Not worth it.
What I want to do is go back to Una’s place to see Sylvia. I want to watch her with Sierra and Una, even drive into Havelock to take Sierra to the bus. I want more of those long slow kisses, then I want to spend the whole night making love to Sylvia
I can’t race down to the café first thing in the morning, since Monday is my day for the full property tour. It’s always a long day, walking every aisle of every greenhouse, but it keeps me on top of what’s working and what’s not. And Sylvia is planning to paint, so I need to give her the time and space for that. I’m still amazed that she gave it up.
In the evening, then. That sounds like a few billion years away, but one more day shouldn’t shake me up so much.
You.
I’ll be hearing her say that word all night long.
That’s when my phone pings. It’s a text from Carlos and he wants to talk.
I answer him that I’m on my way and start the truck.
There wasa time when my dad was always expanding Cavendish Enterprises, always keeping his eye on the futureand stellar growth. By the time I went to university, the property that had been in our family for generations was filled with big new greenhouses. Numbers one and two of the current eight are on the original Cavendish homestead. After that, Dad started to buy out neighbouring farms.
The first was the Thompson place. Theoretically next door, but with the acreage, it was a considerable bike ride from one house to the other. Mark Thompson died and his widow had no desire to stay on the farm alone. None of their kids did either. My dad bought her out for a fair price and she moved closer to her oldest daughter and family. Greenhouses three, four and five are built on what was the Thompson farm, a piece of property so flat and sunny that it couldn’t have been more perfect.
The Thompson house was still there when I came back after my undergrad degree, after Lauren kicked me to the curb, greenhouse number five glinting against the sky. My dad and I had an argument about it, one of our first big ones. He wanted to tear the house down and build accommodation for the workers. I couldn’t imagine leaving my family for most of the year to live in a barracks or a concrete bunker. I wanted to repurpose the Thompson house. It had five bedrooms, which meant ten guys could live there easily, all with more space to breathe than was stipulated for newly-constructed housing for workers. We cleaned the house out that summer, repainted it, fixed the wiring and plumbing, added a patio and a fire pit out back. It’s not fancy – no stainless-steel kitchen appliances or soaker tubs here – but it’s functional and solid.
Note that I didn’t win that argument because I convinced my dad to change his mind. He ceded because he priced out the new construction and listened to one of his cronies complain about the permit process. He decided that simpler was better.
I don’t care. I prefer this solution. We’ve done somethingsimilar with every property we’ve bought out. I live in the old house on our original farm, and there are four more houses like this one that provide housing for the seasonal workers. They ride bikes between them and to work, as well as into Empire sometimes. They choose housing at the beginning of the season based on seniority with us, so Carlos moved into the old Thompson house that first year. The workers call it Carlos’ place and I think of it that way.
I stop at the convenience store in Empire – Ricky carries a lot of products that the workers miss from home and he offers the cheapest wire transfer service in the area. No wonder you can find all the workers there on Friday nights after they get paid. The stars align because there’s a case of Dos Equis in the fridge. I know Carlos won’t be alone on a Sunday night, and I’m guessing there will be a potluck. I grab the two-four, chat with Ricky a bit, then head out.
I pull into the drive at Carlos’ place a few minutes later, careful to avoid all the bicycles cast into the grass on either side. There’s only one other car, a little black Honda hatchback that I recognize as belonging to the priest from Havelock. He comes out every Sunday afternoon after tending to his flock in town, and hears confession before celebrating communion in the afternoon. He comes because Carlos confided in me that the other men were missing the religious ritual, and I made a donation to the parish fund to add a little heft to my request.
There’s a lot of laughter from the house and a bit of music playing. I know that many of the guys come here on Sundays and not just for mass. They hang out, cook together and talk. They spend more time on their phones than anybody I know, sending texts and pictures home, or just talking to their families.
I knock on the door and Carlos greets me with a smile. Itbroadens when he sees the case of beer. “You could just come in, Boss. You own the house.”
“No, it’s your house during the season. We’ve talked about this before.”
He shakes my hand and invites me into the house. The place smells like dinner’s on and there are so many conversations happening simultaneously in Spanish that there’s no way I’ll catch more than a word here or there. I recognize everyone, of course, and greet each man by name, shaking hands and exchanging nods as we work our way to the kitchen. I wave to the priest, who is discussing something with one of the men on the other side of the room, and he waves back.
There’s a big pot of meat stewing on the stove and another with beans in what looks like a tomato sauce. I couldn’t list the ingredients in either but they both smell delicious. There’s a big pot of rice on the table that will become the buffet, the lid on the pot to keep it warm. Two guys are kidding each other as they dice tomatillos and onions to make a salsa fresca. Another is rolling out tortillas and there’s an electric griddle heating up on the counter beside him. They’re all laughing and I find myself smiling too.
“Perfect timing,” Carlos says with a grin. “You have to stay and eat.”
“I’d love to.” I hand him the beer and he pulls out two, putting the case on the counter and shouting an invitation. I doubt they’ll last long. He opens one and gives it to me, then opens the other and we each take a swig simultaneously. It’s still really cold. He gestures to the white plastic lawn chairs out back beside the fire pit and I head out there with him to take a seat.
Whatever he wants to tell me is important enough that he wants a bit of privacy.
They have a little garden out there. It used to be Carlos’garden each year, but it’s bigger now and I suspect all the guys who live in the house help out. His tomatillo plants are already enormous and heavy with fruit. They tend to grow things that are harder to find in the grocery stores here. (Ricky doesn’t get in a lot of produce, just bottled and canned ingredients.) I see a couple of pepper plants that must have been pampered to be so tall so early in the season, a line of cilantro, a row of squash plants with their vines heading toward the gleaming glass wall of the closest greenhouse. The greenhouse looming large probably blocks the wind, increasing the temperature of the little microclimate here.
But Carlos isn’t interested in his garden right now. He’s looking down at his beer as if all the answers are at the bottom of the bottle.
“You wanted to talk,” I remind him and he grimaces.
“Maria Regina is pregnant.”
His wife has been pregnant before, but something in his tone tells me that this time is different. “A boy?” I tease, knowing how badly he wants a son.
“After three girls, it’s time.”
“You never know. You might end up with your own baseball team of princesses.”
