The Orange Grove – Part 2: The Last Basket

By spring, the grove was in blossom.

White flowers covered every tree, thick as snow, and the scent was overwhelming: sweet, heady, honeyed. Lucia walked among them at dusk with a jug of fresh juice and two glasses, grinning like a girl. Bees droned in the dim gold light. The air shimmered.

Amara sat on the low stone wall at the end of the row, as she did every evening, her boots off, her braids loose.

"You stayed," said Lucia.

"I like the blossom."

"You like the trees."

"I like the owner."

Lucia nearly dropped the jug. Amara's mouth twitched. The sun slid behind the hills in a blaze of apricot and rose. Swifts darted over the grove.

"Can I ask you something?" said Lucia, setting the jug on the wall.

"Yes."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in years."

"It was only the truth."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Amara, with a slow, warm smile. "And if you say stop, you must prune the entire north block alone."

"It's four hundred trees."

"I know. It's a very good deterrent."

Lucia kissed her, soft and sweet, one hand rising to cup her cheek. Amara kissed her back with unhurried tenderness, tasting of orange and sun, her fingers curling in Lucia's collar. The blossom drifted down round them in a slow white snow. The first star appeared over the hills.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Amara.

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

The family's marmalade now has a new label, hand-drawn by Lucia: Naranjas Lucia & Amara. Pruned to the light.

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