I take a right off the main road onto a long dirt road, and Holden finally looks up, staring out of the windshield. We travel the two miles before the wrought-iron gate finally comes into view, with my name hanging from the top. I enter the code, and the gate swings open, allowing us to enter. No sooner than I pull up in front of the cute ranch house, the woman who runs the ranch walks out, a huge smile on her weathered face.
“Alessa!” she crows as I step out of the car in her thick Italian accent, clasping my cheeks in her hands and kissing both sides.
“Hey, Marcella,” I greet with a smile. It had been too long since I came out here.
Dad bought this farm from Marcella when her husband died, and she was about to lose it. Then he told her she could stay there and run it. When he died, I
