35. Mike
MIKE
I have Friday off and nothing planned. I try to savor the luxury of not having to get up before six.
It doesn’t work.
I wake up right on time, as well trained as one of Pavlov’s dogs, after years of routine. I turn off the alarm when it rings and stay in bed, fighting my urge to get up and get to it. I manage twenty minutes before I can’t stand it any longer, then get up and shower.
I hear vehicles arriving and car doors slamming in the parking lot as I rummage for something for breakfast. There’s cold cereal but no milk. I eat a bowl of it dry and plan to stop at the grocery store today. I text Sylvia but she doesn’t answer right away.
She’s busy, I remind myself. Give her space.
I think about going over to check in with Dierdre before I indulge in my day off, but the bright yellow Mustang roars into the lot before I step out the door.
That clinches it. The last person I want to talk to is my half-brother, Ethan.
He’s probably stopped in to hit Dad up for money.
I can see Dad’s Cadillac at the far end of the lot, which is more than enough encouragement for me to get in my truck and drive away.
We haven’t talked since Monday and the silence is deafening. I wonder what the comeback is from this, or even if there is one. Maybe Dad actually has changed his will, instead of just making empty threats about it.
That’s a sobering prospect.
Maybe we’re just going to pretend I didn’t say anything at all. I could go over there and find out, but I’ll save that treat for another day.
As usual when I need to think, I head out to Rupert’s place. I’d love to have lunch with Sylvia and talk, but she’s working until Sunday night.
The clouds are rolling in and rain is forecast.
Rupert gives me a hug, just like always, and seems particularly spry.
We walk the length of his main field and check a drainage ditch that he’s worried about.
It’s plugged up a bit and I fix it with his supervision before the rain, then we head back toward the house.
It’s getting darker, the sky filling with dark-bellied clouds, and there’s a wind picking up.
I can smell the rain coming. I can see the wind rippling through the plants in advance of it.
“Annette must be coming soon,” I say when we’re seated on his deep porch. He loves to talk about his daughter and grandsons and I figure their arrival is responsible for his mood.
“In three weeks,” he agrees. He heaves a sigh, which surprises me. He pretty much lives for the summers when they’re all here. “She says it’s the last time.”
“Last time for what?”
“For them spending the summer here.”
I stare at him. Rupert is one of the last of the old-school growers, the ones who don’t use foreign workers. He’s able to do that because his daughter and grandsons come every summer to help out. I always thought it was a transition plan, that one of the boys intended to take over the farm.
“Ever?” I ask.
Rupert nods. “Ever. Annette says she’s getting too old to pick tomatoes, though I don’t know what she’s complaining about.
I’m twenty-five years older and I’m not too old for it.
” He’s a little indignant so I don’t smile.
I sense there’s more to this and I wait for it.
He sighs and glances at me. “Martin’s earned a scholarship. To Oxford. In England.”
I didn’t think they offered a lot of agricultural programs there but I keep silent.
“History,” Rupert exhales. “And English Literature. He always loved his books but I thought there’d be room for more than that.” He raises a hand. “Lots of time to read in the winter, to my thinking.”
“What about the other two boys?”
“They’ve no interest in the farm at all.
Geoffrey is interested in computers, artificial intelligence, whatever that is.
Stephen is wild about hockey, though it’s yet to be seen whether anything comes of that.
Annette isn’t going to take her summers off anymore, either.
She’s enrolling in a course to upgrade her skills.
This year, it’s online, but next summer, there’s classroom work.
” He sighs, peering over the fields, and I know he’s upset. “This is the last year.”
“What about you? How will you manage?”
He snorts. “Annette wants me to move to Sarnia and be closer.” He pushes to his feet and heads back into the kitchen, proof positive that the next bit is hard for him to say. “She says it’s time I sell.”
Sell.
The air is filled with the weight of his disappointment. He returns to the kitchen to put more ginger snaps on the plate that is still half full. He comes back to the porch and sits down heavily.
I take a cookie when he offers them, on principle.
“You’ll get a good price,” I say. “It’s a good parcel, with great soil.”
“Flat, which is perfect for greenhouses,” he says with a frown.
He’s looking across the fields again, maybe trying to picture the future.
Even I don’t want to think about those fields filled with glass greenhouses.
There’s something soothing about the rows of vigorous tomatoes, their leaves rustling in the wind, the line of trees on the windbreak, the crooked line of beehives and bright flowers, a whole lot of sky.
“I know she’s right,” he says finally. “I know it’s foolish for me to be out here on my own, and it hasn’t been the same since Annie passed. It’s damn lonely without her.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. Annie was gone by the time I first stopped in, but I’ve heard a lot about her since I met Rupert. It seems as if they had one of those solid marriages, love at first sight, holding each other’s hands through thick and thin. Everyone should be so lucky.
I’m hoping I might be.
“And I know Annette’s right that it’s smarter to move when I’m still active.
I should find a new place to live, somewhere that’s easy for me to navigate.
A bungalow or an apartment. I should move now and have time to find a doctor, to make new friends, to settle into a community.
It’s no good when people move after they’re close to passing.
It’s too much then. Doing it now would be the smarter choice. ”
“But you don’t want to go.”
He gives me a look. “Would you?”
“No.” We smile at each other, then he sobers.
“It would be easier if I knew whoever bought the land and trusted them.” He gives me a hard look that I can’t misinterpret .
“You want Cavendish Enterprises to buy your farm?”
“No.” He’s emphatic.
That can only mean one thing. “You want me to buy your farm?”
“Why not? Get out from under your father’s thumb, or at least have the choice of doing so.”
I have confided in Rupert about my frustration with Dad.
My instinct is to refuse. I already have a job that’s more than full time. The last thing I need is a farm with acreage to be tilled, a house that needs work and an aging greenhouse.
On the other hand, maybe that’s exactly what I need.
Maybe Rupert is offering my exit plan.
“You wouldn’t have to go to the bank,” he continues. “I’ll finance the mortgage for you. It’s only money and the last thing you need is those bastards owning a chunk of your life.” Rupert has a profound distrust of banks.
Kind of like Sylvia.
“How will you buy another place, then?”
“Well, you must have something saved up for a down payment. I’ll buy my place with that, and you’ll send me a monthly payment on the mortgage.
It’ll work out just fine, and with a better interest rate for you.
” He doesn’t push it, that’s not Rupert’s style, but sits in silence while I turn the prospect around in my thoughts.
I’m looking for a flaw, but I can’t find one.
I do have a bunch of money saved.
I like the idea of building a future.
I would love to have a choice when it came to walking away from Cavendish Enterprises.
In a heartbeat, I’m thinking about Merrie’s heritage varieties and smaller crops.
I’m thinking about offering Carlos a job myself.
I’m thinking of all the plans and strategies my dad is determined to veto.
I’m thinking about moving out of the house where I camp out and making a home – with Sylvia and Sierra.
It sounds wonderful.
It also sounds disloyal and an abdication of my responsibilities – look at that. I can compose my father’s tirade without even waiting for him to do it. How much do I owe Cavendish Enterprises? Do I have to work there my whole life? Can I yearn for something else?
Rupert and I sit on the porch together in silence, watching the clouds. The rain has been mustering all day and big drops start to fall.
“Course, you’d want a wife,” he says casually. “What about that pretty little lady you brought out here with her daughter?”
“You planning my whole life now?” I ask with a smile and he chortles.
“Somebody’s got to do it. I don’t see you making much progress.”
“Well, it’s complicated.”
Rupert scoffs. “Most important things are.”
“Sierra’s my daughter.”
“Is she now? That doesn’t exactly make me fall off my chair. You’re doing right by her?”
“Of course.”
He nods approval, unsurprised. “What about the farm?” he prompts.
“I have to think about it,” I say.
He gives me a bright look. “You talk to Sylvia about it.”
I nod, although I’m not sure when I’ll do that.
I wonder how paying support is going to affect my assets and figure it might be a tougher transaction to manage than it might have been a few weeks ago.
I can’t suggest to Sylvia that we get married for financial reasons.
I have to convince her that I want to be with her first.
I have to tell her how I feel. I was waiting, giving her time, but now I need to make that confession.
Maybe, in fact, that’s the last obstacle between us. If I tell her how I feel and propose, that might be exactly right.
“You get the farm assessed,” I tell Rupert. “You’re not going to offer me some pity price just because you’re trying to get my life in order.”
He grins at me. “It’ll be a fair price. My retirement and your future.” He offers his hand and I shake it, more than glad I came out this way.
“If we do this, you have to promise to come visit,” I say before I release his hand.
“I think I might need to take some breaks from Annette and Sarnia,” he muses.
“Besides, Annie will be waiting on me to come tell her all the news.” I know he regularly drives down to the little cemetery beside the country church they used to attend, takes a lawn chair and sits there by Annie’s grave, bringing her up to date.
Doesn’t make sense to me, but it’s not a habit that is hurting anybody else.
“Whether or not I buy your farm, you can come to Empire and stay with me as long as you like,” I say. “I’ve drive you down to Annie whenever you want.”
“Thank you,” Rupert says with evident relief. “I knew I could count on you, Mike.”
By the time I leave the farm, the rain is pouring down, drumming on the roof of my truck. The thunder is rumbling overhead and the gravel road has some killer puddles. I decide to stop at the café for dinner, mostly in the hopes of seeing Sylvia.