![]() ![]() ![]() “You’d have to have a job first,” said Andrea, then glanced at him, worried she’d offended him. “Wouldn’t want the guests in their pearls to have to pick alongside Mexicans.” She snorted, picturing the Lowells’ friends in their Brooks Brothers chinos and silk skirts and strappy heeled sandals making their way down the rows. In honor of their eighth annual blueberry party, the field workers-a few of whom Andrea had known her whole life-had been given this Saturday off, paid. Apples and pears and blueberries, too.”įor several years, the blueberry industry in California had been expanding, and the Lowells had been early adopters. Practically this entire side of the river. They own everything.” She gestured at the trees and at the sky, too, as if the Lowells actually did own the whole wide world. “Nice rides,” said Matty, nodding appreciatively. Usually Andrea was embarrassed by her mother’s old Chrysler with its missing wood panel, but today she parked it among the luxury vehicles with a sense of vindication. ![]() Where the farm workers normally parked their beat-up sedans and rusting pickups, the Volvos and Mercedes and Audis were lined up, a faint scrim of dust from the dirt drive on their hoods. When Andrea pulled into the dirt lot by the orchards that adjoined the blueberry fields, she saw she’d timed their arrival just right. ![]()
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