Chapter 26
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
RIFF
Harmony hums along to Imagine Dragons’ “Bad Liar” next to me in my Bronco Raptor while the warm Ventura County summer wind blows wisps of her hair around. It’s a perfect seventy-one degrees—cooler than inland cities even though it’s June, since we’re near the coast.
The Bronco’s doors and top are off, giving us the full cruising experience as we approach a stretch of the road lined with hundreds of orange trees.
“Is this it?” Harmony asks.
I nod, gripping the wheel. The air smells sweeter already, reminding me of my youth and all the time I spent here.
Craning her neck, Harmony observes the endless rows, where oranges dot the branches so abundantly they almost overpower the leaves.
We’ve spent a glorious nine days no longer hating each other (or even pretending to), meeting up after work or for lunch on less busy days.
Sometimes she stays at my place, other times I stay at hers.
I’ve already developed a love-hate relationship with her cat Mimi, who bites one minute and is adorably cuddly the next—like owner, like pet, I guess.
In theory, it’s probably too soon to bring her to meet my family, but when my mom called to ask if I wanted to get together with everyone to pick some oranges, I realized I didn’t want to go without Harmony.
Quite frankly, there’s not much I care to do without her anymore, so I asked if I could bring her along and Mom said sure.
“It’s the best time to come,” I tell Harmony. “We grow Valencias, which peak during the summer.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Did you just say ‘Vuh-len-shuhz’?”
“Yeah …”
Now she’s laughing at me. “You mean Vah-len-see-uhz?”
“Sure, that’s how some people say it. Agricultural people are more laid back with their speech.”
The way white people pronounce all these Spanish names here in California must be murder on her ears.
Harmony shakes her head and adjusts her hair tie to keep her dark waves in a low ponytail. “You really are a little bit country.”
“Well, this is the kind of country I don’t mind.” I point to the upcoming rows, where the fruit isn’t orange but bright yellow. “We also grow lemons here.”
“Really?”
“A few blocks of land, yeah. It started out with just oranges, but my grandpa started the lemons when I was a kid. They’re great; they produce fruit multiple times a year.”
“Nice. No limes, though?”
“No limes.” I laugh.
As we approach the driveway, where an ECKHART GROVES sign arches overhead, Harmony says, “You’re family’s going to hate me.”
I take her hand. “No they won’t. You’re awesome.”
“I released multiple hate songs about you.”
“Awesome hate songs. Besides, I released multiple hate songs about you too.”
“Yeah but your family is on your side. I’m sure as far as they’re concerned, anything bad you said was just self-defense.”
“Maybe, but even after all that, you won me over—easily. As soon as they get to know you, they’ll be right under your spell.”
The driveway is long and dusty, with trees on both sides. My grandparents’ house is a splotch of white at the end, while brown hills jut up in the distance behind it.
Having the doors off my vehicle spikes my adrenaline as we speed ahead.
Harmony and I are belted in but it feels like we could fly right out—enough of a risk to be exciting without making me think I’m actually going to die.
She grips my hand tightly but smiles. It was a pleasant surprise that she was so cool with driving like this (she even helped me strip everything down before we left).
Soon the house comes fully into view, a two-story California ranch with stucco siding and a reddish clay-tile roof that’s faded under the persistent sun.
The second story was added later to provide more space for my grandparents’ growing family at the time, and to take advantage of the view.
There’s a balcony out back that overlooks the whole property, which slopes downward slightly and makes it easy to see everything.
Grandpa’s sitting on the big front porch in a rocking chair wearing his usual getup: jeans and a flannel shirt with a fleece vest on top, Eckhart Groves logo embroidered on the left side of the chest. I still hate seeing him there without Grandma next to him.
It’s been six years since she passed. I wish I could come more often to keep him company.
Mom’s there though, with Dad, Rachel, Garrett, Garrett’s wife, and my nephew and two nieces.
I pull up, then get out and open Harmony’s door. Everyone comes to meet us.
My parents, grandfather, and siblings take turns hugging me (my siblings’ kids hug my legs all at once) before I introduce Harmony. They say overlapping hellos and shake her hand one by one.
“Harm, this is my Grandpa Joe, my mom Judy, my dad Hank, my sister Rachel and her daughter Ari, and my brother Garrett and his wife Brianna and their kids Jackson and Lily.”
“Hi,” Harmony says. “It’s really nice to meet you all.”
The kids swarm her, especially the girls, who look like sisters even though they’re cousins—because of the dominant Hurley genes—both dark blonde with brown eyes, just different sizes.
Lily, who is nine, asks, “Can we have your autograph?” She digs into her pocket and pulls out a small notebook and a pen. Ari, age six, does the same.
“Ari,” Rachel whispers sharply. “What did I tell you about that?”
Brianna puts a hand on Lily’s shoulder. “Maybe after we’ve at least gotten to know her a little bit.”
That’s not what’s bothering Rachel though. It’s that she doesn’t want Ari to like Harmony at all, let alone ask her to sign something.
“That’s okay,” Harmony says in her kindest voice. “I don’t mind.” Accepting Lily’s pen first, she opens the notebook and starts to write. “‘To my dear friend’ … is it one L or two?”
“One,” Lily tells her.
“And a Y at the end?”
Lily nods.
“‘My dear friend Lily.’” Then Harmony signs her name with several elegant swoops. At the bottom she adds, Stay absolutely stellar.
Lily beams at her. “Thanks!”
I’m sure she can’t wait to show all her friends at school and make them bitter with jealousy.
Harmony does the same for Ari, who is bouncing up and down.
“You both have such pretty names,” Harmony says.
“So do you!” Ari shouts.
The volume makes Harmony flinch, but she laughs softly and says, “You’re so sweet. Thank you.” Her additional text for Ari says, Take up space, which I think is fitting.
“You ever been to an orange grove before?” Grandpa Joe asks.
“First time,” Harmony replies.
“You’re in for a treat,” Brianna says. “Garrett brought me here when we were dating and, honestly, it’s the only reason I married him.”
Garrett turns to her abruptly. “What?”
“Kidding.” Brianna mouths not kidding behind her hand afterward.
“We’ve got the Valencias”—vuh-len-shuhz, Grandpa says, and I catch sight of Harmony’s lips pursing as she fights a smile—“covering most of the property, which is fifty acres, and then about ten acres of Eureka and Lisbon lemons. If you buy a lot of oranges, those’ll usually be navels, which are sweeter for eating.
Valencias are best for juice, so we make a lot of juice around here.
Probably drink it more than water.” He chuckles to himself like he does every time he makes that joke to a newcomer.
“And I guarantee it’s better than the orange juice you’ve had from the grocery store.
My kids and grandkids don’t like anything that’s not fresh squeezed—isn’t that right? ”
My whole family nods, including me.
“It’s not that they’re snobs,” I clarify. “It’s just that everything the processors do to make the juice shelf stable kind of kills the flavor. Oranges themselves are fine though; storebought navels tend to be less than a week off the tree by the time they hit the produce aisle.”
My grandpa nods along, apparently satisfied with my addendum. He’s coached me well.
“Well,” my mom says, “we’re glad you came today, Harmony. We have plans to go pick some oranges together and juice them right after, if you’re up for it. It’s a perfect day for—”
“Can we stop acting like this isn’t weird?” Rachel interjects.
We all stare at her.
“Rachel …” my dad warns.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel says in a tone that suggests she’s not the least bit sorry, “but I can’t stand here and pretend I don’t know everything she’s said about Griffin.”
“What did she say?” Ari asks.
I’ve begged Rachel not to influence Ari’s opinion of Harmony, but I guess she thinks it’s fine now that Harmony is present to defend herself. Not that any defense would be good enough.
Lily shrugs. “All she really said was he’s a fake cowboy. But it was supposed to be funny, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, like the Mic Drop rap battles,” says Jackson, age nine, who inherited Brianna’s brown curls.
He’s referring to a segment of Cal Moreda’s late show where Cal invites celebrities to join him in a mutual roast—set to a beat. Mostly it’s him saying actors are has-beens and them saying he’s old and that nobody really knows who he is.
“It was a little more than that,” Rachel argues. “She said he’s not a stand-up guy.”
“Didn’t he call her a demon, though?” Garrett asks.
“Only because she wrote ‘Friction,’” says Rachel.
Brianna adds, “But he said she has no sense of humor.”
“Because she said all his words ‘come off as comedy.’” My sister huffs. “The point is, she attacked him first and then kept it going. She couldn’t let him have the last word; she had to keep dragging his name through the mud.”
My pulse is throbbing in my head now. Harmony is holding my hand so tight it’s starting to go numb.
“Rach, can you please not?” I say. “Harmony and I both made mistakes. We’ve both apologized.”
Taking a deep breath, Harmony releases my hand and steps forward. “I was wrong. I’m not going to try to justify myself, and I don’t blame you for not liking me. Just please know that I truly am sorry, for whatever that’s worth.”
“You realize those things will live forever,” Rachel points out. “The whole world has heard them. You can’t take it back.”