She joined the throng of tourists for the short drive—reminded herself she really wanted a convertible.

Yes, she thought as she drove up the ranch road, she could use an hour here. As much as she loved Sullivan’s Rest, the ranch always gave her spirit a lift.

Hay, oats, corn climbed from the fields toward the sky, gold and green carpets waving in the breeze. Cattle and horses grazed in other fields, like a painting against the rise of the Santa Lucias. She heard the distant rumble of a tractor—or some machine—as she walked around to the family door.

She saw Maggie, a bright orange floppy-brimmed hat shielding her face, baggy overalls, sturdy Birkenstocks, staking tomatoes.

Bees buzzed in the hives on the far side of the garden. While Cate appreciated the honey, and all the work they did, she was more than happy with the distance.

“A pretty day to work in the garden,” Cate called out.

Maggie straightened, stretched her back. “It’s not half-bad.”

“Everything’s grown so much. I was here barely a week ago, and it’s just running away.”

“No poop like chicken poop for a garden.”

“Apparently.”

“Julia gave me your order. I can go grab it for you now if you’re in a hurry.”

“No, don’t rush. I have some time. Can I help you?”

“Do you know how to stake tomatoes?”

“No.”

“Well, come on over here and learn.”

Cate stepped carefully between the rows and got an education.

“Julia’s out in the fields somewhere, but she’s due back about now. Red took the afternoon off to surf, and I guess he earned it. That’s right, girlie, soft hands. You don’t want to break the stems. If you’re looking for Dillon, he’s out shearing sheep.”

“Shearing sheep?”

“We got a man to help him, knows what he’s doing in that area. Better to have four hands than two when it comes to it.”

“What do you do with the wool?”

“We used to sell it all, but this shearing, I’m keeping a quarter of it.”

“For what?”

“Good job,” Maggie decided after giving Cate’s attempt a critical study. “And that does it. Come on in, and I’ll show you.”

They went in through the mudroom, where Maggie pulled off her gardening shoes, through to the main kitchen. Maggie signaled come ahead, so Cate followed her into a sitting room.

And stared.

“Is that . . .” She’d seen Sleeping Beauty. “A spinning wheel?”

“It’s not a rocket to the moon.” With obvious affection, Maggie stroked the wheel. “Got it on eBay for a damn good price.”

“It’s, well, it’s adorable. What are you going to do with it?”

“What it was made to do. Spin wool.”

“They shave—shear,” she corrected, “the sheep, and you take the wool—”

“And wash it—wash it without washing out all the lanolin. Dry it on my old clotheshorse in the sun.”

“Wash, dry, then put it on here, and it makes . . .”

“Yarn. Wool yarn for your crafting pleasure. Horizon Ranch Wool,” she added with considerable pride. “Pure. I may experiment some with natural colorings with some, just to see.”

Like Sleeping Beauty, it struck Cate as something out of a fairy tale. “How do you know how?”

“YouTube.” She took a hank out of a basket. “That was on a sheep a couple days ago.”

Cate took it, felt it, marveled. “When the aliens attack, I want to be with you.”

On a bark of laughter, Maggie led the way back to the kitchen. “We’re having some raspberry sun tea.”

“That sounds incredible.”

She heard the mudroom door open.

“Mom?”

“Right here.”

“We need to call the farrier. Aladdin threw a shoe, and while we’re at it—Oh, hi, Cate. Sorry, I thought I’d be back before this, have your order ready.”

“There’s no hurry.”

“I’ve got it put together back in the order fridge.” Maggie handed her daughter a glass of iced tea.

“Thanks.” She had her hair in a braid, wore jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her skin, dewy from the heat, carried the glow of summer. “Thirsty work out there. And I’m ready to sit on something that isn’t moving.”

She dropped down, stretched out her legs.

After giving Cate a glass, Maggie skimmed her hand over Julia’s hair, a gesture so casually affectionate it stung the back of Cate’s eyes. “How about some apple slices and cheddar?”

Smiling, Julia tipped her head toward her mother’s arm. “I wouldn’t say no. My favorite after-school snack as a kid,” Julia began, then saw the tear spill over onto Cate’s cheek.

“Oh, honey.”

She started to get up, but Cate waved her back down. “No, I’m sorry. That came out of nowhere.”

“No, it didn’t.” Maggie got an apple, took it to the sink to scrub it nearly hard enough to remove the peel. “We get TV up here like everybody else. I didn’t bring it up. I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you’d talk about it.”

“It’s not that. Or maybe that flipped a switch I didn’t realize I hadn’t shut all the way off again. It’s—I see the two of you together, and it’s so . . . the way it should be. You love each other, and show love in the simplest ways. I have that with my grandmother, with Consuela, with my aunts, so I know what it is.”

“And she keeps finding ways to hurt you again.”

“It doesn’t hurt, not the way it used to.”

“Keeps pushing it right back in your face.” Maggie began to slice the apple as if hoping to see blood spill from its core.

“That.” A relief to be so quickly understood. “Just exactly that. In all of our faces, not just mine. I’ll probably have to change my phone number again because somebody always manages to dig it out, and the calls start. The stories will run, and I know they’ll run their course, but for a while, it’s front and center all over again.”

She drew breath in, let it out. “I know how privileged I am because a song-and-dance man—boy, really—who could act got on a boat in Cobh and made his way to Hollywood. He met a woman—a girl—who was his match in every single way. Together they created a dynasty. Not just of fame and fortune.”

“Of family, and ethics, and good work, good works,” Julia said. “We’ve met a lot of your family.”

“You had them over for a barbecue. I’m sorry I missed it.”

“There’ll be others. You’re young, beautiful, white, wealthy, and talented, so yes, privileged. Being privileged doesn’t negate trauma. Your mother doesn’t see past the fame and fortune. Even though she has her own—”

“Infamous isn’t the same as famous,” Maggie pointed out as she sliced a cube of cheddar.

“True enough. She still wants a piece of yours, your father’s, your family’s. She still covets what you have, what you are. I’d like to kick her ass.”