4. Sylvia
SYLVIA
E ven though I told myself our paths would cross if I came back to Empire, I’m not expecting Mike, not now, not now, although I have to wonder whether I would ever expect him.
He looks just as astonished to see me and I wonder if he’s going to drop that flat of packaged tomatoes on the floor. His gaze is searching, like I’ve withheld something from him, which would be funny if it wasn’t so damn sad. My heart is lodged so tightly in my throat that it might choke me.
How can he have such a powerful effect on me after so much time? All he’s said is my name.
You’re supposed to learn from your mistakes. There’s a rumor that I’m smart, but I don’t feel that way now.
My knees are weak and my gut is churning.
I wish Mike didn’t look so good. He’s still big, easily six four, but he’s filled out in the years since I left.
He’s more imposing, but just as quiet as ever.
Intense. Endlessly patient. Really. He could take forever to run his fingers down – no.
My mind will not stray to the gutter, not right in front of him.
(Maybe later.) He looks a bit tired. That makes me wonder what he was doing last night, and who he was doing it with.
Not that it’s any of my business.
No ring on his left hand. (Yes. I check.
Even though it doesn’t mean anything. After all, last I heard he was getting married.) I wish he’d shown up with his wife and half a dozen kids trailing behind them.
They could even be adorable mini-Mikes. It would shred my guts, but it would kick hope to the curb for good.
Instead of leaving it free to make my pulse flutter and my imagination go wild.
Mike’s eyes are as vibrantly blue as ever, his brows and lashes just as black.
He has a way of looking at you as if he really sees you, good and bad, and when he keeps looking, you feel like smiling.
Maybe preening. Has there ever been a more principled man?
I doubt it – even though I hate that I fell short of his ideals.
Though there’s a resemblance between the half-brothers, he’s not as handsome as Luke.
I’d say he was solidly attractive. A little rugged.
A whole lot hot. My toes are curling and he’s ten feet away.
Mike is real in a way that Luke could never be.
He’s the guy you might not notice right away, then the one you can’t believe you overlooked for a second.
He’s impossible to forget. He’s good with his hands – get your mind out of the gutter – and he has great hands.
Strong and gentle both. How many times have I watched him turning something over, figuring it out, deciding on how to fix it?
He’s the guy who always knows the practical solution.
He can unclog a drain, start a stalled car, fix a squeaky door, figure out why the fridge doesn’t stop running.
I always thought he was reliable, a man to have at your back – and sincere, too.
Too bad his supposed admiration for me was so fleeting.
Even so, I wish I didn’t look so…functional.
I’m wearing slim black pants and a crisp white shirt, but it’s not the most flattering ensemble in the world.
(Yes. I want Daphne’s knock-out dress right now.) I didn’t put on make-up this morning, just a stroke of lipstick, but it didn’t matter until Mike was the one looking.
Mike . Every bit of anger melts away just because he’s here. Apparently, I haven’t learned a thing in sixteen years. That brings my fury surging back, redoubled – but I’m angry with myself not Mike.
I’m ready for Merrie to ask if the cat’s got my tongue, but Mike glances toward Sierra.
I see the moment he does the inevitable math, and recognize the conclusion he makes.
Although it might be easier for him to assume that Sierra is Luke’s daughter, it hurts harder than I expected that he’s so quick to decide that I was unfaithful to him.
We were only teenagers. It was a first love.
But there was nothing “just” about it. That year with Mike seared my soul.
My love was huge, larger than life, consuming, life-changing, hot and sweet and terrifyingly potent.
I would have done anything for Mike, anything at all, if he’d just asked.
Instead, he took what he wanted then said a lot of unkind things, closing the door between us forever and throwing away the key. Like father, like son.
Funny, it doesn’t feel like all that is in the past, not right now.
Sierra is his daughter, but I’ll be damned if I tell him so.
I’ll be damned if I stand back and let him take her away from me with all his Cavendish money, just because he can.
It won’t be about Sierra. It won’t even be about me.
It’ll be about him hating Luke and I will not let Sierra pay any price for something that has so little to do with her.
I step forward, moving in front of her without even planning to do so. Sierra, for once in her life, takes the hint. She makes an excuse and ducks into the back of the restaurant. I hear the back door slam and assume she’ll be back shortly. I’m just glad she won’t hear whatever happens next.
“Something you wanted?” I ask Mike, my tone glacial.
He looks after Sierra, blinks like a man coming out of a dream, then visibly composes himself. He speaks slowly, just like he always did, as if he has all the time in the world to choose his words. “Hello, Sylvia,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over me, and I’m nearly lost all over again.
“Hi, Mike.”
He frowns a little, maybe at the lack of welcome in my tone. “I didn’t realize you worked here.”
“Merrie and I are partners in this venture.”
He nods once as if my words remind him of his errand. “I saw on the website that the café was interested in buying from local producers.” He steps forward to set his cardboard flat on the counter.
Merrie comes blustering over, the sound of her high heels echoing.
She is, remarkably, shorter than me. Even in her spikes, she only comes up to Mike’s shoulder, not that she appears to be intimidated at all.
She thrusts her hand at him. “I’m Merrie MacRae, owner/chef of The Carpe Diem Café. Who are you?”
Points to Merrie for being direct.
I’m pretty certain she knows who he is, or at least, his relationship to me.
“Mike Cavendish, Cavendish Enterprises.” He reaches into the box and I notice the solid power of his forearms. Those hands.
He always tanned to the perfect shade of gold.
Oh, I remember so much that I feel myself flushing.
I remember how he radiated warmth, how I used to curl up beside him in his dad’s truck when we went parking in Port Cavendish with just the moon to witness what we did .
He’s speaking clearly and dispassionately, as calm as ever. “We have commercial greenhouses just north of Empire and grow a variety of tomatoes.”
That voice. I could listen to this man read the dictionary aloud.
It is a little terrifying to watch Merrie in action, but also instructive. There was a time I was mortified to be in a restaurant or at a market with her. In this particular instance, I think I’m going to enjoy her process. I lean against the back counter to watch.
I could warn Mike, but I won’t.
She takes the package of cocktail tomatoes he’s offering. It’s clear plastic to display the tomatoes, each about two inches across and brilliant red. They’re still on the vine, nestled into the container with a cellophane layer sealing the top.
Merrie turns the package, examining the tomatoes from all sides, then tugs open the top and sniffs the contents.
She lifts one brow, which is not a good sign.
She feels one tomato, squeezing it gently, then breaks it free of the vine.
The container is left on the counter while she gives the tomato her undivided attention.
This is its audition. She sniffs it intently, peers at the skin, runs her fingers over it, then marches to the sink, rinses it, and takes a bite.
She winces immediately and tosses the tomato in the sink. I feel Mike’s shock.
I’m shocked that she didn’t spit out the bite. That would be more her style and the fact that she chews and swallows it is a hint that the tomato is better than she’d have him believe.
She does know who he is.
“That’s not a tomato,” she says with disdain. “That is a balloon of cellulose fiber and water that might as well be artificially coloured. A tomato has flavour .”
Mike bristles. “It is a cocktail tomato from our greenhouses, picked at the peak of ripeness...”
“You need a higher peak,” Merrie says, interrupting him.
“It does have flavour.”
“Not enough.” She comes back to examine his other offerings.
There is a package of bright red cherry tomatoes, also on the vine.
There is a deeper package with a jumble of loose cherry tomatoes in different colours: red, orange, yellow and striped green.
There is a pint of red grape tomatoes, and a package of larger red tomatoes.
Merrie’s expression is dismissive. “You don’t grow any heirloom varieties?”
I can see the struggle in Mike, how he wants to defend his company’s products, but is trying to respond fairly. “They’re less vigorous and tend to bear less. These varieties have been hybridized to grow particularly well in greenhouses…”
“And yet they taste like water. Really, I’d rather take a tomato out of a can. At least they’re harvested when they’re ripe.” Merrie shakes her head, even as Mike inhales sharply.
“Our produce is picked when it’s ripe…”
“Thanks, but I’m not interested.” Merrie turns away.
Mike straightens, looking more formidable.
His gaze has brightened because Merrie has insulted more than his product and his livelihood.
Cavendish is his family and his life. “We are one of the largest greenhouse growers in Canada,” he says, his tone firm and his voice resonant.
“And can provide fresh tomatoes all year, thanks to our sister facilities in Mexico.”