"Oh, Angie, you must be so proud! What a wonderful way to spend a vacation!"

"Complete accident, but I agree. Nothing makes a person feel more worthwhile than being able to lend a hand."

"And so you are! This plays right into your future plans to make a full-time commitment to lending a hand."

Angie was silent. "Right," she said, thoroughly baffled by her mother's support. "Though I'm not quite sure how yet. That's going to take research and application."

"But there is no doubt in my mind you'll find the best possible route."

"All right," Angie said. "You're being completely supportive of an idea you hate. What's wrong?"

Donna laughed. "Listen, we had a tough go for a while, you and I. I attribute my less-than-ideal behavior to stress and fear-something you'll understand one day when you're a mother. And I know you won't believe this, but I realize I'm a strong personality...."

"Oh, really?" she asked with a laugh.

"We'll have a frank discussion about that after you try managing a home, three daughters, three hundred students, a husband and a dean."

Angie laughed.

"Three brilliant daughters who are so easily bored they mix chemicals..."

"Right, I get it, Mom."

"And of the three, I have to get one who's gifted in science, one in music, one in athletics. I teach journalism-did I get a writer among you?"

"You're completely right-you've been screwed."

"Ange, I miss you. Not just because you're there in Virgin River, but because even when we were under the same roof, we were estranged. At odds. I want us to get beyond that. I take responsibility-I've been overbearing. You're an adult, so I'm officially backing off."

"Okay, you're really scaring me now. How's your health? Do you have a fever?"

Donna laughed. "Never better. My blood pressure is even down a little."

"No more talk about the psychiatrist?"

"Listen, if you ever sense you're having trouble with focus or memory or cognition, please let me know so we can get help with that before..." Donna took a breath. "No more. I'm leaving that to you. Unless there's an emergency, of course."

"Wow. Did my leaving town make this happen?"

"Perhaps," she said. "That and having you hang up on me. A lot."

"Mom," Angie dared. "I'm going to do things you don't always want me to do. I'm going to make decisions you sometimes don't agree with. You may even be right in your advice, but that doesn't matter to me. It's time I learned a few things on my own. Can you understand?"

"I can," she said. "But, Angie, please be patient with me. I'm doing my best. And I swear to G.o.d, you will have a child one day and you'll want that child to excel and have joy and never be hurt. It will sometimes put you on opposite sides. It's not easy. It's not."

Angie was silent for a long stretch before she said, "It matters an awful lot to me that you're trying. I appreciate that."

There was hardly a person alive who didn't find a visit to Jilly Farms purely magical. The big old Victorian on ten acres of farmland had roads leading around and through the various plots, sheds, greenhouses and fields, which were separated by snow-covered trees. The house was decorated for Christmas outside and in; Colin's artwork gracing the walls in every room except one-the lone painting in the dining room was a modern rendition of a Native American woman and child done by a friend of his, a famous artist.

Patrick drove Angie around the grounds in what Colin called the gardenmobile. They went inside greenhouses and marveled at indoor winter gardens. There were inactive steppe gardens on the hill, presently snow covered, but from March and April planting until September harvest they were covered with plants and vines. Fruit trees bordered the property; berry bushes separated gardens.

But even more fun than the house and land were the people. The kitchen was full of women-Jilly, Kelly, Kelly's step-daughter Courtney, Becca Cutler, whose young husband was Jilly's a.s.sistant and partner, and Shelby Riordan. Kelly, she learned, was a chef and she was the one directing the activity.

"I can help," Angie offered.

"Do you bake?" Kelly asked.

"Sure. Miserably."

They all laughed. "Then partner up with Courtney-she's getting scary good at this stuff at fifteen. She's working on sweet bread rolls-the biggest, softest, most delicious rolls in California-my great-grandmother's recipe."

"Right over here," Courtney invited, calling Angie down to the end of the work island. "Roll the dough b.a.l.l.s about this size and we load them in the pan like so. Last fall Kelly, Jilly and I made tons and tons of zucchini bread, pumpkin bread and cranberry bread. Most of it we'll thaw for the Christmas baskets."

"Who do they go to?"

"A lot of people! First of all, those who have fallen on hard times, especially the elderly who live off the grid in outlying areas. Then there are lots in town who barely squeak by. And this year we're putting together the baskets-er, I mean, boxes. Baskets are too pricey. We're putting them together here because there's so much more room than at the bar and because Jilly has ginormous freezers in the cellar. And pantry shelves for Kelly's canned goods and sauces and stuff that she sells all over the place. Jilly grows it, Kelly uses it."

"It's special stuff," Becca added. "Organic, heirloom fruits and vegetables. Very beautiful, healthy, delicious stuff."

Angie rolled dough and listened to them extol the virtues of the farm, of the retail food business. Patrick had disappeared-the men were staying clear of the kitchen. And then, quite suddenly, the landscape in the kitchen changed. A huge pot came out of the refrigerator and went to the stove, bags of greens and vegetables joined forces in an enormous wooden bowl, the last batch of bread was some fresh-baked French loaves that were sliced and slathered with a garlic paste. Angel-hair pasta was rinsed, plates and flatware went to the table.

"My G.o.d, you all work together like a machine!" Angie exclaimed.

"We've done this before, many times," Kelly said. "We're all kind of related, at least by work and marriage. And when you get down to it, we share a common purpose-keeping the farm going, the people fed well and the food at the dinner table five-star."

"Amazing," Angie said. "It's almost communal living at its best."

"Sometimes more than almost," Jilly said. "There have been many friends and family members under this roof."

"But Jilly would rather be in the garden or traveling with Colin," Kelly a.s.sured her. "Jilly is a master farmer and Colin is a brilliant painter, but neither of them is interested in running a hotel. For that, they need help."

The table was crowded for dinner. Angie had never before been terribly impressed with spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s, but today she was awed. "This is the best I've ever had," she said. "The sauce is wonderful and the meatb.a.l.l.s-G.o.d, they are perfect in every way."

Kelly took the opportunity to brag. "First of all, Jill grew these tomatoes and they're priceless. There's a farmer in the valley with free range turkeys for the meat-he's a love. I buy a lot of turkey meat from him. In fact, I like to pick out my turkey and-"

Several people at the table said, "Ewwww..."

"Well, I don't name them!" Kelly said.

"She picks her calves, too," her husband, Lief, said. "You probably don't want to know any more about this process. Chefs like to go to the wharves and smell the fish, grow their lobsters and select their shrimp and crab. She's very fussy about scallops but she'll take just about any duck I shoot."

"And deer?"

"She leaves the venison to Preacher."

"He's the best there is," Kelly confirmed. "But you're right about the turkey meatb.a.l.l.s. And the sauce, my nana's-the best recipe I've ever used. Perfect. And there's tiramisu for dessert."