June was out of the truck before it stopped rolling. “Hey, Sally?” she called, walking toward the greenhouse with the tricycle. “Sally Sanchez, you in there?”
The greenhouse door flapped open and a woman came out. The goats all looked up at the sound. She was brown and solid in muddy jeans and a brown barn jacket with her thick black hair up in a loose bun. When she saw June, a broad white smile opened up her face.
“Junebug? Is that you?”
“Sally!” The two women came together in a hug, then separated to look at each other.
The slender young man now stood a few yards away. He wore double-front work pants and a gray University of Washington T-shirt and carried the pitchfork easily in his hand. He didn’t speak but he looked thoughtfully at June and Peter and the green pickup with its mahogany cargo box.
“Look at you, all grown up,” said Sally. She didn’t mention the stitches in June’s lip or the slender young man, who had taken up a deferential position a few steps behind Sally and off to one side.
“You look exactly the same,” said June. She called over her shoulder, “Hey, Peter, come meet my friend Sally.”
Peter had already gotten out of the truck. Now he stepped forward and introduced himself. The air smelled of river mud and spring growth and the rich, loamy compost.
Sally looked him up and down, taking in the stitches in his hair and the medical boot. He wasn’t sure he passed inspection. Sally said, “You two look like you’ve been down a hard road.”
“Car accident,” said Peter. “Both of us. The other car was speeding.”
“We’re fine,” said June. “Peter, I was telling you about Sally. After my mom left, she basically raised me.”
“Don’t look at me for all that,” said Sally. A little spotted goat came up and put its head against her hip. She scratched it absently behind the ear. “All I did was make sure you got fed and clothed.”
“And hugged and loved,” said June. “Found me books and lessons, made sure I did them. A lot more than my dad ever did.”
“Well, your dad always did have a lot on his mind,” said Sally. “Now more than ever.” She seemed to notice the young man for the first time. “This is Oliver, he just started working with me here.”
Oliver nodded politely without speaking. He had thick black hair and almond-shaped eyes with only faint folds at the lids. Peter thought at least one of Oliver’s parents had ancestors in Asia. His weight was balanced, the pitchfork light in his hands.
Sally looked at June again. “So. What brings you back now?”
“Partly to see you,” said June. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.”
“Golden handcuffs,” said Sally. She patted the goat. “Where else would I get the funding to do this work? We’ve got these greenhouses working well enough to grow tomatoes in a snowstorm. We produce enough food now to feed ourselves and export some to the outside, completely sustainable.”
“I’d love to hear about it,” said June.
“I’ll give you the tour and talk your ear off.” Sally cocked her head like a curious cat. “But you didn’t come just to see me.”
“No,” said June. “You know my mom died?”
Sally nodded sadly. “I saw it online. Hit by a car, right?”
“Hit-and-run. They never caught the guy. I thought it was time to come see my dad. See if we can work things out.”
Oliver looked steadily at Peter without threat or malice, and carried himself with a stillness that was part observation and part simple readiness. His face was smooth and unlined but Peter was pretty sure Oliver was older than he looked. And not really a farmworker, although he looked capable enough with that pitchfork.
Sally said, “Your dad’s not what you think. He’s not a bad man.”
June gave the older woman a look. “Are you and my dad, you know. Together?”
“Oh,” Sally said, looking away as a faint blush reached her cheeks. The goat nudged her hand with its nose, reminding her to keep petting it. “I wouldn’t call it that. We’ve just known each other a long time.” She glanced up the valley to a group of buildings. “I don’t think there’s ever really been anyone for Sasha but your mom. And you, of course. He’s really missed you.”
“Well, I need to talk to him,” said June. “Do you still do family-style dinners on Saturday?”
“Oh, yes,” said Sally. “You’re staying, of course. We’ll be in the orchard for the first time since last fall. We’ve grown a bit, there are more people than there used to be. The cooks are making cabrito, it should be wonderful.”
Cabrito was goat meat.
Sally saw Peter glance at the goat she was petting. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” She laughed, an infectious cackle. “Don’t worry, we’re not eating this one for a few more years. Not ’til she’s past her breeding years. Lucky for me I’m not a goat!” She laughed again.
He said, “You have any unusual visitors lately?”
“Just us chickens,” she said. “Why do you ask?”