4. Sylvia #2
Merrie waves her fingertips to dismiss him, then turns her back to stir her soup again.
Mike stands there for a minute and I wonder when anyone last turned him down for anything. I feel a bit sorry for him, but then he fixes that, too.
“Sylvia,” he says, pinning me with a look. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
“No,” I say, offering a cool smile. “Busy day,” I add and pick up the tray of cutlery. “We open for lunch in forty-five minutes and I have tables to set.” He’s had sixteen years to reply to my letters and there’s only been silence. Why should I listen to him now?
He doesn’t move. “Was that your daughter?”
“Yes.” I’m going to stop there, but I don’t. “That’s why she called me Mom.” I let my voice harden. “Her name is Sierra. And before you ask, she’ll be sixteen next February.”
That evidently is all I need to say. Mike always was a math whiz and that calculation was easy. His eyes narrow and his jaw sets. He looks once more at Merrie, then picks up his flat of produce and heads for the door.
Not a backward glance.
Not a kind word.
Not a single question .
Some things, it seems, never change. I want to throw something at him and give serious consideration to the tomatoes on the counter. It would be worth it to have to clean one up. The door closes before I grab one.
He’s gone.
Maybe forever.
Maybe I should be glad instead of disappointed all over again.
Maybe I should feel relieved instead of betrayed.
Maybe I shouldn’t be wishing I could turn back time and try again.
My tears are rising, even though they have no business doing so, and I blink them away, intending to get those damn tables set.
I tell myself to be glad that the inevitable is behind me, and that the worst is over. I can now carry on in Empire, without waiting for a proverbial shoe to drop.
I’m not glad. I’m aching .
I jump to find Merrie behind me, her hand on my shoulder and her gaze filled with concern. “Okay?”
I exhale. “Close enough.”
“Had to happen sooner or later,” she says, then looks after Mike. “So, he’s the one?”
There’s not really a question in her voice. “I never said.”
“No, but you looked like you wanted to drop through the floor, and his initials are M.C.” She gives me an expectant look and waits.
I know she’s referring to the question I asked of Daphne Bradshaw when she presented the offer of this place. I wouldn’t come if the mysterious patron’s initials were M.C. (They weren’t. They were L. J.)
“Not rocket science, Sylvia,” she adds softly. “Is that how you’re going to leave it?”
“I hope so.”
“What will Sierra think of that?”
“I know what’s best for my daughter…”
“Is that what’s going on?” She gives me a hard look. “Or is this more about what’s easiest for you?”
She’s not wrong, but I change the subject because that seems the better choice. I know Merrie will circle back to the topic if she feels obliged to say anything more. She’s not exactly reticent.
“You were a bit hard on him, don’t you think?
” I reach into the opened container which is still on the counter.
The tomato smells nice. Not like a field tomato picked in sunny July, but it’s pretty good for one from a greenhouse in Canada.
It’s a whole lot better than the imported ones we see in the winter, which are barely orange and have all the flavor of blotting paper.
I take this one to the sink and wash it, then bite it as Merrie did. It’s kind of good. Firm texture. Sweet taste. I nod at Merrie and she takes another one, joining me at the sink to wash and eat it.
“It’s not bad,” she says, considering it as she chews. “Another day in the sun would have made a big difference. They probably pick to allow for a little ripening in transit.” She takes another bite. “The sweetness would come up if I roasted it.”
“Then you were hard on him.”
“It wasn’t about the tomatoes and you know it, Sylvia.”
“Go on, Merrie. Tell me what you really think.”
She smiles impishly. “I think more people should be compelled to reap what they have sown.”
“No!” I feign surprise and she pretends she’s going to throw the rest of her tomato at me, then we laugh, the way we always do.
She finishes the tomato and shakes her head. “I wish he hadn’t taken the rest. Now I want to roast up a batch in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, with sea salt and freshly ground pepper, garlic and just a bit of brown sugar.” She gives me a look. “Or is that too Tuscan for you?”
I laugh, not just because I’m supposed to. She washes her hands and gets back to her prep, leaving me thinking about food with a lot more interest than just a few minutes ago.
It’s her gift.
Merrie abruptly turns back to give me a hard look. “Just think it through before you decide Sierra doesn’t need her dad. It’s not a choice to make on a whim or out of anger. It’s always been my conviction that parents come in teams for a reason.”
She waits until I nod agreement, then returns to dicing for her mise en place .
I’m left to finish my tomato alone, one minute of peace before we get busy.
Even the smell of it reminds me of Mike’s dad’s greenhouses, the humid heat of them in summertime, the pervasive smell of ripening tomatoes and plants in the sun.
They have a distinct scent, tomato plants, and it’s one that reliably takes me back to that magical summer.
It reminds me of secret meetings in the greenhouse, and stolen kisses that turned my knees to butter.
It’s not Mike, I tell myself fiercely. I’m over him and have been for a long time. I learned my lesson. It’s just having the attention of an attractive man. That’s all. I’ve been alone too long. It’s nothing more than that.
I do my best to believe it and even I’m not convinced.
I’m still setting tables when the polished SUV parks behind my Subaru. Rafe evidently intends to be first through the door for lunch before he heads back to Toronto. He’s tapping at the door a second later, peering through the glass in anticipation. I check my watch, then shout for Sierra.
Lunch is served.