That million-dollar smile (it would, of course, be in dollars, or euros, and never anything but).
She smiled, flicking her blonde hair over the edge of her thin shoulder and digging in like an Iowa farmer after a long day. Or a Russian peasant.
The tomatoes hung limply from dark green vines, gleaming in the late summer afternoon, their sides changing from yellow to orange in the spirit of a wayward California chameleon. Evelyn dug her toes into the grass and stretched up to the sky, the way she had been taught in yoga class, her body forming one strict line like the blade of a sword. Overhead, she heard the cries of seagulls, though they were miles from the ocean.
It was time to go in, start dinner—she would be cooking Tom’s favorite, minestrone soup, an old family recipe handed down faithfully by her Italian grandmother. There would be fresh arugula salad seasoned with citrus and a dash of chili pepper, and grilled asparagus to boot. A California feast for a lazy summer evening, and who could complain? She noted with satisfaction…