Just Like Starting Over (The Carpe Diem Café #2)

1. Mike

MIKE

E ven though it’s Saturday morning, I’ve already worked more than a full day – again – by the time Dad saunters into my office. He’s carrying a cup of coffee, dressed to play golf, a man with time on his hands.

I remind myself that it would be a bad plan to visibly resent him, his presence or his attitude.

I’m missing my own weekly game today, thanks to the needs of the business, but it’s smarter to avoid provoking my dad.

When he looks relaxed like this, I know there’s a storm coming. He’s choosing his moment to attack.

I will be serene, or at least appear to be.

I picked tomatoes all night after I finished up in the office at six, which seems like a million years ago.

I’m exhausted, but three more workers are sick this morning and the greenhouses are full of ripe tomatoes that aren’t going to harvest themselves.

Who needs sleep? Who needs a break? Me, but tough luck.

There’s work to be done. I’ve no idea how we’re going to manage the biweekly pruning of the plants on Monday with so few bodies, but that’s a problem for another day. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

Maybe not.

So far, Dad’s retirement means nothing but more hours on the job for me, with no additional control. He even went out for dinner Thursday night with his younger family, to try the new restaurant in town, The Carpe Diem Café. The tomatoes had my name that night, too.

Of course, I care about the business.

Of course, I care about the future.

But Dad has vetoed the obvious solution that we hire someone else, so his retirement means my workload has doubled – but not my pay cheque, of course.

It’s only May and I’m dead on my feet – we’ll be picking through October.

A night’s sleep would set me right up, but that’s not in the cards anytime soon.

Dad must be off to play golf with Richard Bradshaw, again.

It’s so special that he just stops in to load up my plate with more demands before he heads out.

I thought he would vanish when he retired.

Nuh uh. Instead, we have this bonding time at regular intervals, when he criticizes everything I’m doing and have done, tells me how I’m failing the company, and insists – on the basis of no recent information – that his way is always right.

This game is getting old.

So, I don’t look up right away. I’m texting Carlos who went back to his quarters an hour ago after picking with me all night. I’m hoping someone on his team is feeling better. The doctor has been in daily but she says this bug just takes its time. Get up too soon and it starts all over again.

It is not bringing me joy.

Nor are the kilos of tomatoes that need to get picked and shipped ASAP. The plants are loaded, which seemed like a good thing a week ago. Now, it’s a curse and a deadline.

Not jumping to attention as soon as Dad appears in my doorway is as close to rebellion as I’ve gotten so far and he doesn’t miss it.

“You’re ignoring me,” he says, his opinion of that clear.

“I’m working.”

“You wouldn’t have so much work to do if you were more organized.”

I look up. “So, now the virus outbreak is the result of my poor planning.”

“You should have anticipated it. The weather changed last weekend and was cooler again. That means people spend more time inside and illness spreads more readily then.”

“Our people work inside, in our greenhouses, regardless of the weather.”

“You know what I mean, Michael! I taught you to plan better.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. My entire life, my father has been finding fault. At this point, I feel damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Being in desperate need of sleep doesn’t improve my mood.

Still, I’m blunt even for me. “The tomatoes are ripe. We’re short-handed. Everyone who can get out of bed is working full out and when they can’t do any more, they go back to their quarters and crash. The weather is not a variable. The virus is.”

“And the tomatoes are ripe.” Dad shakes his head. “They’re going to rot on the vines if you don’t get it together.”

I hear the steel in my own voice. “Everyone is working as hard as they can. They’re giving 200 per cent.”

Including me.

If he starts on his racist garbage, I will lose it .

He dismisses my words with a wave of his hand. “You allow people too many breaks and too much time to slack.”

“There are laws, Dad.” I manage to keep my tone even. “We can’t insist that people work twenty hours a day without bathroom breaks anymore, like in the good old days. That’s just for management. By the way, when are we hiring that new operations manager?”

A fire appears in his blue eyes at my sarcasm. It’s like lightning mustering for a strike and I know the most likely target.

To be honest, I’m starting to wonder why I ever thought working in the family business was a good idea. Had it been insane to assume that Dad’s retirement would mean a promotion and that, as operating manager of the greenhouses, I could make the changes that are past due?

It had been delusional to imagine that Dad would ever surrender an iota of control. He insists that his constant harping is just ensuring ‘his legacy isn’t wasted.’ Instead, it’s going to just wither away and die, like a vine at the end of the season.

And every day, I fantasize a little more about walking out the door, getting in my truck and never ever coming back.

“We’re not,” he says. “Of course, we’re not. I told you that.”

“I can’t do two jobs much longer.”

“You just have to find your stride. If you were pulling your weight, there wouldn’t be an issue. I did both jobs for decades.”

“With a third as much acreage under glass, at first,” I note. “And then with a head grower. Me.”

“Whining is a waste of time and energy,” he snaps, then changes the subject. “You know that Luke is in town.” Disapproval drips from his tone.

“Yes.” I keep it simple, since I’m not sure where he’s going with this. I don’t care about the location of my long-absent half-brother, unless he’s developed a sudden desire to pick tomatoes.

Carlos texts that no one is feeling better. Crap. I shove my phone back into my pocket and give my dad the attention he’s waiting for.

“He’s always making trouble,” Dad mutters, and it’s obvious who he means.

I heard from my half-brother, Luke Jones, last month, right out of the blue, after years of silence.

He had this wild scheme to buy several properties from Cavendish Enterprises and ‘redistribute’ them for the good of the world.

Dad doesn’t need any of them and neither does his company, but I doubted he’d go for it.

The man thrives on managing all the variables.

As a board member of Cavendish Enterprises, I supported Luke’s plan, even though I was skeptical of his chances of success.

Luke hooked me with one detail: Dad has an ongoing dispute with Augustine Rhodes, who owns the neighbouring vineyard, over a little piece of property smack between the two empires.

I thought it would be worth anything to dismiss that feud, even giving Augustine the property in question.

When Luke added it to his redistribution list, I was in.

Dad wasn’t. I know Daphne Bradshaw presented Luke’s proposal to Dad and I know he revised the list of five properties to sell just two of them to Luke.

The property Augustine wants didn’t make the cut.

Dad agreed to sell the diner on Queen Street that used to be run by Leon and Dotty and has been sitting empty since their retirement, as well as some house.

I have no clue what Luke’s plan is and no time to care.

If his scheme doesn’t get Augustine off my back or get tomatoes harvested, I don’t have the bandwidth for it.

“That new café on Queen Street was packed Thursday night,” Dad says with indignation.

“Candace has been raving about the meal ever since,” I say, referring to my stepmother. Why Dad would go to the opening night of the restaurant Luke coaxed into existence is beyond me. “Are we done? ”

“No, we are not done,” Dad snarls. “I’m talking to you. I’m asking you to solve a problem.”

“Which particular problem?”

“I want Luke to fail. I want this venture of his, this bistro, to go bankrupt and I want it now.”

“Then you shouldn’t have sold him the diner.” I hesitate, then go for it. “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone there on opening night and bought dinner for four.”

“Don’t you talk back to me! You need to get rid of those tenants, that chef and her partner –” he’s jabbing his finger in the air, pointing toward the diner downtown, as if I don’t know where it is “–and make sure Luke’s plan, whatever it is, fails as soon as possible.”

I sigh. Just another game. This is not my concern. “I actually have work to do, Dad, as you have already noted. Tomatoes ripening. Remember?”

“No, this is important. You need to shut down that place before it gets popular. Run that chef out of town and do it today.”

I push back my chair and get to my feet.

I need the small advantage of height in this moment.

My dad, however, glares up as well as he glares down.

“You must remember that you don’t own that building anymore, Dad.

You don’t own it because you sold it. You sold it to Luke.

And whatever Luke does with it, is his business not yours. ”

“I want it empty! I want Luke to feel the pain of having no revenue.” Dad leans forward, looking as belligerent as he can be. “I want him to fail and sell those properties back to me before the end of the month.”

“It’s only been open a few days.”

“I didn’t hear your agreement,” Dad says. “I don’t see you heading down there.”

“Because I didn’t agree. I’m busy, doing the job of running these greenhouses. The café on Queen Street isn’t my problem.”

“Then I’ll make it your problem.” Dad’s eyes gleam brilliant blue and I brace for his shot. “Because unless you do as I say, I’m going to change my will.”

I am not expecting that. “Excuse me?”