Page 29 of Just Like Starting Over
“But you might bring parasites or fungi into the greenhouse, without meaning to do so. On your hands. On your shoes. Because the greenhouse is a closed environment under glass, and a warm, humid one, any pest or mold can spread to every plant in a hurry. The crop could be at risk, so we don’t give tours.” Mike nods. “Rupert, though, has a smaller old-school greenhouse. He lets the wind blow through it for ventilation and loves to show it off. Sierra could learn a lot from him.” He smiles again and there’s affection in his expression. “I have.”
I have a feeling that there’s another reason we’re not going to the Cavendish greenhouses but it’s okay by me to avoid the possibility of seeing Patrick Cavendish. Maybe that’s Mike’s reasoning, too.
“Unfortunately, I have a date at the spa tomorrow,” Merrie says unexpectedly. “So, I’ll pass.” She nods at me. “Bring me some tomatoes, if they’re any good.”
And just like that, it will be me and Mike and Sierra. There is a lot of fluttering in my stomach at the prospect, but this is for my daughter’s project. I can do this. “Thanks for setting it up,” I say.
“Two?” Mike suggests. “Pick you up here?”
I nod agreement, watching as Merrie brings him the bill and he pays. They exchange a few friendly words, then hestrides out of the café – sparing me a long backward glance that makes my mouth go dry.
“I didn’t know you painted,” Merrie says, so close that I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Because I stopped before I met you.”
She’s fingering the tubes of oil paint, running a hand over one of the prepared canvases. “This is good stuff, top of the line.”
“I’d rather stretch my own canvas, but yes, these are good ones.”
“Sounded like a sincere apology.” She’s watching me, her curiosity undisguised. She’s either completely in Mike’s camp or close to it.
And I can’t blame her.
“I think it was.”
“Uh huh. And an excursion for Sierra’s sake.”
“Yes.”
“He’s no slouch when it comes to setting things right.” I nod, because it’s true, and she continues. “Easy on the eyes, too. That is one fine man-butt.”
I fight a smile and talk about the art supplies instead of Mike’s butt (which is, indeed, fine). “It was a nice gesture, but I’m afraid it’s a waste.” I can’t stop touching the brushes, but I feel Merrie arch a brow.
“How so? If you’re passing on him, let me know so I can be first in line.”
“It’s not that.” Her suggestion is more irritating than it should be. “I have no time to paint…”
“We’re closed Sunday through Tuesday.”
“I need to take Sierra to the bus…”
“Still leaves Monday and Tuesday.”
“Plus, I have nowhere to paint. That house is at max capacity with the three of us…”
But Merrie isn’t listening. She’s walking away, her heels clicking on the floor the way they do when she’s on a mission. She takes off her smock and tosses it toward the counter, continuing in her checked paints and T-shirt. She glances back. “Don’t you want to see?”
“See what?”
She shrugs, like it’s obvious I should follow her, and since it is, I do. She’s halfway up the stairs by the time I catch up with her, mostly because I’m conflicted about leaving my windfall undefended and run back to lock the front door.
I haven’t been upstairs in this building since the night we arrived, and even then, I gave the second floor just a cursory glance. The stairs are in the middle of the building and when I get to the top of them, there’s no sign of Merrie. There’s a landing there, with a utility room straight ahead of me and the stairs to the roof. To the right is a double door which is standing open.
I peek into what has become Merrie’s living quarters, assuming that’s where she is. The space is really big and the ceilings are high. I take in the open concept room that she’s made her own, the light from the streetlamps outside, the gleaming wooden floors. I recognize a lot of her furniture from Toronto, especially the framed posters for French liqueurs. There’s a square walled off, which must be the bathroom, and a galley kitchen is on the wall parallel to the one with the windows. The furthest window is beside her kitchen table, the middle one illuminates a seating area, and the nearest one is beside Merrie’s bed.
Having her living accommodations at the front of the building means Merrie’s windows overlook the street. It must be filled with sunshine in the mornings. She has no window treatments but there’s nothing straight across Queen Street.Maybe she won’t bother. It’s a welcoming space already, and I have no doubt that she’ll make it even more so.
I hear her clear her throat and turn to find her in the doorway behind me.
