“Victor!” Peter shouted and took off like a shot, dropping his basket and scattering a few Brandywine tomatoes on the grass.
Violet visibly stiffened at the name, but kept her head down and continued instructing the children on how to know when corn is ripe enough to be picked. Of course, they also left, one by one, to greet Victor, most with just as much enthusiasm as Peter, others with less urgency, but all with brilliant smiles on their faces.
Even the oldest kids slipped away, although they, at least, gave apologetic smiles and said, “We’ll be right back, Miss Violet.”
Violet was soon left with only Carmencita by her side, who didn’t know what all the fuss was about. She preferred pulling out yellow turnips--or rather trying to-- and putting them in Violet's basket.
Peter jumped up into Victor’s arms and hugged his neck.
“How’s my good boy?” Victor said, rubbing his little back as he held on tightly.
“I missed you. Why dintcha come before?”
“Oh, Peter, I’m sorry, but I’ve been busy.”
“Didcha marry Violet yet?” Peter asked, his face scrunched up in an adorably grumpy expression.