Marco pushed the door open and stepped inside, laying his backpack on the ground. A delicious smell hung in the air and he swallowed, licking his lips in anticipation of the taste. He paused a moment longer listening for sounds that might indicate where his family was. Footsteps moved about the kitchen and he tiptoed across the room, slipping his arms round his mother from behind. She jumped in fright, turning to glare and hug him simultaneously.

'What are you doing here, m'ijo? We were only expecting you later in the week.'

'My exam was rescheduled,' he explained, hugging her tightly. 'I left the moment I finished the final paper.' You managed to jump on the train as it was pulling out of the station… 'I needed to get home.'

His mother appeared to understand. 'Why didn't you call us? Papa could have picked you up from the bus stop?' she chided. 'You would've walked for hours, Marco.'

He nodded. 'Papa's real busy at this time of year. I didn't mean to disturb him. And I felt like walking.' You needed the walk, Almeida, to sort a whole lot of things out, and to make sure you're really truly home.

Again she understood him without the need for further elaboration. 'Now that you are home, muchacho, would you run outside and find Papa. Tell him dinner will be ready soon and he should come in.'

He nodded, hugging her one final time before he walked through the garden and into the farm. A field of golden corn stood ready for reaping as he walked through the nearest row. His shoulders straightened as the sun shone on his back and his shoes sank into the mud. Marco laughed aloud, slipping them off. He pushed his socks into them and rolled his new jeans up, stepping deep into a patch of irrigated mud. Warm soil wrapped around each individual toe, squelching pleasantly as he reached the end and stepped into the vineyard. His father worked nearby cutting bunches of grapes and laying them in a cardboard box. 'Dinner's ready, papa,' he said, eyes sparkling.

His father jumped, giving a shout of joy. 'Marco, you're back. Come here, let me see you.' He reached for his youngest son and pressed him tight, strong arms encircling him as though reluctant to relinquish him. 'Where are your shoes?' he inquired exasperated as his eyes searched him from head to toe.

Marco grinned, shrugging. 'I left them near the house.'

'You'll step in a bee, m'ijo,' his father warned, just as he had countless times before. 'Remember how it hurts.'

'Sí,' he replied, nodding grimly. His fingers reached towards the nearest bunch of grapes and he popped a piece into his mouth, sucking the juice from it. 'They're good this year.'

'There are a lot of them,' his father told him. 'They need to be cut tomorrow.'

'We'll get it done,' Marco assured him, lifting the heavier box. They trudged over to the house in friendly silence, leaving the grapes in the cellar. Marco poured a bucket of water over his feet and wiped them in the mat before he entered the house, enjoying the feel of the cool tiles.

'Oh,' his mother cried, clapping her hands in dismay. 'You've only been home half an hour and you're already dirty, m'jio. Get upstairs and have a shower. Such a shame, you looked so smart when you arrived.'

'It didn't feel right,' he explained, earning himself a tap on the leg. 'Ouch, mama, that hurt!'

'Hurry up,' she ordered, nodding at the table. 'Dinner will get cold.'

Marco took the stairs two at a time as he flew into the bathroom, stripped and stood under a warm shower washing the dirt off the long train journey. Thoughts of the meal awaiting him caused him to leave the shower within minutes and he crossed the hall dripping wet, picked a towel from the cupboard, rubbed himself dry and selected a handful of ancient clothes which he pulled on in relief.

Dinner passed pleasantly as he related certain adventures, concentrating on the train journeys and a brief description of the university. After dinner he helped his mother clean the dishes before she kissed him, repeated her delight at seeing him again and went to bed, reminding him they would begin work at dawn. He stepped outside, knowing in advance he'd find his father sitting on the bench smoking his pipe. Marco settled on the floor, his back against an arch and stared at the familiar scene bathed in moonlight.

'I'm listening, m'ijo,' his father said softly. 'What is she like?'

Marco turned crimson, running his fingers over a cracked tile. 'She's got long brown hair and the brightest eyes you've ever seen,' he explained.

'Aha. And what are her parents like?'

He shrugged, uncertain how to describe them. 'They always go to church on Sunday,' he began.

His father stirred, tapping his pipe against the bench. 'Of course they do! What are they like as people? What do they do?'

'The father has shares in some companies. He lives from that. The mother stays home,' he finished.

'And what do they think of you?' his father pressed, ever perceptive.

Marco squirmed. Not a great deal, to put it mildly. 'Ah, they never met me,' he admitted, not daring to look at his father.

The pipe tapped the bench a great deal harder. 'Marco! Are you telling me you've been seeing their daughter for an entire year and failed to visit them! What kind of behavior is that?' He remained silent, eyes fixed on the moon. 'Do they even know you're seeing her?' his father pressed a little quieter, sensing something.

His son shrugged. 'I don't know.'

'Marco, I need the truth. One year in a city cannot have changed the fundamental values we instilled. Just what happened with that family?'

Again the silence stretched as his father grew increasingly uncomfortable. 'Come here,' he ordered and Marco stood before him chewing his lip as he had on countless occasions before receiving a ticking off for inappropriate behavior. 'They don't like you, do they?'

He shook his head silently, eyes on the floor.

His father sighed and laid the pipe on the bench, leaving him alone for a moment. A minute later he emerged, laying two glasses and a bottle beside the pipe. Marco's eyes widened at the sight. An entire bottle of tequila! He's expecting this conversation to last till dawn! 'Is that for me?' he asked, taking a glass.

'Sí. You look like you could use it.'

He sipped it slowly, the liquid burning his throat. A sudden memory came to him and he pressed a hand over his mouth, failing to hide a grin.

'What was it, m'ijo?' his father pressed.

'I just remembered you weren't so generous with the tequila 9 years ago,' he said, beginning to laugh. 'Every time I drink some I remember the hiding you gave Tomas and me right out here.'

'M'ijo, what did you expect? You two sneaked out of the house and stole a bottle and sat here drinking it! You only got what you deserved.'

'I know that, Papa, just, here's the funny part. I didn't even like it…I only drank a bit to stop Tomas calling me a baby!'

They laughed together, a little of the pain leaving Marco. A deep peace crept over him that he had missed since he left the place and he settled on the floor, laying his head against his father's knee. Warm fingers stroked his head and he squeezed his eyes shut in a hurry. 'Hey, it's okay now. You're home. They hurt you real bad, in the north.'

Marco shook his head. 'Most of them were fine. Some of them were real kind.'

'They put you in jail. One of my sons in a jail!'

He squirmed. 'I'm so sorry, Papa.'

'I'm not mad at you, Marco, I'm mad at them. How dare they do it? You're the best person I know. You're sweet, well-mannered, kind and helpful. And they hurt you!' A warm tear moistened his finger and he stared at it startled. 'What did they do to you, muchacho? I want to know all of it, like it happened.'

Sipping his drink he explained the events, interrupting his narrative with frequent descriptions of Rita which his father listened to appreciatively. 'Sounds like she's quite a girl,' he agreed. 'So this Rita Torres has stolen my youngest son,' he concluded with sufficient gloom to cause Marco to raise his eyes in protest.

'No papa. You should know nobody can ever do that. It's just that I like her too.'

His father laughed. 'I was only teasing you, Marco. It's high time you found a girl to admire, you're twenty already, after all! But there's still something you haven't told me, so come on. Let's get it all out in the open tonight, and then tomorrow we can concentrate on the living.'

He nodded, accepting the wisdom of the request. Get it all out now and see what he says and then enjoy the vacation. Don't carry it inside you. 'I heard her talking about me once,' he admitted, winding the bottom of his t-shirt restlessly round his finger. 'I was working on some plans and Miguel was watching some baseball when she rang the bell. We got the plans and threw them into the spare room and Miguel told me to lock the door and keep real quiet. I sat on the floor in the dark because the bed creaked.'

His father stirred, pouring them a second glass of tequila. 'So what did she say?'

'She was full of hate towards me. The moment she entered she told Miguel his sister was seeing someone, some Mexican. She said it like it's a crime. Then,' he paused uncertainly while his father nodded at him urging him to continue. 'She said all kinds of things. She was there for an hour.'

'What things, m'ijo?' his father pressed, sensing his reluctance to elaborate.

'It's not good.' Marco fell silent, taking a gulp of tequila. 'Remember, she never even set eyes on me. I was referred to as a flea-infested Mexican gangster, a useless peasant, dirty and illiterate, or semi literate, a mongrel of uncertain ancestry and I don't even remember what else, but it kept being repeated. She said Rita was mad even sitting next to such a person let alone speaking to me. That we got nothing here and we're all living on whatever we can scrape together from the dirt and she'd sink to our level if she stayed with me, and that no one should expect her to support us should Rita choose to marry me…First I was real mad listening to all her slurs but when she said that last part…' He shook his head, unwilling to admit he had been reduced to tears.

'She sounds like a witch from hell,' his father exclaimed. 'But her daughter, this Rita, she seems a decent person.'

'You're not going to warn me to keep away from her? That she's far too wealthy for me?' he pressed.

His father rose, picking up the half empty bottle. 'What should I say, Marco? You're more familiar with the situation than I am. You're facing tremendous obstacles, but if you love this girl and she loves you, I won't stand in your way.' He squeezed his son's shoulder. 'It might just be the tequila, m'ijo, but listen to this anyway. Fight for her! A good woman is always worth fighting for!'

Marco fell into bed a lot happier than before and slept like the dead. It required fully two minutes of shaking by his mother to get him to the point of opening his eyes. He stared at her groggily, blinking in the dim light. 'Hmmm.'

'Marco, get up! The sun's nearly up and breakfast's ready! We need to get the grapes today. Are you sick, m'ijo?'

He mumbled something about joining them directly and fumbled for his clothes, his head swimming. Despite his best efforts his parents were nearly finished when he stumbled downstairs, hugging them both. 'Big city turned you lazy, young man,' his father remarked, chewing his lip. 'It's almost five!'

Marco mumbled his apologies red-faced.

'Muchacho, I can't afford to waste a minute of early morning. It will get hot soon. Join us when you're done.'

He pushed his way through the rows of corn barefoot, sandals in hand. Insects chirped all around him and the last of the dew shone on the tips of the corn. Marco indulged his childhood joy of shaking a few vigorously and watching the drops splatter on the ground. A crow eyed his approach belligerently as it nibbled on a stalk. 'Hey,' he cried, clapping his hands. 'Shoo.'

'Well m'ijo, for a man whose greatest ambition in life was to be a scarecrow, you're a little lazy,' his father teased, handing him some cutters and a box.

Marco stopped, his face flushing as he recalled the day when he was around six years old and had slipped out of the house after breakfast. His father had searched for him, scolding him when he was discovered playing between the corn, his entire body covered in mud. Didn't he want to go to school and learn something to get a good job? The child had shaken his head, explaining that he was going to get a job as a scarecrow! 'Tio Pedro promised he'd pay me,' he insisted as he was scooped in his father's arms and hurried back to the house for a bath. 'He said I was a fantastic scarecrow! I don't need to go to school!'

Mortified, he set about clipping the bunches of ripe grapes, working fast and methodically. Just don't tell Rita I said that, Papa, please. It's not something she'll ever allow me to forget!

The following week passed so rapidly he barely had a moment to miss Rita, though he did miss her. Life would indeed have been perfect had she been with him, he reflected as he carried boxes of vegetables to the cellar. Life would be perfect then…

'Marco, you're dreaming again,' his mother scolded, beckoning from the top of the stairwell. 'Come in the house and see what just arrived.' Seeing her smile his heart leapt in his throat and he stashed the remaining vegetables faster than ever before. The instant he was done he raced for the house, entering its cool interior. A pile of mail lay on the dining room table, the majority addressed to him. Eager fingers pulled the dozen postcards to the side as he tore open an envelope.

His father took it from him, sniffing the letter dubiously. 'She might be rich, muchacho, but she's a girl like all the others,' he concluded, handing it back to his crimson faced son. 'That's just an expensive perfume.'

Marco carried the letter outside under the shade of a palm tree and read it slowly hearing her voice as though she spoke to him. Page after page contained her account of their Italian holiday, the narrative interrupted by constant admissions of her loneliness without him.

I love you my friend. Come down to the lake at 5:00 on the 31st and I'll be there. I need a MASSIVE kiss!

You'll get it, querida, he promised, remaining in his happy frame of mind the entire day.

The following fortnight sped past, Marco working in the fields with his father, joined by a few relatives. Three days were devoted to collecting the harvest for the widow whose property adjoined theirs, her gnarled hand stroking his cheek as he stacked the final boxes in her cellar. 'Gracias, Marco. I don't know when my sons would have time to come…'

He shook his head. 'It's no problem, Tia Blanca. I still remember those apricot ices you used to make.'

She read his hopeful expression and laughed, nodding her head at the kitchen. 'Check the freezer, muchacho. You might find a few.'

'Marco, at this age! You should be ashamed,' his father protested as he returned, three lollies in his hands.

He shook his head, settling at an outdoor table. 'This one's for you, Papa. Ashamed of liking Tia Blanca's lollies? I don't think I'll ever be too old to eat these!'

His father sighed, shaking his head in amusement. 'That I can well believe!'

'Tomas, you must take some boxes of fruit for yourself,' the old lady insisted. 'Without you and Marco there's no way I'd have anything done.'

They shook their heads simultaneously. 'We got plenty this year,' Marco assured her, sucking his second ice.

'You done a great job with that child,' the old lady praised his father while Marco struggled to contain his mirth. 'He's got perfect manners and he's so helpful.'

'Just as he should be,' his father insisted. 'It's a sad day when neighbors ignore each other, and it won't happen while I'm around!'

The entire holiday would have been perfect had not an old classmate of his tapped him on the shoulder on his final Sunday after church with his family. Marco turned, less than pleased to see the person who had caused him regular grief during his early schooldays. 'Felipe,' he said.

'Marco the genius! Still getting everything right, I guess. Heard you moved to the United States!'

'I'm studying there,' he replied lazily. 'I live here.'

Felipe nodded, leaning closer. 'But not for much longer, I take it. Come on Marco, you were always the brightest kid in the school! Get yourself a Green Card and you never need to return. Or find a girl! Green Card is guaranteed if you find an American wife. Just find out how many years such a marriage got to last, and then you're a free man!'

'Look here, Felipe,' Marco hissed, his cheeks crimson. 'I am there to study, that's all! I am in no position to think of matrimony, and I won't be for several years!' Fingers clenched round the back of a pew he drew a deep breath, thoughts of Rita filling his mind. Though there is someone special…

'You were always pathetic,' Felipe laughed, beckoning two others over. 'Marco's incapable of finding a girl in America! How many more should there be, Marco, before you are able to choose? Or perhaps you're inclined the other way?'

Without planning it his fingers grasped Felipe's shirt, pulling his nose inches from his own. 'When I find a girl is none of your business, Felipe. I suggest you leave now, before I forget where we are!'

Felipe took a step backwards, glancing thankfully at the Padre who was working his way determinedly towards them. 'You got too many brains, Marco! You're not even on this planet! I dunno where you are, but it's not here! You don't even know what fun we had pinning all the blame for everything at school on you!'

Marco's jaw tightened as his fist clenched.

'Good morning, boys. Is there a problem here?' the Padre began, eyeing Marco.

He shook his head, releasing Felipe. 'No Padre, no problem. We were just talking!'

'I suggest you carry on your conversation outside,' he warned them, stepping round the group to greet some old ladies.

A hand laid on his shoulder turned him round and Marco found himself eye to eye with his father. 'It's time to go, right, Papa?'

His father nodded silently. The walk home was quiet; his mother discussing bottling jars of apricots while he strode beside her, casting occasional uneasy glances at his father. 'Why don't you two bring a few potatoes from the cellar,' his mother suggested once they arrived, and he nodded, changing into comfortable clothes.

Footsteps led downwards as he scrubbed them and he drew a deep breath. 'I'm sorry, papa.'

He was met with a writhing glare. The lecture he received lasted well over half an hour, the words lost in the dimness of the cellar as his eyes fell on a narrow chink of light, brightening and fading as the clouds raced across the sky, reminding him of the sun shimmering on a necklace. He resolved to buy her one before he returned, his heart brimming with happiness.

The necklace slid smoothly through his fingers as he stared mesmerized at the reflections within each intricately woven bubble. Horrendous as the price was he knew he would purchase it. It would look fantastic on her and she deserved it. Thoughts of holding her in his arms filled his head as he paid for it and boarded his train.