The Orchard. Catherine Temma Davidson

put on one of her favorite songs from when she had been Anya’s age. Jackson Browne was her teenage crush, with his long hair and soulful eyes.

      He sang: “Running on, running on empty,” and she sang along.

      No one was there to stop her. No one could sink against the seat and say, You are so embarrassing.

      “Running wild!” she let herself howl.

      A large white truck came up behind her. It sat on her tail. Lisa saw the driver in her rearview mirror. He wore dark sunglasses and a cap. They were in the middle lane. He wanted her to move. Instead, she slowed down.

      He inched closer. She slowed more. She could feel his temper rising. Lisa’s rose, too. They played psychological warfare. Finally, the other driver swerved. His truck zoomed ahead in a screech of tires.

      That was fun, she thought. What would Anya have said?

      Don’t, Mom. Don’t! He’s probably got a gun. She heard Anya’s voice in her head, louder than any music. She imagined her own reply: Guns and trucks! Each his own personal Wild West! These people have ruined California!

      Then she thought about the real words her daughter had spoken the week before, words she wished she could block out: “You like to fight! You look for enemies! But it’s turned you into a bigot. I can make a different choice.”

      Oh, Anya.

      Chapter 2

      A Beautiful Vision

      When Lisa was a teenager, she often got angry with her own parents. Her mother, Claire, was French-Canadian. Claire had dyed-blond hair and had been a cheerleader for the UCLA basketball team. Her father, Jack, was Joe’s oldest son.

      Jack Katsouris had been a star shooter and an A student at UCLA. He worked hard. In 1955, he was the only ethnic on the basketball team. Lisa’s parents were outsiders who wanted to be insiders.

      Jack and Claire were Californians: cheerful and upbeat. Jack was a lawyer, like Lisa. Unlike Lisa, he never lost his temper or his cool. Her mother loved being a housewife. As a girl, Lisa thought her parents were boring. She was fascinated by her grandparents.

      Americans are only interested in two tenses: present and future. Her foreign grandparents brought a past with them. When she was around her father’s family, life took on a deeper flavor. Loss was part of happiness, bitter mixed with sweet.

      The difference between her parents and her grandparents was the difference between American and Greek Easter. The first was pretty, pink and green: bunnies, hats, tulips, and sugar. In school and on TV, this was the official Easter.

      But the real Easter happened on a different day. Her extended family joined her grandparents at the Greek Orthodox church in Ventura. The service began at ten p.m. The priests sang with real grief and real joy in an ancient language. They swung incense through the night air. The faithful lit candles that sometimes burned Lisa’s hair. The family kept the candles with them, carrying them in their cars to Joe and Anna’s house. They ate their feast after midnight. The soup was made of organ meat and herbs. The eggs were the color of blood.

      Which was more interesting? It was no contest.

      When Lisa was thirty, a brief love affair left her with Anya. Suddenly, she understood her parents’ need to make the world better than it really was.

      Lisa read her small daughter fairy tale after fairy tale. She poured happy endings into her, like a charm. Yes, there are bad things in the world, she wanted to say, but I will protect you. I will fight for you.

      Anya trusted her. She was proud of her mother, the lawyer, the fighter. Proud of the way she defeated her enemies.

      Lisa believed they were an unusually close mother and daughter. Maybe that was an illusion. The first time her daughter stood up to her after twenty years, the first time she said no, Lisa betrayed her.

      Chapter 3

      A Snake in Paradise

      Just after Ventura, the road turned east, away from the ocean. Lisa headed toward the mountains. Before long, she reached Ojai.

      The mountains surrounded Ojai like a wall. The orchards filled the valley and stretched up the slopes. They looked like a patchwork shawl on the valley’s shoulders. Lines of citrus trees formed squares that crisscrossed each other. Bright oranges and lemons speckled the dark green leaves.

      Below the groves rested the little town. It looked like a postcard of California with its red-tile roofs and white-walled houses, its lush gardens.

      The locals guarded Ojai’s charm like a treasure. No big buildings, no chain stores or malls were allowed.

      Her grandfather used to say: “It’s no surprise that when they wanted to film paradise, the motion pictures chose Ojai.”

      But every paradise has its snake, Lisa thought. As the road turned toward Santa Paula, she spied a large sign. It was for her cousin Ari’s garden center.