The Peach Orchard – Part 2: Last Basket

The last basket was picked on a Thursday.

Giulia and Hannah carried it together through the evening-lit rows, the leaves gold and whispering. The orchard hummed with cicadas. The air was heavy with the smell of ripe fruit. Along the horizon, the hills turned blue, then violet.

"We did it," said Hannah.

"We did it."

"Your father will be proud."

"He's already phoned four times."

In the old farmhouse kitchen, Giulia rolled out pastry on a floury table. She sliced the peaches thin, laid them in spirals, brushed them with honey. Hannah sat on the counter with a glass of cold white wine, watching with undisguised fascination.

"You're good at this."

"I forgot."

"You remembered."

The tart came out golden, steaming, perfumed with caramel and peach. They ate it straight from the tin, burning their tongues, with two forks and a lot of laughter. The window was open to the dark garden. Moths circled the lamp.

"Can I ask you something?" said Giulia.

"Yes."

"Will you come back next summer?"

"I was going to ask you," said Hannah, "if I could stay."

Giulia's heart skipped. "Stay?"

"Longer than a harvest. If you'd like."

"May I kiss you?" said Giulia.

"Yes," said Hannah. "And if you say stop, you must feed me tart for a year."

"That is not a punishment."

"It's a very good one."

Giulia kissed her, softly, peach-sweet, a flour-dusted hand rising to Hannah's cheek. Hannah kissed her back with warm and unhurried tenderness, her arms circling Giulia's waist. The lamp hummed. The summer night breathed in through the window.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Hannah.

"Green," said Giulia. "Very green."

Next summer, the sign at the farm gate read: Peaches, apricots, tart by the slice. Giulia & Hannah.

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