Chapter Eighteen
“Have you ever had a bad crop?” Kada asked.
Dane paused with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. Ten minutes ago, she came apart in his arms, but now she looked as composed as her paintings and wanted to talk business. The woman got his blood running, but she looked at him like she needed to find a flaw. He could bear the inspection. When she found one severe enough, she would bail on their budding intimacy.
In the meantime, he cocked his head. “What do you mean a bad crop? An unprofitable one? Every year, farmers produce the highest quality crops possible, and every year, they face new challenges.”
“I know, but have you ever failed? Have you ever tossed the produce into the compost heap, written off the field, and itemized your business expenses?”
“I’d rather talk about sex,” he said.
She gripped his free arm and looked around. “Shh! I have a reputation to uphold.”
A blue-haired woman on the other side of the café wiggled her fingers.
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “My bad.”
Kada pulled back a hand and nodded.
He considered her question and took a bite of the flank steak sandwich. At least, he thought the protein came from a cow. Pulling back from the sandwich, he examined the texture and shrugged. The biting horseradish and savory protein fulfilled their roles. “I’ve come close.”
“How close?”
He chewed and considered the question. If an ode to her beauty would get this lunch date back on course, he would cough out a few corny compliments. He doubted poetry would save his backside, and his back was already shot. If she wanted to talk plants, then he was all in.
Plant pathology classes depended on a basic concept called the disease triangle. Given a susceptible host, a virulent pathogen, and a favorable environment, any crop could fail. Pesticide application targeted pathogens and vectors. Fertilizer programs kept crops as healthy as possible. He could finesse those two legs of the triangle, but he couldn’t control the environment. Unexpected temperatures, limited rainfall, and biting wind could stress a plant faster than an invasive beetle. Recalling the stressful years, he swallowed.
“Has it been a while?” she asked.
He set down the sandwich. “In any given year, environmental conditions can change and lead to disease development. I might have an easy summer, and the next season, winds carry a swarm of insects across the Salton Sea and drop the little bugs onto my healthy fields.”
“But has it happened?” She folded her arms in front of her body and kept her hands off her sandwich.
He nudged her plate. “You eat. I’ll talk. Unless you want to get back to the sex talk?”
She picked up her food and took a healthy bite.
“A few years ago, I thought I would lose every bell pepper I planted. Tomato spotted wilt virus showed up in Palmer peppers in the Mecca area. Thrips carry the virus and could have arrived on transplants. Before a plant goes in the ground, hands have to inspect it for disease.” At the memory, he narrowed his gaze and saw the distressed fields in his mind’s eye. Shaking off his exasperation, he focused on Kada. “Someone missed something, and it could have been me.”
She took a second bite.
She had an agenda or a refined ability to listen. He debated which trait alarmed him more. Taking a reciprocal bite of his sandwich, he replayed the painful year and swallowed. “After the tomato virus, March winds knocked down the remaining bell pepper transplants. The plants recovered, but it was touch-and-go. Then in April, the bell peppers’ new growth looked bleached. I blamed nematode damage and nutrient deficiencies.”
“Which was it?” She stirred her water with a straw.
“Both,” he said. “Samples revealed stubby root nematodes, but the plants also had deficiencies in phosphorus, potassium, and manganese. I adjusted the fertilizer.” He exhaled. “Then the aphid-vectored alfalfa mosaic virusrolled into town.”
She dropped her chin and stared. “Are your plants cursed?”
He laughed. “I sure felt like it. We’ve had cucumber mosaic virus, severe nematode damage, beet curly top virus, aphids”—he shook his head—“the list goes on. You want to take pictures in the vineyards? Great. We love the publicity. If you want to understand what goes into farming, pay attention when farmers gripe about managing thrips, aphids, and leafhoppers. Viruses are the bane of my existence. Farming in the valley isn’t all sunshine and sprinkler systems.”
“Really?” She rested her chin on a hand.
The pose rendered her as angelic as a wide-eyed librarian. He felt a catch coming on. “Really.”
“But you persevered.”
He crossed his arms. He came from a multigenerational farming family. He could write a book on perseverance.
She stood and stretched her arms over her head. “You need to fail. Unmitigated failure. Compost-quality crops. Crushing debt.”
Writing a book seemed far less interesting than crushing her against his chest and demanding another go in the quaint café bathroom. Standing, he had several inches on her. “You’re fired from the Palmer management team. Let’s go get a drink.”
She laughed, sipped her coffee, and dumped the remains into a potted plant. Setting her cup back on the table, she winked. “I heard the plants like nitrogen.”
He rubbed his chin and imagined why she wanted him to fail, but he could only process one quirk at a time. Ten minutes ago, she kissed him senseless, and he still needed his bearings. “Coffee grounds work better.”
Shrugging, she shook the keys and walked out the door.
He followed because watching her hips sway mesmerized him more than a ticking metronome. The café might be his new favorite place in town, but nursing his pincushion back and split head over a glass of the kombucha wouldn’t resurrect his festive spirit. Kada might. Stepping into the sunshine, he blinked and found her halfway to the corner crosswalk. Lengthening his stride, he caught up. “Had enough traffic?”
Her gaze sparkled. “I need to pick up hamburger buns. We probably have meat at the motel, but I’m sure Benito doesn’t keep buns in the freezer.”
“You have hamburgers on your menu.”
She turned down a shady alley sporting a pampered drake elm, and she opened the door to a gourmet market. “But Benito makes the buns from scratch.”
Of course, he does . Clearing his throat, he followed her into the upscale market. It smelled like cleaning products and incense mashed into the form of a flickering candle. Tipping his head to the cashier, he walked inside.
Exposed ductwork, colorful art, and arresting light fixtures made shopping at the venue more of an experience than a necessity. Besides groceries, the market offered a deli, craft beer, wine, artisan cheese, nitrate-free meats, patés, small-batch condiments, and a robust candy aisle. Customers raved about the market’s charcuterie plates. When he shopped here, he preferred the chocolate dipped dates, but if anyone told his mother, he would deny it to his grave.
The produce section beckoned, and he couldn’t stop himself from evaluating the quality. Picking up a pretty lemon, he found a Palmer Farms sticker on the fruit and grinned. At least, management has good taste. Setting down the lemon, he looked for Kada.
She stood in front of a display rack and loaded buns into a hand basket.
“How many people are you planning to feed?” he asked.
“I don’t know. We have twenty guests. Not all of them will eat on-site. My parents. You’re probably leaving for your family celebrations.”
His smile flattened into a thin line. “Probably.”
She turned toward the snack aisle. “Do you know if they have those neon-orange cheese puffs? The ones that come in a big plastic tub and dye your fingers a ghastly color?” She scanned the aisle. “I want the biggest container I can find.”
He made a mean brisket and a good chili, but he pulled his sides from the freezer section. If she wanted to serve outlandish junk food at the Starlight Motel, then he had little to offer, and he doubted the market could meet her needs. “Ask the manager.”
She shrugged and turned the corner, but her shoulder knocked over a display. Bags fell to the floor like crinkling, cellophane pillows.
Bending, he scooped up the nearest bag and squinted to make out the text. The bags contained popcorn balls bakedwith organic cheese,natural color derived from paprika,andwhole grainheirloom corn. Hurrying to catch up, he found her, slowed his pace, and offered the fallen bag. It weighed as much as a feather and cost as much as a hamburger. “What about these puffs?”
She lifted the bag and grinned. “Perfect! Good call!”
Savoring the accidental win, he worked his jaw. “Why exactly do you want me to fail?”
Stopping in front of a tortilla chip display, she tilted her head. “You’ve never had a job interview, have you?”
If she moved three steps to the right, she would stand under a sprig of mistletoe, and he felt confident he could master that interview. Batting away the memory of the bathroom liaison, he wondered if their next kiss would come in a utility closet or an industrial kitchen.
“Are you paying attention?”
He blinked. The only thing he’d been paying attention to was his arousal and the memory of her lips.
She tapped her fingers against her chest. “I still talk to my former students. I failed, but I’m trying again with the grant. You need to land flat on your butt, dig yourself out of a hole, and start from scratch.”
Since this morning, he had dug himself out of more than a hole. Between his aching muscles and his needled back, he could think of better ways to spend his time than outlining his faults. He cupped her hand and brought it to his lips. The feel of her unbearably soft skin dared him to wet his lips. “Tell me the cactus counts for something.”
“Nope.”
Deflated, he released his grip. Apparently, a grocery store make-out session was out of scope. He watched her shirt ride up as she grabbed a bag of chips and walked toward the cashier.
“Any artist can talk about their portfolio—”
“Say what?” He hustled to her side.
“—but if they want a stable job, they have to play corporate games. I hated interview prep, but I practiced mock questions until I lost my voice.”
Given the success of the Starlight Motel, be believed in her capability to adapt to life’s demands. He reached for a package of beef jerky, remembered to watch his salt intake, sighed, and dropped the hand. “Did you go from school to your residency?”
Swinging the shopping basket on her arm, she looked over her shoulder. “How old do you think I am?”
He scratched his head and realized how little he knew about the woman commanding his attention. “Does it matter?”
She smiled. “Experiencing big city inequality compelled me to think about my life choices. I quit my corporate job and enrolled in graduate school. The residency came next.”
“Oh.” Counting off her age on his fingers might be cheating, but she looked younger than his experience. Maybe the desert’s aging influence had skewed his perceptions.
Stopping in the pet food aisle, she considered several options and toed a high-calorie kibble.
The bag must weigh forty pounds. Bending, he scooped it into his arms and envied Lucky. At least, Kada displayed a commitment to her dog.
“Thanks.”
He wondered why he hadn’t fallen for a wide-eyed young thing who thought he walked on water. Instead of a cherubic sweetheart, he roped a sassy muralist, and he couldn’t be happier… as long as he could figure out how to hold on to her. “Your career is impressive. I work for a family company.” He shifted the weight in his arms. “I badger the CEO over dinner.”
“You’re spoiled.” She added salsa to the basket hanging from her arm. “If you can’t think of at least three failures in your career, you haven’t stretched yourself, or you’re too proud to admit your faults.”
“I thought we were talking about bell peppers.”
She waved a hand, unloaded the groceries in front of the cashier, and beamed. “How are you doing today?”
The cashier scanned each item. “Just fine, and you?”
Dane shifted the dog food bag to reveal the bar code and let Kada and the cashier play out their customer service ritual. If he had to choose between admitting a risk adverse nature and admitting inherent selfishness, he would like to propose a third option.
The cashier handed her a receipt. “Have a good day.”
She offered the man a cheerful wave.
How could Dane be jealous of a wave? He fell into step. “What if I’m too good to fail?”
“Right.” Shaking her head, she separated the bag of buns and the bag of snacks.
“Do you want to go somewhere else to look for the neon cheese balls?” he asked.
She shrugged and opened the market door to the shady alley. “The ones you found are great. If Benito doesn’t like them, he’ll have to settle for a salt fix.”
Drawing a deep breath, he wondered whether Benito needed a one-way ticket to Las Vegas. He hefted the dog food in his arms. “Does he live close by?”
“Above the market. I’ll text Stephanie and see if she wants to run down or have me run up. The last time I checked, she didn’t want to leave him.” Pulling out her phone, she juggled the grocery bags and sent off a series of messages. Looking up, she smiled. “I’ll run up.”
Lowering the dog food, he held out a hand for the buns, leaned against the market’s stucco exterior, and kicked up a heel. The minute he rested his heel against the wall and transferred his weight, the wounds on his back flared to life. He shifted to lean on only one shoulder. “I’ll be here.”
She hesitated.
“Kada, you only told me about one failure.”
Turning, she grinned. “Oh, trust me, I have more. I could spend a lifetime telling you about them.” With a wink, she walked toward the door.
He would hold her to that promise. Watching her go, he considered her challenge. Letting a crop fail never crossed his mind. He had four generations of inherited knowledge, a college degree, and a clever mind. But she made a fair point. Failure might be one of life’s great enablers.
Stifling a yawn, he watched seedpods flutter from the drake elm. Between the branches, birdseed ornaments shaped like stars hung from red, satin ribbons. Something sticky held together the black oil sunflower seeds and white proso millet, but the ribbon added a festive touch. He focused on the familiar seeds, but the decorations represented an alluring optimism, ungrounded in practicality, but entirely plausible. He couldn’t look away.
A bird landed in the elm’s branches and pecked at an ornament.
Good luck, buddy, they’re probably as hard as a rock.
The bird flew off holding a sunflower seed.
Rubbing his chin, he considered whether the valley or the farming profession had narrowed his worldview. Having dodged failure, he had never corrected course, thrown out the playbook, or tackled unknown opportunities. What kind of clichés did they use on the East Coast? Scuffing his boot along the pavers, he decided he didn’t want to know.
Accounting might suit him, but he passed his liberal arts classes with a C average. If failure defined a man’s leadership style, he could ward off the accusation by trying new things and broadening his horizons, but he couldn’t risk Palmer Farms.
He thought about the tomato virus. Someone put a contaminated transplant into the ground and jeopardized the entire crop. He spent most of his time running inventory lists, making timelines, purchasing chemicals, and putting out fires like the pump house disaster. Maybe he should spend more time rubbing soil between his fingers, inspecting leaves, and talking to staff about plant health. If his leadership style grew too relaxed, Palmer Farms would suffer, and when he failed, he would fail big time.
A second bird landed on the elm and cooed.
What am I doing chasing a woman?
The bird flew off with birdseed.
So much for signs.
Kada stepped out of the stairwell. “He’s not as bad as I thought.”
Shaking off his introspection, he focused on her glossy hair, warm smile, and relaxed shoulders. She cared about Benito and Stephanie enough to bring the pair snacks, and he doubted she read them a riot act about covering their shifts. Her ability to go with the flow and empathize with people’s needs astounded him, but his grand gesture for the day had already backfired. He straightened off the wall. “That’s a relief.”
She walked toward the street.
“I thought about what you said.”
Tilting her head, she waited.
She had the prettiest, almond-shaped eyes. He cleared his throat. “I’m thirty-five years old, and you’re right, I might work too hard, and I might take too few risks. If anything, I have a fear of missing out on profits. Fear of dropping the ball. Fear of being a disappointment.” He hoped she caught the gist of his confession. Words weren’t exactly his thing.
“Cash FOMO.”
Working his jaw, he accepted the diagnosis. He might be a little out of touch with the Top Forty, but Jud’s tales from the dealership kept him entertained and debriefed on most slang. Fear of missing out had just never applied to his life. “What do you fear?”
She drew a deep breath and looked up at the sky. “I’ll never make a difference.” Shaking her head, she exhaled and made eye contact. “Doesn’t everyone fear they’ll waste their life?”
He wanted to reach for her and smooth the worry lines between her brows, but she didn’t need his comfort. She’d already proven she could work through her disappointment, enlist help, and gather courage for another attempt. Instead of feeling sad, she challenged him to experience vulnerability, and he would do his best to summon an ounce of humility. “I could brainstorm three failures for your corporate recruiters, but they would be minor transgressions.”
She held up a hand. “I get it, you’re golden.”
He stepped closer. “No, but I inherited a lot of knowledge and a lot of resources. At some point, the unexpected will happen. I should always try to improve operations and leverage new technologies. Maybe your dad’s right. I should invest in resources to reclaim and reuse irrigation water. Consumer preferences might change. The river water might dry up. Walter could bail in a heartbeat and leave me stranded.”
She dropped the hand. “Would he do that?”
He handed her the buns, picked up the dog food, and stepped out of the alley before he kissed her again and gave Palm Springs something to talk about. “I don’t think so, but stagnation is its own kind of failure, and I’m guilty as charged.”
“Don’t be too harsh on yourself.” She pressed the button for the crosswalk signal. “Also, what’s a nematode?”
He laughed and wondered how long she held on to that question before asking it.
Her dimples deepened.
Agricultural innovation wasn’t exactly a newsworthy headline, but her engagement had given him a much-needed kick in the pants. Silly questions gave him a way out of the conversation, but he would return to the issue. “Nematodes are among the most abundant animals on Earth. They occur as parasites in animals and plants…”
The crosswalk signal changed.
In step, they breezed in front of the stopped traffic.
He scanned the intersection and then looked at her face tilted toward the sun’s warmth. Spending the day with her would warm him, too. “Do you need to meet your therapist?”
She glanced over. “I canceled the appointment.”
Torn between relief and duty, he tried to maintain a neutral expression and support her needs. “Why?”
“I’m in a good place. I’ll see her in two weeks.” She smiled. “Even therapists deserve time off.”
He exhaled and took in her radiant smile. He understood Bobby Ritchie’s desire to whisk away Mariah. Once a man found what he wanted, he had a hard time letting it go. Losing Kada’s smile might be a life-long regret, and he doubted he could recover from the loss.