Book description:
In
the five years since Julia last visited her aunt and uncle’s home in Malibu,
her life has been turned upside down by her daughter’s death. She expects to
find nothing more than peace and solitude as she house-sits with only her dog,
Bonnie, for company. But she finds herself drawn to the handsome man who
oversees the lemon orchard. Roberto expertly tends the trees, using the money
to support his extended Mexican family. What connection could these two people
share? The answer comes as Roberto reveals the heartbreaking story of his own
loss—a pain Julia knows all too well, but for one striking difference: Roberto’s
daughter was lost but never found. And despite the odds he cannot bear to give
up hope.
Set in the sea and citrus-scented air of
the breathtaking Santa Monica Mountains, The Lemon Orchard is an
affirming story about the redemptive power of compassion and the kind of love
that seems to find us when we need it most.
Buy links:
BN: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-lemon-orchard-luanne-rice/1113833151
Excerpt Reprinted by arrangement with Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA)
Inc., from The Lemon Orchard by
Luanne Rice. Copyright © 2013 by Luanne Rice
Roberto
September
2012
Before
dawn, the air smelled of lemons. Roberto slept in the small cabin in the grove
in the Santa Monica Mountains, salt wind off the Pacific Ocean sweetening the
scent of bitter fruit and filling his dreams with memories of home. He was back
in Mexico before he’d come to the United States in search of goodness for his family, in another huerto
de limones, the lemon
orchard buzzing with bees and the
voices of workers talking,
Rosa playing with her doll Maria. Maria had sheer angel wings and Roberto’s
grandmother had whispered to Rosa that she had magic powers and could fly.
Rosa wore
her favorite dress, white with pink flowers, sewn by his grandmother. Roberto
stood high on the ladder, taller in the dream than any real one would reach.
From here he could see over the treetops, his gaze sweeping the valley toward
Popocatépetl and iztaccíhuatl, the two snow-covered volcanic peaks to the west.
His grandmother had told him the legend, that the mountains were lovers, the
boy shielding the girl, and tall on his ladder Roberto felt stronger than
anyone, and he heard his daughter talking to her doll. In dream magic, his
basket spilling over with lemons, he slid down the tree and lifted Rosa into
his arms.
She was
five, with laughing brown eyes and cascades of dark curls, and she slung her
skinny arm around his neck and pressed her face into his shoulder. In the dream
he was wise and knew there was no better life, no greater goodness, than what they already
had. He held her and
promised nothing bad would ever happen to her, and if he could have slept
forever those words would be true. Sleep prolonged the vision, his eyes shut
tight against the dawn light, and the scent of limones enhanced the
hallucination that Rosa was with
him still and always.
When he
woke up, he didn’t waste time trying to hold on to the feelings. They tore away
from him violently and were gone. His day started fast. He lived twenty-five
miles east, in Boyle Heights, but sometimes stayed in the orchard during fire
season and when there was extra work to be done. He led a crew of three, with
extra men hired from the Malibu Community Labor Exchange or the parking lot at
the Woodland Hills Home Depot when necessary. They came to the property at 8
a.m.
The Riley
family lived in a big Spanish colonial–style house, with arched windows and a
red tile roof, just up the ridgeline from Roberto’s cabin. They had occupied
this land in western Malibu’s Santa Monica Mountains since the mid-1900s. While
other families had torn up old, less profitable orchards and planted vineyards,
the Rileys remained true to their family tradition of raising citrus. Roberto
respected their loyalty to their ancestors and the land.
The grove
took up forty acres, one hundred
twenty-year-old trees per acre, planted in straight lines on the south-facing
hillside, in the same furrows where older trees had once stood. Twenty years
ago the Santa Ana winds had sparked fires that burned the whole orchard,
sparing Casa Riley but engulfing
neighboring properties on both sides.
Close to the house and large tiled swimming pool were rock outcroppings and
three-hundred-year-old live oaks— their trunks eight feet in diameter—still
scorched black from that fire. Fire was mystical, and although it had swept
through Malibu in subsequent years, the Rileys’ property had been spared.
Right now
the breeze blew cool off the Pacific, but Roberto knew it could shift at any
time. Summer had ended, and now the desert winds would start: the Santa Anas, roaring through the
mountain passes, heating up as they sank from higher elevations down to the
coast, and any flash, even from a power
tool, could ignite the
canyon. It had been dry for two
months straight. He walked to the barn, where the control panel was located,
and turned on the sprinklers.
The water
sprayed up, catching rainbows as the sun crested the eastern mountains. it
hissed, soft and constant, and Roberto couldn’t help thinking of the sound as money
draining away. Water was delivered to the orchard via canal, and was
expensive. The Rileys had told him
many times that the important thing was the health of the trees and lemons, and
to protect the land from fire.
He had
something even more important to do before his coworkers arrived: make the
coastal path more secure. He grabbed a sledgehammer and cut through the grove
to the cliff edge. The summer-dry hillsides sloped past the sparkling pool,
down in a widening V to the Pacific Ocean. Occasionally hikers crossed Riley
land to connect with the Backbone Trail and other hikes in the mountain range.
Years back someone had installed stanchions and a chain: a rudimentary fence to
remind people the drop was steep, five hundred feet down to the canyon floor.
He tested
the posts and found some loosened. Mudslides and temblers made the land
unstable. He wished she would stay off this trail entirely, walk the dog
through the orchard, where he could better keep an eye on them, or at least use
the paths on the inland side of the property. But she seemed to love the
ocean. He’d seen her pass this way
both mornings since she’d arrived, stopping to stare out to sea while the dog
rustled through the chaparral and coastal sage.
He tapped
the first post to set his aim, then swung the sledge- hammer overhead, metal
connecting with metal with a loud gong. He felt the shock of the impact in the
bones of his wrists and shoulders. Moving down the row of stanchions, he drove
each one a few inches deeper into the ground until they were solidly embedded.
The wind was blowing toward the house. He hoped the sound wouldn’t bother her,
but he figured it wouldn’t. She rose early, like him.
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