But it wasn't what gave us this good life. When Rosalba and I came here from Sicily, we had seventeen dollars and a dream. All he knew about her was that she was here now and she'd brought his son down with her. "Do you want to change that?"Įlsa saw compassion in his dark eyes, as if he knew how afraid she'd been in her life, but she had to be imagining it. It binds us, one to another, as it has for generations. I make wine from grapes that I brought here from Sicily, and the wine I make reminds me of my father. "This is a good answer." He bent down, scooped up a handful of dirt. Martinelli said in a thick Italian accent. A gentle breeze rustled what remained, made a shushing sound. He led her along the edge of the wheat field the shorn crop struck her as broken, somehow, devastated. Martinelli came out of the barn and approached her. Behind the house was an orchard, a small vineyard, and a fenced vegetable garden. The farm itself consisted of the house, a big wooden barn, a horse corral, a cow paddock, a hog pen, a chicken coop, and a windmill. Hundreds of acres of harvested wheat fanned out in all directions, a sea of rough burnished gold, with the homestead part taking up a few acres in the middle of it all.Ī driveway cut through the fields, a brown ribbon of dirt bordered by cottonwoods and fencing. Elsa stepped out onto the porch and saw the Martinelli farm in full sunlight.
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