The Orange Grove – Part 1: Azahar and Fruit

The orange trees were heavy with fruit and Lucia had no idea what she was doing.

She stood in the middle of the grove in Valencia, in her late father's boots, holding a pair of pruning shears and a notebook full of questions. The trees marched away in neat rows, glossy and dark, lamps of orange hanging in the leaves. The air was warm and sweet. Bees hummed in the sun.

"You're cutting the wrong branch," said a voice.

A woman stood on the next row, a basket on her hip. She was thirty-one, tall and strong, with deep brown skin, braids tied up in a scarf, and a patient, humorous expression. "Amara. I pick here every season. Your father hired me eight years ago."

"I'm Lucia."

"I know. I'm sorry about your father."

"Thank you."

"He was a good man. He taught me to prune." She stepped over, took the shears, and cut a single twig. "You open the tree to the light. Not the whole thing, just the heart."

Lucia watched. The tree seemed to breathe. She felt something loosen in her chest.

"I came home to run it," she said. "And I'm doing it badly."

"You are learning."

"I left for twelve years."

"The trees remember," said Amara. "They don't hold grudges."

They worked together through the week. Amara taught her to read the fruit, to time the harvest, to taste the sweetness by smell. Lucia taught her the old family words for the trees. They ate oranges in the sun, peel curling in their fingers, juice running down their wrists.

"Can I ask you something?" said Lucia.

"Yes."

"Will you stay on, after the season?"

"Green?" said Amara, a leaf, a smile.

"Green," said Lucia, flushing. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Basket.