Page 114 of Just Like Starting Over
I have a feeling it’s always going to be that way, and I like that just fine.
32
SYLVIA
Idrive home from Mike’s place at midnight, my contentment tainted by a sense of business left untended.
I should have told him everything. Not just the letters but the phone calls. I should have told him everything.
But when Mike talks about his dad, I see his affection along with his frustration. It reminds me how reliant he is upon his dad’s goodwill, even for his job. And that means Sierra and I are reliant upon it, too, with the settlement agreement. We could get along without Mike’s financial support – we have before – but mostly I didn’t want to argue with him. Of course, he will take his father’s side, at least first, maybe for good.
It made more sense in the moment to encourage him to speak up and share his ideas.
It made more sense in the moment not to tear apart such a wonderful precious thing as what’s growing between us. I want it to last and if that means delaying an inevitable discussion, I’m up for that.
Because it’s one thing for his father to compel Mike to choose, but it would be quite another for me to force it.
Still, I feel like a coward.
I have to figure out how to talk to Mike about this and soon.
33
MIKE
After my evening with Sylvia, I feel like I can leap tall buildings in a single bound. The situation at work isn’t right and I have officially nothing to lose. I sent my dad a message after Sylvia left, asking if he’d have time to talk at the office Monday morning.
He replied that he’ll be there at eight, sharp.
Okay. Sylvia’s right that I do well when I’m calm, when I know my material. I spent a while composing my arguments, then organizing them on my phone. I made them concise and to the point, and when I couldn’t think of anything more to add, I spent a chunk of the night memorizing them.
I’m as ready as I’ll ever be when I get to the office at seven. I have time to get the day rolling and finish my reviews before Dad strides in the door. He marches to my office, stands in the doorway and folds his arms across his chest. “Well, Michael. You had something to say.”
His tone is challenging and for a heartbeat, I’m tempted to just forget about it. Saying anything he doesn’t want to hear is like arguing with a brick wall. But no. This is important to me,and Sylvia’s point about changing the way Dad and I interact is well-taken.
I need to say this.
I need to change things up – or prove to myself that this will never change.
I stand up. “I wanted to talk to you about my ideas for the future of Cavendish Enterprises.” I hear my own enthusiasm, because writing it all down has excited me about the possibilities. “You said that growing the new variety was risky and the deal that Lisa made was just luck, but I disagree. It was more than that. I used my experience and my understanding of the market, combined with the recommendation of another industry professional to make a choice. I thought I had the authority to make the decision and I won’t apologize for making it. It was a risk, but a calculated one. You can dismiss it as luck, but the important thing is how we make more luck.”
“We grow those tomatoes again next year, obviously. Grow more of them.”
“No.” He’s visibly startled that I disagree. “We’ll growfewerof them next year.”
“What?! You will not…”
“Dad, listen,” I say, interrupting him, and maybe my tone convinces him to do that. “Every grower in the country is going to hear about Lisa’s deal and every single one of them is going to buy a package of those tomatoes. Once they taste how good they are, they’re going to call the seedling grower and ask for the name of the variety. And then they’re going to order seedlings for next year, an entire crapton of them, and next season, the market will be glutted with those tomatoes. The price per kilo on them will drop like a stone.”
His eyes narrow but he’s listening. “So, what do you suggest, Michael?”
I ignore his mocking tone.
“That we make changes. If we were growing our own seedlings, for example, no one outside the firm would know what varieties we were planting. We could do that in November, once the vines from the season are pulled and composted. We could become a year-round employer for a lot more people. We’d still have seasonal labour, but we’d have more full-time jobs to offer.”
His expression is grim. “And no one to hire for them.”
“Maybe not in Empire, but I bet a lot of our seasonal labourers would be glad of the chance to immigrate here with their families and work full time.” Dad catches his breath but I press on. We both know that argument already. My voice hardens a little. “Once upon a time, a Cavendish came to Canada to find opportunity for himself and his family. I can’t blame anyone else for wanting to do the same thing, Dad.”
