The Peach Orchard – Part 1: Peaches

The peaches ripened all at once, as they always did, and Giulia stood in the middle of the orchard with her hands on her hips and a feeling of dread.

She had come home in April, thirty-four, a failed pastry chef from Milan, to take over her father's orchard after his heart attack. Eleven hectares of peach and apricot trees. Four weeks to pick them. Two workers, one tractor and a very large debt.

"Excuse me?" said a voice. "Are you hiring?"

A woman stood at the end of the row with a rucksack and a straw hat. She was thirty-one, freckled, with auburn hair in a messy plait and a grin that took up her whole face. "Hannah. Dublin. I pick fruit. Eight summers now. Your father hired me last year."

"He's... not well."

"I heard. I'm sorry." Her face softened. "I thought I'd come anyway. If you'd have me."

Giulia looked at the heavy trees, at the thinning workers. "Can you start now?"

"I can start yesterday."

They worked from dawn to dusk. Hannah moved through the rows like a dancer, fast and gentle, never bruising a fruit. She sang as she worked, off-key Irish ballads that made Giulia laugh in spite of herself. At noon, they ate bread and cheese in the shade of an old walnut tree, with peach juice running down their wrists.

"Can I ask you something?" said Hannah.

"Yes."

"Why did you leave the kitchen?"

"I didn't leave. I burned out." Giulia looked at the rows. "I forgot why I loved food."

Hannah bit into a peach. Juice ran down her chin. "This is why," she said.

Giulia laughed, helplessly.

"Green?" said Hannah.

"Green," said Giulia, surprised and warm. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Basket.