Scott ate everything and even had seconds of the squid, lamb, beans and soup. A little extra bread to dip into the beans and soup. This made Peyton’s mother smile broadly and brag a little about the food coming for dinner. It was time for Scott to bring in the luggage, to find his jeans and Jenny’s tennis shoes. He groaned when he stood.

“I knew you went overboard,” Peyton said. “Get going, move around a little bit. We have to get Mama’s eggs, then we can visit the animals. Tomorrow I’ll take you over to my brother’s, and the kids can see the lambs. Come on, Scott.”

“Maybe we should lay down in the hayloft for a while....”

“Oh, you’re going to make a bad impression.”

“Your mother loves me—I cleaned my plate. Twice.”

“And had to be stopped before you did it a third time. Come on!”

The kids scampered along with Peyton to the chicken coop; Scott followed more slowly. “We should hurry to get the eggs. Mama saved them for you, I think. She’s usually out here early. We need a lot, so I hope the hens haven’t been lazy.” They had to shoo the dogs away, and Peyton stomped at a couple of roosters, sending them skittering off. The kids were a little hesitant until she told them the chickens were gentle and rarely pecked, being used to having their eggs collected every day. Then she showed them how to slip a gentle hand under a hen and pull out an egg. She put her hand over Will’s and guided him, whispering, “Please, don’t squeeze the egg. It’s very fragile. Hold it light as a feather.” When he got the first one, he lit up.

“Me,” Jenny said. “Now me!”

“Shh, no jumping up and down. We have to stay very calm around the hens or they’ll get upset, and hens who are upset can’t lay eggs.”

“How do they lay the eggs?” Will asked.

“Well, I’ve never actually seen it happen, but the eggs are carried inside them, and they settle on the nest, and when the eggs are ready, the hens push them out.”

“Like babies?”

“Like babies,” Peyton said. “Jenny, let’s get the next egg together. Put your hand under mine. When you feel the egg, tell me.”

“I feel it!” she whispered. “I feel two!”

“Jackpot,” Peyton said. “Bring them out one at a time.”

By the time they’d collected a half dozen, the kids could do it without Peyton’s hand. They pulled out another half dozen, a very good crop. Corinne was impressed and praised Will and Jenny.

Scott was looking as if he might need a nap. But she dragged him along to the barn. The kids met the few cows and goats, but the popular winner was the miniature pony. Peyton put a lead on him and brought him into the corral so the kids could take turns on his back. Jenny was chased by a rooster, Will was nipped by a goat, but even so, it was a completely positive barnyard tour.

Chasing dogs, cuddling kittens, racing through the barn—it all served to wear them down. And then, as the sun was lowering, a parade of people started returning to the house. Men, a few women, teenage boys and girls, all looking weary and dirty. They washed up in the barn and in the outdoor vegetable sink on the back porch.

“Time for dinner,” Peyton said. “Can you take the kids inside and get them cleaned up for dinner?”

“Change their clothes?” he asked.

“Just brush them off outside and take them to the upstairs bathroom to wash hands and faces. That should do. These guys aren’t going to get dressed up to eat. They’ll probably fall into bed right after dinner.”

When Scott got inside, he saw the table was set for many—at least twenty. He was introduced to Uncle Sal who was putting open bottles of wine on the table. Aunt Sophia was adding pitchers of tea and lemonade. Platters and tureens and bowls were being readied in the kitchen, and a great hodgepodge of people migrated to the table. Aside from being introduced to Peyton’s father, commonly known in the family as Paco, there was very little talking. Everyone, it appeared, was tired to the bone. But then wine was poured, tapas came out, a couple of baskets of bread were put on the table along with olive oil and some kind of fish paste. And with the wine, conversation loosened up. By the time the first tureen of soup arrived, there was laughter. Scott was asked who his people were, where he came from, what his town was like, how his clinic was getting along. Paco soon shifted his attention to Will and Jenny, made a place for each of them beside him, sharing his bread, making them laugh.

“What meat do you like?” he asked Will. “Sausage? Lamb? Chicken?”

Will shrugged. “Are they the same chickens? Because I got their eggs today, and I liked them.”

“You’ll get around that. Corinne, bring the boy pears and cheese!” Paco yelled. And then to Jenny, he said, “Do you like potatoes and beans? Corinne, soup for my guest!”

The platters of meat came out, and Paco showed the kids how to gnaw the lamb off the bone, and they tried it, both of them liking it. They ate tapas, not realizing there was fish lying atop the pimento and cheese slice. Paco was large and robust, with the broad shoulders of a man who had been physically challenged by hard work every day of his life.

Dinner was a social event that went on for some time, but immediately following the meal, everyone who had worked in the orchard drifted off, headed straight for bed. The women gathered in the kitchen both to clean up and store food and to eat, gossip and laugh around the work island. Peyton’s brother George took some of his relatives across the property to his house, Corinne and Paco put up several in their house, there was one RV and one fifth wheel that housed more aunts, uncles and cousins. Scott was given a room with two bunk beds in it.

On Saturday, Peyton drove them around the property in a Rhino, a vehicle perfect for getting around the farm. They saw the orchard, the potato fields and George’s sheep. It was a long and busy day.

Dinner that night started out the same, but it didn’t end with exhausted workers headed for bed. A fire was built behind the house, and there were chairs surrounding it. Everyone gathered, and a few instruments came out—a clarinet, a drum, an accordion, a horn. Music began to serve as a backdrop to conversation. Some men lit thin cigars or pipes, and wine bottles were passed around.

And then Uncle Sal got up and began to dance. Paco followed his brother. George joined them, and within a few minutes there were a couple of teenage boys joining in the traditional dance. If they’d been wearing their cultural garb of white with red vests and caps it would have felt like a Basque festival, but these were tired yet energized men who had worked hard all day and wore the dress of farmers. And they danced like young men, whooping, slapping the air, grinning, twirling, kicking.