12. Sylvia #2
“Definitely. Sounds weird, but we buy hives of bees. Seven hives per hectare. Then we check the flowers to make sure that our bees are as busy as they should be.”
More math. Sierra is delighted. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“They might be sick or have a parasite in the hive. They might not be flourishing for one reason or another. Sometimes they just don’t do well after the move. We add more bees then.”
“And you just buy them?”
Mike nods, smiling. “I told you it sounded weird.”
Sierra frowns. “But how can you tell if the bees have done their job?”
Mike glances at Rupert who smiles agreement.
Mike goes to the closest array of tomato plants and surveys it, then gets a ladder and climbs up a few rungs.
He examines a cluster of flowers, then beckons to Sierra.
He descends, then holds the ladder as she climbs up.
She looks at the same cluster of flowers.
“The tomato flower has petals that curl up, then a central cluster that hang down. That’s called the anther cone. ”
“Okay.”
“There are seven flowers in that cluster. Five of them have an orange mark on the anther cone. Those are bruises from bees.”
“No!”
“Yes. It means that flower was pollinated by a bee. It will form a tomato.”
“The bee left a footprint,” I say, liking that and the way Mike nods.
“Exactly.”
Sierra is calculating, her gaze roving over the rows of plants in the greenhouse. “You have to look at all the flowers?”
“No, we take representative samples. We take a total of twenty flowers on a regular basis, maybe once a week, choosing them from four or five different areas of the greenhouse, then examine them in the lab. If the bees are on their game, at least 80% of the flowers should be bruised.”
“Sixteen,” Sierra says.
Mike nods. We all watch a bee amble through the greenhouse, then vanish into the tomato plants.
“You should see the bruise, Mom,” Sierra says, jumping down from the ladder. “Why are the plants crossed up like this?” She gestures to the way the vines are trained to grow along cables angling toward the roof. They end up making a lattice of greenery.
“Because they grow tall during the season, up to twelve meters, and we need to make sure they get the right amount of sunlight to be healthy and bear the most fruit,” Rupert explains.
“I train them on the diagonal, using these little clips to fasten them to the fixed line, then prune them so the leaves don’t shade each other. ”
“But plants need leaves to make chlorophyll.”
“They do, but if they make too many leaves, they don’t make fruit. We call that a bushy phase. So, we trim regularly to keep the leaves and the flowers in balance.”
Sierra looks at Mike, as he’s evidently become her source for hard data. “Between twenty and twenty-five fruit for every twenty leaves,” he says. “Though some varieties produce well at higher or lower rates.”
“You count the tomatoes.” Sierra is gleeful.
Mike nods.
“That must be a lot of pruning,” I say.
“It is. And we work in teams, kind of a friendly competition.”
Sierra frowns. “Competitive pruning?”
“If the plants are pruned right, they bear more fruit. So, each team has a section that they manage and we compare the harvest between sections every two weeks.”
“What does the winning team get?”
Mike rubs his thumb and fingers together. “Cash for every person on the team.”
“I bet they party with it.”
“You’d be wrong. They all send it home.”
“Home? Don’t they live here?”
“They live here for the season, up to nine months of the year, but their real homes and families are somewhere else. My workers all come from Mexico each season.”
“Why?”
“Because they make more money here than they can earn there.”
“They must miss their families.”
“Of course, they do, but they want to provide for them, too. It’s not an easy choice, Sierra, not by any means.”
“Do you feel sorry for them?”
“I respect them and I try to make sure everyone else does, too.” There’s steel in Mike’s tone and approval in Rupert’s nod and I recognize that this is a complicated issue.
“There are seasonal workers coming from quite a few countries in Central America and the Caribbean as well as Mexico. They come every year and they work hard.”
“Why are yours all from Mexico then?”
“I think it helps to create a community here, a home away from home. Some are neighbours back home or relatives, or they make connections here that continue there.” He fixes Sierra with a look.
“I care about these people. They’re on my team, so I want them to be comfortable here, to feel secure and not be isolated.
” It sounds as if he’s had to fight for this, and I wonder why.
“How’s your Spanish?” she asks impishly and he grins.
“Better than it used to be.”
“Why not employ people from around here?” I ask.
“We used to, but no one wants to do agricultural work anymore. The foremen are local, but the workers all come from abroad. I couldn’t run the greenhouses without them and that’s a fact.
” He gives me a smile. “If you know anyone who wants a job, send them my way. I’m always looking for more hands, but I don’t find many in Empire. ”
“Does everyone use seasonal workers?” Sierra asks.
“Pretty much,” Mike says and I see him thinking, as if he’s reviewing a list. “You might want to check out Patricia Henderson’s place, out on the fifth concession.
Her family have always grown flowers for cut bouquets.
She expanded into greenhouse cultivation maybe five years ago and added some hothouse flowers to her selection.
All her workers come from Mexico, too, and they’re women.
She says they have a more delicate touch.
There are three couples this year, the husbands working for me and the wives working for Pat. ”
“Do they rent houses here?”
“No. The two farms are too far apart and workers live on-site. But the couples get together on Sundays. Pat picks up the husbands at our place at five in the morning, then one of my foremen gives them a ride back to our place Monday morning.”
“People can solve a lot of things when they work together,” Rupert says and Mike nods agreement.
“Will you show me how you prune the tomatoes?” Sierra asks Rupert.
“I’ll go one better. I’ll let you carry on where I stopped this morning.” He leads her away, chuckling to himself at her ongoing barrage of questions.
“She’s always so curious,” I say, keenly aware that I’m alone with Mike.
“Then she won’t stop learning. That’s a great thing.” He checks the ladder then offers his hand to me. “Come see the bruises the bees made. I won’t let you fall.”
I blush that he remembers that I don’t like ladders or heights, but because of his words I reach for the ladder, pretending to be braver than I am.
It seems sturdy, but it’s Mike, vigilant behind me, that gives me the confidence to climb.
I haven’t been this close to him yet today, and he smells good, clean and warm.
He’s wearing jeans and boots, as usual, and a black T-shirt that’s stretched tightly across his chest and biceps.
I brush past him, taking a deep breath, then climb the first rung of the ladder.
He moves in behind me, ensuring that it’s not even possible for me to fall.
What does it say about me that I appreciate that he leaves a little distance between us, but that I wish he didn’t? I’d love to feel him pressed against me again, to be crushed against him and feel every solid inch of him. Instead, he’s been a gentleman and I’m wishing otherwise.
I climb another rung, which is enough for me to see the flowers. Mike’s hands are on either side of my waist and his head is near my hip. I lean closer to examine the bruised flowers, and a bee zooms in to land on them.
“Just stay still,” he advises softly. “It’ll do its job and move on.”
I hold my breath, watching as the bee works away, not a foot from my face.
It climbs over each yellow flower, the pollen bright on its legs, progressing steadily down the line of blossoms. I see the bruise rising on an anther cone afterward and smile that I’m watching this miracle occur.
I think about how I would draw it, how I would compose the image.
Long moments later, the bee moves on, taking an erratic flight to another plant and another clump of flowers. I glance down to find Mike’s gaze locked on me, his expression solemn. He isn’t watching the bee.
He’s watching me. And I have no doubt, given his expression, that our thoughts are perfectly aligned. I smile and his gaze darkens, his entire body seeming to go taut. He waits, though, for my decision.
And I can’t tear my gaze away.
I blush but I keep looking.
He watches, admiration lighting his eyes and a smile curving his lips. We stare at each other, until I clear my throat. “That’s amazing.” I’m not sure whether I’m talking about just the bee, or having Mike look at me like this again. It’s enough to shake my world hard.
To make me tingle.
To make me aware that I don’t have to plan on forever to enjoy something right now.
“It’s not the only thing that is,” he says under his breath, but I’m concentrating on descending the ladder, one rung at a time.
He moves back only a little, so I’m trapped between his solid strength and the ladder.
Now I can feel his heat and I wish he would wrap his arms around me, maybe never let me go.
I know I could push him away with a fingertip, but it feels good to be so close to him again.
I stop on the last rung and glance over my shoulder at him. His gaze is unblinking and bright.
“We’re not usually eye-to-eye,” I say, sounding more breathless than I intended.
“That doesn’t mean that we have to disagree,” he says, taking a different meaning from my words. His gaze searches mine. “You stopped painting?”
“No time.”
“Didn’t you go to art school?”
I shake my head. “I was busy.”
“Right.” He shakes his head. “That’s funny in a way.”
“Why?”