Chapter 12

Following my coffee and biscotti, I paid a cabbie to drive me from the coffee shop to the Tuckerton Orchard, which was fifteen minutes outside of the village, hidden among mountains and oak-infested forests. Dirt roads off Highway 17 led to the orchard, a bumpy and rather unpleasant ride for my bottom. Upon arriving at the orchard, my pained ass was forgotten because of the miraculous sights at hand, which I thought too spectacular not to enjoy.

Tuckerton Orchard was nothing shy of vast, populated with a variety of fruit trees, three barns where equipment was stored, two production buildings, four storage buildings for the produce, and a main Colonial-style house that looked as if it could hold a family of twelve.

Around the house were three flower gardens, a hedge maze for children, and a fountain. Beyond the fountain, left of the three-story white abode, sat a fire pit with an arrangement of chairs, swings to enjoy, and what looked to be a picnic area.