(Rebecca's POV)
The engagement tour is two stops. The orchard first, then the villa.
I sit in the passenger seat with the meteorite ring on my finger and a speech prepared for each location — rehearsed in the shower, revised in the car, revised again at the last traffic light — and Eric drives with the focused calm of a man who has been rehearsing this day for ten years and still can't find the turn signal.
"Left," I say.
"I know where my parents live, Rebecca."
"You just passed the turn."
He reverses without comment. The gravel crunches under the tires and the orchard rows open up on both sides — heavy with late fruit, branches sagging, the air thick with that sweet, fermenting smell of apples left too long on the tree.
And Miriam is already on the porch.
She's been on the porch s
