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She ripped another sheet out of the tiny box and packed the loose tobacco, rolling it tight. She’d begun rolling them herself when she calculated how much cheaper it would be, and for a long while, penny-pinching was the only way Alana was able to survive—and keep up with her habit.

Before she could light it, her door creaked open.

Sophie’s face was raw and red, her cheeks puffy. A streak of dirt marred her yellow sundress, and there was hay in her hair.

Alana dropped the cigarette. “Oh, Bean.”

Her sister cried again as she ran to Alana and threw her arms around her.

Alana plucked out the hay. “It’s okay,” she whispered, rubbing soothing circles into Sophie’s back. “Let it out.”

She led Sophie to her bed, letting her sister curl up beside her as the little spoon, like they used to. They’d spent countless nights like this when Mom was sick. Sophie would come in and cry and Alana would hold her and calm her down and think, I’m not built for this.

She didn’t feel that way now though. Now, she had a problem she could actually solve. Now, she hoped, she had luck on her side.

She combed her fingers through Sophie’s hair as her sister eventually fell asleep. She remained that way a half hour later when Otto tiptoed into her room.

“How’d he take it?” Alana asked, keeping her gaze on her sister. She didn’t have the heart to look her father in the eye. She felt betrayed by him, which she knew wasn’t fair. Her actions had been far worse.

“He volunteered to quit,” Otto mumbled, his voice gruff and worn. “I told him that wasn’t an option.”

“Why?” she asked, then decided to finally raise the topic she’d been stewing on. “What is he running from?”

Otto tapped on the door frame with the pads of his fingers. “It’s less about running and more about seeking.”

She finally glanced at him. “What does that mean?”

Her father shook his head. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s not my story to tell.”

9

Sophie was gone when Alana woke up. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, the early morning sun glaring through her window.

It had been only six days since her return home. She saw her time on the vineyard as a reprieve, a moment to pause and think through what she should do next. Should she stay, or was the pain too great? Being inside the house, working in the vineyards, she saw glimpses of her mother everywhere. The tea towels she hand-stitched with designs of flowers and ducks and grapes hanging on the oven door. Her collection of records neatly categorized in the living room, her favorites from Carol King to Fleetwood Mac now untouched, collecting dust. Her small assortment of jewelry remained in the pink dish with gold trimming on her father’s dresser. It still missed the most important piece.

The little reminders stung, but over those few days she found them to be a comfort. She’d thought she would have more time to work through her emotions, and to ultimately have the freedom to decide if she was going to stay or go. Yet now that the option of leaving was no longer hers, she was going to fight it with every fiber of her being.

How are we going to do this?

She knew sitting in bed was not the answer, so she threw the blanket off and pushed up from her mattress. Before she could reach for her jeans, her door nudged open.

Sophie was in a fresh set of clothes, a cropped white blouse and light-wash overalls, her hair in pigtails and a bandana on her head. She was holding a plate in one hand and a mug in the other.

Alana smiled. “You look like you’re ready to work.”

Sophie shook her head. “No work. You know what day it is.”

She frowned and looked at the calendar, realizing it was Sunday. “Sabbath.”

“Exactly.” Sophie handed her the plate and mug—goat cheese spread on a thick slice of toasted sourdough drizzled with honey, and a cup of coffee.

Alana beamed. “Bean, did you make me breakfast?”

“Of course I did.” She ticked her chin toward the bed. “Sit.”

Alana did what she was told, taking a big bite of the sourdough as she watched Sophie charge for Alana’s closet, pushing open the folding doors. She felt the tingling on her tongue from the goat cheese and honey. It was subtle. But it was there. The tension in her chest eased as her sister rummaged through her closet. “Looking for something?”

Sophie put her hands on her hips. “You can’t rotate through the same shirts and jeans every day.”