36. Sylvia
SYLVIA
I n a way, I love how hectic life has become.
In another way, I can’t wait for the tribute concert to be over.
We’re run off our feet at the bistro, first with Luke’s crews stopping in every night, then with the first of the fans to arrive.
I’m glad to have Cameron available when Una needs her and, miracle of miracles, Una does call her in.
Sierra is working hard on the greenhouse and all her supporting materials – there’s a stash of flowerpots and crates and who knows what else gathering at one end of my studio, undoubtedly gathered with Willow’s help.
I know Mike is working a lot of hours, too. We text and call but it’s not the same.
It’s more complicated now that Sierra’s here all the time.
I’m glad, of course, that she’s here, but I’ll have less time on my own.
I feel protective now of my days in the studio and my nights with Mike.
There’s no way he and I can be together in the trailer, not with Sierra in the bunk bed above us.
And I’m haunted by his dad’s threats. In daylight, I can dismiss them more readily and tell myself to ignore them. At night, with Sierra sleeping above me, I can’t bear the idea of anyone doing her injury.
I’m glad when Mike arrives at the bistro on Friday night. Sierra greets him with visible pleasure and ushers him to his usual table.
“I want to talk to you,” he says when I go to take his order. “Alone and soon.”
My heart skips but I try to remain composed. “Do you want me to come to the house?”
“I was thinking we could go for a drive down to Port Cavendish and talk.”
I can’t help but smile. “We never used to talk there.”
He grins. “Talk first.”
I mentally go through my calendar and wince. “Later tonight maybe?”
He nods agreement, his gaze sliding past me. “I hear the basil is up,” he says lightly.
“And the cilantro,” Sierra interjects.
Merrie rings the bell for a pick-up and I’m off to deliver duck confit to table five. Mike takes his time over his meal, lingering as he waits on me. Merrie throws us out at ten and I drive Sierra home, Mike following behind.
“Date night,” Sierra says with approval.
“Something like that.” But it isn’t. It’s my chance to tell him about his dad and my grip is tight on the wheel. I really don’t want to have a fight. “Check on Una, please.”
“Don’t stay out past your curfew,” she teases, then laughs as she dances toward the house. “Good night, Mike!” she shouts and he waves from beside his truck. He’s standing by the passenger door and opens it for me, giving me a hand into the truck.
We drive in silence to Port Cavendish, the rain beating on the roof of the truck.
The road seems darker in bad weather and I remember other Friday nights of making this drive with him in a different truck.
He parks overlooking the pier and we have the place to ourselves.
There’s just the rain and the smooth surface of the lake, the slow roll of clouds across the sky.
And memories. That familiar tingle of expectation fills the truck. I look up to find him watching me.
“What is it? I thought you talked to your dad?”
“I did and silence ever since.” He casts me a weary smile. “No sale.”
I feel badly for him. He was so enthused about his plan and I wanted it to happen for him. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about his dad’s threats, but he’s frowning out at the lake. What did he want to talk about? “There’s something else,” I say when he remains silent.
He tells me about Rupert, and the farm, and Rupert’s offer. Again, there’s enthusiasm in his voice. “I think I could manage it,” he says. “Since Rupert wants to finance it. Maybe divide my time between Cavendish Enterprises and my own place.”
“Could you research new varieties there?”
“Of course. He has a solid greenhouse, and I could add another in time. There are always hectic phases, mostly planting and harvesting, but in between, plants grow on their own. I think I could find those new varieties there, as well as build a home.” He clears his throat.
“I think it might be good for Sierra to have time on the farm, too.”
“Ah, tractor lessons.”
“More than that.” Mike becomes very still and I turn to him, snared by the brightness of his gaze. “We could get married, Sylvia,” he says softly. “We could make a home there.”
My heart is clenched tight and for a moment, I can’t say a word.
“I know it’s quick and maybe too soon, but maybe you also need to know my intentions. I still want to get married, Sylvia. ”
He’s not done, but I reach up and put a fingertip across his mouth before he can confess his feelings and make it impossible for me to say what I must. “But we have to sort out one last thing. We have to trust each other completely, Mike, and if you believe I lied to you about those letters, that’s something neither of us should ignore. ”
He frowns and pushes a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you did.”
“But you don’t know what happened to them.”
“It could have been the housekeeper,” he says but I shake my head.
“It was your dad, Mike. Your dad took the letters.”
He’s visibly horrified. “No.”
“Yes. I called when you didn’t answer the first letter.
I talked to your dad and he told me that he had intercepted my letter.
” He’s watching me with what can only be disbelief, but I have to say this.
“He said he had destroyed it. He said you had no interest in me and that I should leave you alone.” I don’t repeat the other things Patrick told me, how I was stretching above myself, how I wasn’t worthy of a Cavendish.
Mike is shocked, even at this increment of the truth.
“But Sylvia, I asked him. He said there were no letters.”
“He lied , Mike. He lied because he never thought I was good enough for you.”
“But…”
“Does he think we should be together now?”
“No, but he’ll change his mind…”
“When has he ever changed his mind, Mike?”
There is a long moment of silence.
“Never,” he admits softly. He sighs and nods. “Never. You’re right.” His eyes glitter as he looks at me. “I love you, Sylvia. I don’t care what my father thinks or says.”
“I don’t want to make you choose,” I say .
“Then don’t,” he says as if it’s that simple.
“Tell me that you believe me about the letters. Tell me that you know your father lied to you about them.”
Mike frowns and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. He’s staring out the windshield at the lake, but the important thing is that he doesn’t speak.
I’ve made him choose and it’s done. I could tell him all the rest, but what’s the point? His father lied to him, but Mike believes him.
I can’t think of a thing to say to make this right and my own confession sticks in my throat. I do love him. In a way, I love him more because of his determination to defend people and believe in them, even when they don’t deserve it.
But I can’t be with him if he has one crumb of doubt that I’m the one telling the truth about something this important.
After a long moment, Mike starts the truck again. We drive back to Empire in silence and I don’t move when he stops outside the trailer.
“I’m sorry,” I say but Mike shakes his head.
“Don’t be.” He gets out to come around and open my door.
I don’t get a kiss, which tells me everything I need to know. I stand, arms folded around myself, oblivious to the rain as I watch the taillights of the truck disappear.
Patrick Cavendish has won.
Funny how it doesn’t feel like a triumph to have saved Sierra from his venom.