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The mist is still on the lower vines when Marta walks the rows . She pauses at her usual vine , picks one grape , and rolls it between her fingers . " It needs one more day , " she says . In the kitchen , Petra feeds the starter — a spoonful of flour , a little water — and replaces the lid with her usual care . Out in the rows , Samir works ahead of everyone , the fastest hands at the harvest . Mid - morning , quietly and without a word , he slows . His row ends at the same moment as Petra 's . Nobody notices , or nobody says so . The noon bell sends everyone inside to the smell of Samir 's cooking — something warm and deep , his grandmother 's dish . Before dinner , Samir pours from the small brass pot in tiny cups . The coffee is sweet and very thick . When Petra asks to try the pouring , he passes her the pot . Her first cup overflows onto her hand . Samir does not smile ; he hands her a cloth . The second cup she pours better . Samir reads the sign over the kitchen door before he serves : " AT MY TABLE , EVERYONE COOKS ONE NIGHT . " Gino , dark jacket , something under one arm . " I was just passing , " he says , and sets a folded paper of cardamom pods on the counter . Marta stands and lifts her glass . " To the rain that waited . " Later , over the last of the dishes , one of the women tips her head at Samir 's hum . " It 's a lullaby , " she says . At the sink , Petra and Samir stand side by side again . Their elbows are a little closer than last week . Neither of them mentions it .
