always.

“Here, kiddo,” Grandpa Trev-yan says. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

I shake my head. No. I don’t talk at all.

“That’s no problem. Folks around here talk too much anyway. Do you want to help me in the orchard?”

I nod. I like Grandpa Trev-yan. He has kind eyes and a loud laugh. He holds out his hand, but I tuck my hands under my arms.

“As you like, Christian. Let’s go make some green apple trees make red apples.”

I like red apples.

The orchard is big. There are trees. And trees. And trees. But they are small trees. Not big. And they have no leaves. And no apples. Because of winter. I have big boots on and a hat. I like my hat. I’m warm.

Grandpa Trev-yan looks at a tree.

“See this tree, Christian? It makes bitter green apples. But we can fool the tree to make sweet red apples for us. These twigs are from the red apple tree. And here are my pruning shears.”

Prew-nig sheers. They are sharp.

“Do you want to cut this one?”

I say yes with my head.

“We’re going to graft this twig you’ve cut. It’s called a scion.”

Si-yon. Si-yon. I say the word in my head. He takes a knife and makes one end of the twig sharp. And he cuts a branch on the tree and sticks the si-yon in the cut.

“Now we tape it up.”

He takes green tape and ties the twig to the branch.

“And we put melted beeswax on the wound. Here. You take this brush. Steady now. That’s right.”

We make many grafts.

“You know, Christian, apples are second only to oranges as the most valuable fruit grown in the U.S. of A. Here in Washington, though, there’s not really enough sun for oranges.”

I’m sleepy.

“Tired? You want to head back to the house?”

I say yes with my head.

“We’ve done a lot of grafting. This tree will yield a huge crop of sweet red apples come autumn. You can help me pick them.”

He smiles and holds out a big hand and I take it. It’s big and rough but warm and gentle.