(Rebecca's POV)
We leave the orchard in the late afternoon. Miriam packs pie for the road — wrapped in foil, then in a dish towel, then in a paper bag, as if the pie might get cold on the way to a destination forty minutes away. Gerald shakes my hand at the car and then pulls me in, the same way he did the first time — one hand closing over mine, the other on my shoulder.
"You're family," he says.
Not welcome to the family. You ARE family. Present tense. Already settled.
I nod. Because I can't speak.
He lets me go. Miriam waves with both arms from the porch until we turn the corner. I watch her in the side mirror — a small, flour-aproned figure waving with everything she has — until the orchard bends her out of sight.
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The villa is different. The villa is always different.
Lisa'
