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.”

“What’s this?” she asked.

“This is where I live now,” he said.

“You weren’t at the apartment,” she said.

“How did you know to find me here?” he asked.

“Are you kidding me? It’s the harvest! Tomorrow the rest of the family will be here.”

“You were smart to come today,” he said, chuckling. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I heard you’re getting married.”

“Yes,” he said.

“When?” she asked.

“No date yet, but I’m hoping we can do it before Christmas.”

“A nice Basque girl?” she asked.

He grinned and it was wholly genuine. “No, a pale, freckly, green-eyed girl. I suspect some Irish lingering back there.”

Natalie looked down into her lap. “I wish you the best,” she said.

“Thank you. What did you want to talk about?”

“I wanted to talk about...it.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“Why did you?” he asked. He’d asked a hundred times. Well, at least ten.

“I was afraid. Terrified.”

“Of having a baby?”

“Of having a life I wasn’t right for! Of eventually being held captive on a farm with a bunch of kids, shunned by the Basque women because I can’t cook or sew or grow anything! Of never having any fun again because your idea of fun and mine were completely opposite and it just felt...” She lifted her chin a notch. “It felt like the end. To me it felt like the end. But since I did it I’ve felt nothing but grief and regret and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I told you not living on the farm was okay,” he said. “We decided not having a bunch of kids was okay. I said that was my work but didn’t have to be yours.”

“You said, but you didn’t mean it,” she said. “You didn’t have time for me, for our life. And we were always at the farm for family things, family things all the time. And the family, they made me feel stupid and out of place and awkward. They never liked me. Your words were all about, ‘It’s okay, honey, whatever you want,’ unless I wanted to go dancing or out to dinner or to a party my friends were throwing or to brunch at the Monaco or to a concert at Roy’s. Does this woman you want to marry by Christmas fit in? Because if she doesn’t, you should warn her before she does something that hurts so much.”

She started to cry.

She’s right, he thought. He’d always talked a good game but his life was the farm and the family and he secretly, deep down, thought she’d come around. If she never fell in love with his work she’d at least fully understand his love of it.

He reached over and gave her chair a tug, pulling her closer to him. “Come here,” he said. “Tell me what hurts so much,” he asked softly.

“God,” she said. “You think I didn’t want us to live happily ever after? You think I wanted to have an abortion? I couldn’t keep spending Sunday at the farm in my best clothes, my best, the clothes that all the girls on campus envy, only to have your mother and family speak Spanish or whatever that is in the kitchen and laugh, your brothers and their wives shake their heads like I was some stupid child, to have you put me in a fireman’s carry to get me across the barnyard...” She sniffed and wiped at her tears. “I thought maybe I’d be able to figure it out someday, that maybe it would grow on me and I’d start to enjoy the same things, though it wasn’t looking good for that. And then what happens? Married less than a year and I get pregnant!”

He felt his mouth go dry. “You couldn’t talk to me?” he asked.

She laughed through her tears. “Matt, you always said, ‘okay, fine.’ Then you did what you wanted. I said those family dinners were awful for me and you said, fine, we won’t do so many. And we went just as often. I said I didn’t want to be a farm wife and you said, fine, you don’t have to be—but you were at the farm twelve hours a day, sometimes seven days a week. And if you had a day off, which you hardly ever did, we never did what I wanted to do.”