The Cider House – Part 2: Last Barrel

Diego came around the long table and stopped in front of her. "I want to say something first," he said. "If you would rather go back to your hotel, I will drive you. No difficulty. But I would like you to stay."

"I'd like to stay," said Alba. "I'd like it very much."

His smile was slow and sunny. He took her hand, still sticky with cider, and kissed her knuckles, and then her wrist. The last customers had gone. The fire had burned low in the grill. He locked the heavy door with an iron key and turned off most of the lamps.

"Come," he said. "Upstairs there is a better view."

The flat above the cider house was a low, warm room under the old roof beams, with a big bed, a wool blanket and a window that looked down the green valley. Rain was falling softly. Mist lay between the hills like cotton.

She set her camera on the table and turned. "No photographs."

"No photographs," Diego agreed, and kissed her.

It was a kiss that tasted of apples. His hands were gentle at her waist, then at the buttons of her shirt, careful and unhurried. Alba laughed and pulled him down onto the bed. The blanket was heavy and smelled of woodsmoke. They took their time, murmuring and laughing, until the rain on the roof was the only sound in the valley.

In the morning she woke to the clatter of the cellar and the smell of coffee. Diego was at the window, shirtless, barefoot, pouring something into two cups.

"Cider?" she asked, sleepy.

"Coffee. Even I have rules."

She sat up and reached for her camera. "One photograph. For me."

He turned, shy and grinning, in the soft green light of the valley. The shutter clicked once.

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