“But not that cave,” she said, playing with his hair.

“Not that cave,” he said. “But why not?” he asked her. “Memories?”

“I’m sure there were some,” she said. “But mostly you didn’t really live there. It was even less personal to you than a motel room. You just needed a place to bring the flavor of the week that wasn’t under your mother’s roof.”

“Huh,” he said. “By the way, you do know there hasn’t been a single flavor since you coldcocked me at my sister’s wedding.”

“Shoved,” she corrected. “I assumed there hadn’t been anyone but thanks for telling me that. So, I guess that means we’re either staying with my parents when I come up to the farm or we’re bedding down in the back of your truck.”

“I rented us a little something. It’s not much. I’m not going to tell you anything about it. I want your first reaction to be honest. It’s adequate—better than being in your old bedroom or the truck bed. It’s convenient. And private.”

“Is it nice?” she asked eagerly.

“Well, I think so, but you’ve already seen how wrong I can be about that...”

“It wasn’t that apartment that was wrong, Matt. It was you while you were in it that didn’t seem right. If you’d liked it there, it would’ve shown somehow. I’m not sure how, but somehow. I can’t wait to see what you came up with for us.”

“There is an us, right? Because you’re all I think about.”

She gave him a kiss. “There’s an us, sweetheart. We’re just tying up loose ends so our future isn’t cluttered with our pasts.”

Matt had done something about that, too. He just wasn’t sure whether it had worked. He had called Dr. Weymouth, the head of the biology department where he occasionally taught. He told him that he’d commit to three plant biology labs after the harvest if they needed him. And he also said, “Don’t wait too long to get your teaching schedule together because I’m getting married. Before Christmas, I hope.”

Matt hoped that news might filter through the biology department. If he knew Natalie at all, it would send up her radar. If that didn’t happen, Matt would get in touch with her when he had the time.

He left Ginger at four in the morning to drive back to Uncle Sal’s vineyard for one more weekend with the grapes. He was planning to come back to her Saturday night. When all the uncles and cousins were celebrating and drinking too much wine, dancing and toasting a successful grape harvest, Matt would drive to Ginger. He’d spend Saturday night and most of Sunday before heading back to the farm to get started on the pears. They were ready.

* * *

Matt had five seasonal hands who worked for him during the pear and potato harvest. First they would bring in the pears, which finished ripening in their shipping crates and gift boxes. They handled them carefully, delivering pristine, smooth and clean fruit to the retailers, from grocers to Harry & David.

Then came the potatoes, which were less labor intensive; they were tougher and didn’t require gentle handling. Plus, the harvester could dig them and the farm hands would help to separate and bag them.

There were two Dysart semi trailers parked on the property behind the barn and house. Richard Dysart had driven them over himself, one at a time. Matt, Paco and Richard took cups of coffee on the porch. Richard asked after Ginger. “I spent Sunday with her in Thunder Point, a good day. The weather was excellent and she’s in happy spirits,” Matt said. “She’s planning to come up on Saturday. The rest of the family will be here tomorrow sometime and she’s anxious to witness this harvest business that will take every second of my time for weeks. And she’s more than a little anxious to experience the food the women will put together.” What he didn’t share with Richard was that it had been three nights without Ginger beside him and it felt like an eternity.

“You make a good argument for the Dysart clan to show up to pick pears,” Richard said.

“You are always welcome,” Paco said. “I warn you, you might never be the same.”

“Nah,” Matt said. “The pears won’t take too much of a toll on you, but if you really want an experience, come up in the spring for the sheep shearing and lambing. It’s exhausting. And not just a little dirty.”

Also parked on the property, on the north side of the house, was an RV. From that spot Matt could see the mountains to the north, the orchard to the east and the plot he’d chosen for his house. After the harvest was complete, he’d work with the architect to finalize the plans. At the first blush of spring, they could pour a slab, grade a road for construction access that would be followed by a better road for his personal access to his new home. His and Ginger’s home, he prayed.

He’d gone to an RV lot in Portland to look at a couple of rentals, picked the best one and had it driven here. The owners made it available through Thanksgiving. If this worked out, he thought it might be time to buy one of his own. Half the Lacoumette clan had some form of trailer—fifth wheel, camper shell, RV or toy hauler. They moved around to each other’s properties for family events, from weddings to funerals, planting or harvesting, reunions, whatever the call. Paco, not one to spend a dime that hadn’t been pried out of his tight fingers, had a fifth wheel that could sleep six, on top of each other at that. It was not comfortable, showering and cooking very limited, but it got them to the vineyard, other family farms or the coast where cousins’ fishing boats docked. Corinne was not fond of it, to say the least.

Before noon tomorrow the trucks, RVs and other vehicles would begin to arrive.

He was at the far north end of the orchard, checking trees and fruit for the hundredth time when his phone, turned to walkie-talkie mode, sounded off. He heard his mother’s voice. “Matt. Natalie is here to see you.”

Ah! So she’s heard. He had begun to think he was going to have to seek her out. “On my way,” he said. He jumped in the Rhino and headed for the house.

His mother had left Natalie alone in the yard to wait for him. She had not been happy about the way things had gone with his ex-wife.

Natalie had a new car and new hair. A BMW? It was a few years old, but still. Things must be going well in the secretarial trade. Or maybe some modeling had kicked in for her. He found himself hoping it had. The new hair was no surprise—it was her signature diversity—always different. Dark auburn this time—that had been one of his favorites. Very sexy, very classy look on her. But what was very new for her, she wore jeans, rolled up at the ankle, and tennis shoes. Usually when she wore jeans they were very tight with boots or heels. She also wore a light windbreaker. This was Natalie at her most practical and casual. He couldn’t help but be intrigued. She’d never bothered to dress for the farm before.

He approached her and it was instantly apparent that her eyes were glassy.

“Can we talk?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” he said. And he noted her surprise. He hadn’t been mean or sarcastic or threatened to call security. “Come with me.”

He reached out and took her hand and led her around the house to the RV. He pulled a couple of canvas lawn chairs from where they were stored beneath the RV and opened them. “Have a seat.”