Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 150878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 754(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 754(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
My mom was quiet a moment, but I felt her eyes on me, and I sensed something in her silence that led me to believe once again that I’d revealed myself to her though I hadn’t meant to. She reached out and ruffled my hair the way she’d done when I was very young. “Don’t grow up on me too fast now,” she said, and there was a note in her voice that almost sounded like sadness.
I nodded, concentrating on the dirt as I dug the toe of my sneaker into it. The raised voices of my dad and Mr. Swanson caught my attention and I looked up, watching as they spoke animatedly, Mr. Swanson waving his arms around as he gestured. “What are they arguing about?” I asked.
My mom sighed. “Oh, they’re not really arguing, just discussing the fact that the Henleys and the O’Rourkes sold their orchards.”
My head whipped back toward her, eyes widening. “They did? When?” Devin Henley and Andy O’Rourke were two of my good friends, their orchards part of the community of family-run orange groves—including ours and the Swansons’—that stretched for miles, often referred to as Citrus Row.
“Just last week,” my mother said, forehead creasing. “A development company offered far over market value, and they decided to take it and retire.”
Far over market value. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but if they were retiring instead of buying another farm, or going to work somewhere else, it must mean they were offered a lot of money. “Did they…did they offer us money too?” I felt funny, like the whole world had just tilted in some weird way, and while I didn’t totally understand it, I felt like I was standing slightly sideways.
My mother gave a thin smile. “Oh sure. But no amount of money could get me to sell our farm. You know that. It’s my legacy. And yours.”
My world righted just a bit, even if not completely. I watched my father and Mr. Swanson for another minute. Mr. Swanson was speaking, and my father was rubbing his forehead as though he was torn about whatever Mr. Swanson was saying to him. A company had wanted that land. What was going to happen to it now? I started to open my mouth to ask more questions when Mr. Swanson gave my father a companionable pat on the shoulder, their conversation obviously ending as they each turned away. I watched as Emily stood, marching stoically toward her father, about ready to ruin his day with her confession about his damaged car.
“Em,” her father said, smiling and gesturing her over as he glanced at my mom. “You promised to sing for us next time Mariana had her guitar out.”
My mom smiled, taking a few steps to where her guitar rested against an Adirondack chair. “I’m ready if you are. Something simple,” she told Emily on a laugh. “I’m still practicing.” My mom had been taking guitar lessons once a week for the past six months just for fun—it’s been on my bucket list forever, she’d told my dad—and would sometimes strum a few chords around the bonfire, but she was still a beginner. Emily was better on the guitar, having played longer, but I knew Emily preferred to sing, and was happy to let my mom accompany her.
Emily hesitated, clearly torn between the confession she’d mustered up the nerve to deliver, and accepting the delay of a performance. She shot her dad one final, indecisive look, but then turned toward my mom, who was hooking the strap on her guitar and moving to the elevated portion of the patio.
Emily’s parents, my father, and a few of the men who worked with us, along with their wives, moved closer, some taking seats on the slew of Adirondack chairs, some sitting on the low stone wall surrounding the patio. Emily and my mom murmured a few words, obviously choosing which song to play.
I stepped away from the adults, leaning against the pergola that covered the outdoor dining set. Hot pink bougainvillea twisted around the pillars and dripped through the slats, providing shade when the eating area was in use. The sun had set, stars blinking in the navy sky, but the temperature was still in the nineties at least, and the coolness under the overhang welcomed me.
Lanterns and string lights provided illumination to the outdoor area, especially bright over the portion of patio now acting as a stage. My mother sat down on a folding chair with her guitar, Emily stepping to the forefront, all gazes fixed on her. The gold in her hair glinted under the glow, the skin of her shoulders smooth and tan. I was surprised the adults hadn’t noticed that her eyes looked slightly swollen from crying. Even so, she was prettier than any of the other girls from town. I wanted to stare, and so I did. Emily’s gaze met mine and I startled, the back of my neck growing warm. I made it a point to yawn. Emily’s eyes narrowed, but then, as my mother began to strum, Emily’s shoulders lowered, and she closed her eyes, her body swaying gently.