Sunrise Point

yogurt?”
    “How do you feel about All-Bran?” Maxie asked.
    Darla made a face.
    “We’re going out for breakfast,” Tom announced. “I have eggs, potatoes, sausage, bacon and toast. I’ll be sure you have granola and yogurt.”
    “Tom,” she said sincerely, “aren’t you worried about your cholesterol?”
    He forked a big mouthful of potatoes, full of butter, cheese and sour cream into his mouth and after swallowing he said, “I lift a couple thousand pounds of apples a day. I dare my cholesterol to keep up with that.”
    “I guess you have a point,” she said. “I work out every morning, but the rest of my day isn’t so physical. I’m in sales. I have a lot of meetings. Many of them in restaurants. If I ate everything that was put in front of me, I’d weigh two hundred pounds!”
    “You look just lovely, dear,” Maxie said. “You’ll be fine. Now tell us about the sales job and who you sell your products to.”
    And cleverly, Maxie turned the table over to Darla, who was not eating and could talk while Tom and Maxie finished their dinner. And it was interesting—her work with doctors and hospitals and drug trials that might actually cure diseases and conditions that to this point rarely were successfully cured. She traveled for three to four days every other week and enjoyed her travels. She had long-term clients who had become friends because they depended on her. And there were benefits—bonus gifts she could give to her clients, and to herself, like good seats at concerts and sporting events. There were greatly discounted resort destinations—the Caribbean, Hawaii, Mexico. She had the best vacations and bonuses in the world.
    During her explanation of her work, Tom and Maxie rose from the table and began to clean up dishes, careful not to ignore her. Since Maxie was letting the broiler pan soak, it didn’t take long to wash up, put things in the dishwasher, wipe off the table. Maxie didn’t even bother with the pound cake yet.
    “Come on,” Tom said, holding out his hand. “Let’s find your jacket and walk off some of those calories you stuffed away at dinner.”
    Hopefully only Tom noticed Maxie roll her eyes.

Chapter Eight
    To Tom’s great pleasure, it was a clear night. Cold, clear and the sky was peppered with a million stars. He walked with Darla down the lane between the two big groves, hands tucked into their jacket pockets.
    “I can see why you love it here,” she said. “It’s so quaint and peaceful.”
    “I guess I never think of it as quaint. It’s so much work. We move tons and tons of apples and gallons of cider.”
    “But you have employees,” she said.
    “Several. And now that I’m home I can manage the business end of things—accounts, payroll, shipping—all stuff Maxie did with Junior’s help while I was gone. I think she’s entitled to a slower pace. It was either run the orchard or think about selling it in the not-too-distant future.”
    “Sell it?” she asked.
    “It’s been in the Cavanaugh family since the first trees were planted—a very long time ago. I think it was my great-grandfather. I think Maxie would grieve it. I’m pretty sure I would. I can’t think of anything I could do but this.”
    “And this is a good business?” she asked.
    “Good enough to take care of all our needs year round. And in the winter when we’re not planting or picking, it keeps us very well.”
    “Is it lucrative?” she asked.
    “I guess so,” he said with a shrug. The fact was, Tom didn’t think like that. He wasn’t comparing his orchard to anyone else’s. They did very well and when there was profit left over, they always put it into the land, crop, equipment and the house. There were some savings of course, but mainly their money went back into the business. They were continually enlarging their crop. And of course they paid employees and provided benefits for all but the seasonal help.
    “But what a great place to come on weekends, to get out of the rat race,” she said.
    “Better than Jamaica?” he asked teasingly. “Better than front-row seats at a Lakers game?”
    She gave him a playful slug in the arm.
    “You come up here any weekend you feel like it,” he invited.
    “Will you come to Davis?” she asked.
    “Probably not during the harvest,” he said. “I rarely take a whole weekend off between the end of August and Thanksgiving. I can wrangle a day sometimes. Or an evening.”
    “But you were gone for seven years and they