Page 45 of Just Like Starting Over
“They live here for the season, up to nine months of the year, but their real homes and families are somewhere else. My workers all come from Mexico each season.”
“Why?”
“Because they make more money here than they can earn there.”
“They must miss their families.”
“Of course, they do, but they want to provide for them, too. It’s not an easy choice, Sierra, not by any means.”
“Do you feel sorry for them?”
“I respect them and I try to make sure everyone else does, too.” There’s steel in Mike’s tone and approval in Rupert’s nod and I recognize that this is a complicated issue. “There are seasonal workers coming from quite a few countries in CentralAmerica and the Caribbean as well as Mexico. They come every year and they work hard.”
“Why are yours all from Mexico then?”
“I think it helps to create a community here, a home away from home. Some are neighbours back home or relatives, or they make connections here that continue there.” He fixes Sierra with a look. “I care about these people. They’re on my team, so I want them to be comfortable here, to feel secure and not be isolated.” It sounds as if he’s had to fight for this, and I wonder why.
“How’s your Spanish?” she asks impishly and he grins.
“Better than it used to be.”
“Why not employ people from around here?” I ask.
“We used to, but no one wants to do agricultural work anymore. The foremen are local, but the workers all come from abroad. I couldn’t run the greenhouses without them and that’s a fact.” He gives me a smile. “If you know anyone who wants a job, send them my way. I’m always looking for more hands, but I don’t find many in Empire.”
“Does everyone use seasonal workers?” Sierra asks.
“Pretty much,” Mike says and I see him thinking, as if he’s reviewing a list. “You might want to check out Patricia Henderson’s place, out on the fifth concession. Her family have always grown flowers for cut bouquets. She expanded into greenhouse cultivation maybe five years ago and added some hothouse flowers to her selection. All her workers come from Mexico, too, and they’re women. She says they have a more delicate touch. There are three couples this year, the husbands working for me and the wives working for Pat.”
“Do they rent houses here?”
“No. The two farms are too far apart and workers live on-site. But the couples get together on Sundays. Pat picks up the husbands at our place at five in the morning, then one of myforemen gives them a ride back to our place Monday morning.”
“People can solve a lot of things when they work together,” Rupert says and Mike nods agreement.
“Will you show me how you prune the tomatoes?” Sierra asks Rupert.
“I’ll go one better. I’ll let you carry on where I stopped this morning.” He leads her away, chuckling to himself at her ongoing barrage of questions.
“She’s always so curious,” I say, keenly aware that I’m alone with Mike.
“Then she won’t stop learning. That’s a great thing.” He checks the ladder then offers his hand to me. “Come see the bruises the bees made. I won’t let you fall.”
I blush that he remembers that I don’t like ladders or heights, but because of his words I reach for the ladder, pretending to be braver than I am. It seems sturdy, but it’s Mike, vigilant behind me, that gives me the confidence to climb. I haven’t been this close to him yet today, and he smells good, clean and warm. He’s wearing jeans and boots, as usual, and a black T-shirt that’s stretched tightly across his chest and biceps. I brush past him, taking a deep breath, then climb the first rung of the ladder. He moves in behind me, ensuring that it’s not even possible for me to fall.
What does it say about me that I appreciate that he leaves a little distance between us, but that I wish he didn’t? I’d love to feel him pressed against me again, to be crushed against him and feel every solid inch of him. Instead, he’s been a gentleman and I’m wishing otherwise.
I climb another rung, which is enough for me to see the flowers. Mike’s hands are on either side of my waist and his head is near my hip. I lean closer to examine the bruised flowers, and a bee zooms into land on them.
“Just stay still,” he advises softly. “It’ll do its job and move on.”
I hold my breath, watching as the bee works away, not a foot from my face. It climbs over each yellow flower, the pollen bright on its legs, progressing steadily down the line of blossoms. I see the bruise rising on an anther cone afterward and smile that I’m watching this miracle occur. I think about how I would draw it, how I would compose the image.
Long moments later, the bee moves on, taking an erratic flight to another plant and another clump of flowers. I glance down to find Mike’s gaze locked on me, his expression solemn. He isn’t watching the bee.
He’s watching me. And I have no doubt, given his expression, that our thoughts are perfectly aligned. I smile and his gaze darkens, his entire body seeming to go taut. He waits, though, for my decision.
And I can’t tear my gaze away.
