I get off the highway at Exit 63 and bisect the small town of High River—bracketed in the distance by the jagged slants of Mount Hood and the more rounded, snow-covered Mount Adams across the river in Washington. Shops and restaurants dot the edges of the town’s main street. There’s an old-fashioned movie theater named Andrew’s, redbrick brewpubs, clothing stores, specialty olive oil and wine shops, several pot establishments, a pizza joint called Double Mountain, and a shingled green shack that houses Mike’s Ice Cream. “That’s where I worked in high school,” I say, pointing at Mike’s.

After we cross over the narrow river, there’s a low lumberyard by a four-way stop. We drive past and head up a serpentine road lined with a mix of old ranches and new homes. At the top, the clouds have blown away and sunshine illuminates the white slopes of Mount Hood. The homes disappear behind us as we drive on, replaced by rows of orchards, their perfectly spaced trees laden with stunning white blooms.

“It’s beautiful,” Thomas says.

“Yeah. Blossom season. We had a warm winter so they’re early this year.”

“You said we.”

“Old habit. First blooms are apricot, they’re cold hardy, prolific bloomers, then cherries, their blooms grow in clusters, followed by peaches—those blossoms are tinged pink, then pears.” I point out the window. “Pears are the trees with gnarled trunks. To me, they always looked like old women’s arthritic hands held up to the sky.”

“You know a lot about fruit trees.”

“I’m an orchardist’s daughter.”

We wind along Eastside Road, past red barns and fields where men and women in hooded sweatshirts work in the trees. Rows of grapes dot the steeper hills. I take a left and pull onto a narrow drive lined with shade oaks. To both sides of the driveway are evenly spaced rows of pear trees that climb into the distance—twisted soldiers standing at silent attention. A house rises—white, three stories, leaded glass front windows, planters dotted with bright yellow daffodils on a covered porch. Hanging to the left of the door, an old-fashioned wooden swing rocks in the breeze. There’s a fishing rod in a metal stand to the right, olive green waders hung beside it. I see it all through Thomas’s eyes—an idyllic-looking place, the stuff of old movies. Appearances are deceiving.

I park the rental SUV by a dented blue pickup truck. My shoulders are too high, damp hands clamped to the steering wheel even after the engine dies. I’m wound so tight that if I were a guitar, my strings would snap. Does Thomas notice? My dog rests his head in the crook of my neck. Moose does.

Thomas asks, “Do they believe? In what you do?”

I nibble my lower lip then look down, but not before he has the chance to register the shine in my eyes. “Maybe now that my career has taken off,” I say, “they will . . .”

Memories wing like swallows, dip and dive overhead as I stride up the front path. I try to ignore them, but echoes of a girl’s laughter, dizzy somersaults on the lawn, cool sprinklers dappling hot skin, summer’s fruits dripping down my chin and elbows, a first driving lesson in the old truck, follow me.