When Andrea pulled into the dirt lot by the orchards that adjoined the blueberry fields, she saw she’d timed their arrival just right. Where the farm workers normally parked their beat-up sedans and rusting pickups, the Volvos and Mercedes and Audis were lined up, a faint scrim of dust from the dirt drive on their hoods. Usually Andrea was embarrassed by her mother’s old Chrysler with its missing wood panel, but today she parked it among the luxury vehicles with a sense of vindication. “Nice rides,” said Matty, nodding appreciatively. “I told you. They own everything.” She gestured at the trees and at the sky, too, as if the Lowells actually did own the whole wide world. “Like three hundred acres. Practically this entire side of the river. Apples and pears and blueberries, too.” For several years, the blueberry industry in California had been expanding, and the Lowells had been early adopters. In honor of their eighth annual blueberry party, the field workers a few of whom Andrea had known her whole life had been given this Saturday off paid. “Wouldn’t want the guests in their pearls to have to pick alongside Mexicans.” She snorted, picturing the Lowells’ friends in their Brooks Brother’s chinos and silk skirts and strappy heeled sandals making their way down the rows. Matty shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind a paid day off.” “You’d have to have a job first,” said Andrea, and then glanced at him, worried she’d offended him. Andrea wished he’d shaved that wormy black mustache or had at least put on a button-down. But whatever, she reminded herself; she didn’t actually care what the Lowells thought. Technically, Andrea had been invited to this party. Rather, her parents had been invited. Technically. But she was certain that the Lowells didn’t actually expect them to come. After all, they’d never been invited before. This invitation—letterpress-printed on thick, soft paper had been a gesture of goodwill, and not even that, Andrea was sure, but something the Lowells had felt they had to do, given that her father would be there anyway, with his taco truck. The truck was a highlight of this year’s party, according to the invitation: “Tacos provided by our own Salvador Romero and his El Primo taco truck!” And there, instead of blueberries on sage-colored sprigs, was the truck itself: a festive little line drawing debossed in red and yellow. The taco truck was a recent acquisition. Andrea’s father had saved for four years, plotting, cobbling together loans (including a pretty substantial one from William Lowell), driving the family crazy with his exuberance. The truck would pay for itself, he said, would give him something to do.