Page 17 of Just Like Starting Over
I get in the truck and turn the key, but I don’t drive back to Cavendish Enterprises. I head the opposite way, taking Erie Street toward Port Cavendish. On a whim, I take a right, turning onto the small two-lane road that runs along the north shore of the lake, the one that heads west.
My stepmother calls it the road to oblivion, and maybe that’s why I like it. There’s seldom anyone else on the road and the houses are spaced out because of the farmland. It’s a good drive for thinking. You catch glimpses of the lake and a whole lot of sky, and as I drive, I feel the tension start to ease out of my shoulders. I’m wondering how far I’ll go – how much time I have to justbe– and immediately start thinking about tomatoes needing to be picked.
The truth is that I know where I’m going to go. It’s been a couple of years since I met Rupert van Nuys, since I stopped at his fruit stand impulsively and admired his greenhouse. The sight of it took me back, just the way it does today. His farm looks the way my dad’s farm looked when we were kids.
It wasn’t like I needed any tomatoes that day. Still don’t.
The fruit stand at the side of the road is just a wood frame with an aluminum roof. Behind it is a greenhouse built the way ours used to be, only about twenty feet tall and with a patina from the weather. There’s a house at the end of the lane and the fields have been tilled. I don’t need to ask anyone to know that those are rows of tomato plants in the fields and still more of them under glass.
I sit and stare at property for a minute, then an older man comes out of the greenhouse and heads toward the stand. He lifts a hand to wave in recognition and I wave back, then get out of the truck.
Rupert looks older than the last time I was here but his smile of welcome is just as sincere. He gives me a hug before inviting me into the greenhouse, just like always. He’s talking a blue streak and I just listen. He’s experimenting with some new hybrids of heritage varieties and wants to tell me all about them.
I’m also looking around and making mental notes. I’ll fix that ladder before I go and take care of the hinge on this door. Little things I can fix to help him out. Little things that won’t hurt his pride.
I’m struck all over again how Rupert’s place feels more like home than where I actually live. Maybe that’s what keeps bringing me back to his farm.
6
SYLVIA
“So?” Sierra says, hopping onto the kitchen counter as nimbly as a cat. Her manner is expectant and her gaze unswerving. She isn’t visibly tired after her shift at the café and I was impressed by how well she did her first time out.
Even Merrie complimented her.
We’re home again, late afternoon, for a break before I head back for the dinner shift. Merrie has taken Una’s chemo belly as a personal challenge and is cooking for my grandmother every day. Today, she gave me a clear chicken soup with wheat hearts, (there’s optional asparagus in a separate container and also diced chicken), chanterelles sautéed in butter (to be served on optional multi-grain toast) and six individual crème brûlées without the sugar glaze on top. I guess that makes them vanilla custard but it sounds better in French.
It’s the final day of Una’s first round of chemo. Now she gets three weeks to recover, sprinkled with more appointments. Her oldest and best friend, Muriel Jackson, has been drivingher into Havelock and back each day, sitting with her through the treatments.
I know exactly what Sierra means but am too surprised to have a good answer. “So?” I echo.
“Is my dad hotter now or was he hotter then?”
I didn’t expect her to be so blunt, but then, she does know Merrie.
I stir the soup, deciding what to admit. It wasn’t supposed to matter to see Mike again. I wasn’t supposed to feel like a lovesick teenager to see him, much less be terrified at the same time that he might insist on a paternity test, or even take Sierra away from me. She’s at the age that she loves all the things, and Mike can afford them – just the way I can’t.
I put the soup on low, then turn to consider my daughter.
This amazing child. The light of my life and the reason for everything. She’s amazing, a fireball of energy with a generous heart. I see bits of myself in her, even glimpses of Una, but there’s a big part of Sierra that reminds me of Mike. It’s more than her appearance or her height. Her dexterity with math is mark of his contribution, for example.
Why did I come back to Empire? Because Una is a force of nature and Sierra’s grandmother, and time might be running out for Sierra to know her. It’s a simple choice when you put it like that. Una is tough and keeps her secrets but she’s been my rock for as long as I can remember.
I don’t even want to think about losing her.
Sierra is far too smart for her own good – or maybe mine – and she knows it. She has that impish grin tugging at the corner of her mouth now, the one that always undermines my ability to be angry with her. She takes a bunch of green grapes from the fruit bowl, kicking her feet all the while, and tosses one into her mouth. “He’s pretty hot now,” she notes with a glint in her eyes. She does have Merrie’s tenacity when it comes to anysubject she wants to discuss. “Not that he’s my type or anything.” She sticks out her tongue, making a face. “I mean, eww. He’s ancient.”
“As ancient as me,” I note and she looks surprised.
“No!”
“We’re the same age. Same grade in school. How else did you think I knew him?” I’m trying to be cool but she’s studying me intently. I change the subject. “Whatisyour type?” I ask, stalling for time.
She rolls her eyes because the answer should be obvious. “Brendan Singh.” She licks the tip of her finger then points it at me, hissing as if she’s touched a spark. I know Brendan’s name well. He’s the object of many of her conversations with her BFF Lila.
He’s also (safely) in Toronto.
“Why?”
