“Thanks, but I’m not interested.” Merrie turns away.
Mike straightens, looking more formidable. His gaze has brightened because Merrie has insulted more than his product and his livelihood. Cavendish is his family and his life. “We are one of the largest greenhouse growers in Canada,” he says, his tone firm and his voice resonant. “And can provide fresh tomatoes all year, thanks to our sister facilities in Mexico.”
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 fixesthat, 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 singlequestion.
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.
