Sierra is his daughter, but I’ll be damned if I tell him so. I’ll be damned if I stand back and let him take her away from me with all his Cavendish money, just because he can. It won’t be about Sierra. It won’t even be about me. It’ll be about him hating Luke and I will not let Sierra pay any price for something that has so little to do with her.
I step forward, moving in front of her without even planning to do so. Sierra, for once in her life, takes the hint. Shemakes an excuse and ducks into the back of the restaurant. I hear the back door slam and assume she’ll be back shortly. I’m just glad she won’t hear whatever happens next.
“Something you wanted?” I ask Mike, my tone glacial.
He looks after Sierra, blinks like a man coming out of a dream, then visibly composes himself. He speaks slowly, just like he always did, as if he has all the time in the world to choose his words. “Hello, Sylvia,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over me, and I’m nearly lost all over again.
“Hi, Mike.”
He frowns a little, maybe at the lack of welcome in my tone. “I didn’t realize you worked here.”
“Merrie and I are partners in this venture.”
He nods once as if my words remind him of his errand. “I saw on the website that the café was interested in buying from local producers.” He steps forward to set his cardboard flat on the counter.
Merrie comes blustering over, the sound of her high heels echoing. She is, remarkably, shorter than me. Even in her spikes, she only comes up to Mike’s shoulder, not that she appears to be intimidated at all. She thrusts her hand at him. “I’m Merrie MacRae, owner/chef of The Carpe Diem Café. Who are you?”
Points to Merrie for being direct.
I’m pretty certain she knows who he is, or at least, his relationship to me.
“Mike Cavendish, Cavendish Enterprises.” He reaches into the box and I notice the solid power of his forearms. Those hands. He always tanned to the perfect shade of gold. Oh, I remember so much that I feel myself flushing. I remember how he radiated warmth, how I used to curl up beside him in his dad’s truck when we went parking in Port Cavendish with just the moon to witness what we did.
He’s speaking clearly and dispassionately, as calm as ever. “We have commercial greenhouses just north of Empire and grow a variety of tomatoes.”
That voice. I could listen to this man read the dictionary aloud.
It is a little terrifying to watch Merrie in action, but also instructive. There was a time I was mortified to be in a restaurant or at a market with her. In this particular instance, I think I’m going to enjoy her process. I lean against the back counter to watch.
I could warn Mike, but I won’t.
She takes the package of cocktail tomatoes he’s offering. It’s clear plastic to display the tomatoes, each about two inches across and brilliant red. They’re still on the vine, nestled into the container with a cellophane layer sealing the top.
Merrie turns the package, examining the tomatoes from all sides, then tugs open the top and sniffs the contents. She lifts one brow, which is not a good sign. She feels one tomato, squeezing it gently, then breaks it free of the vine. The container is left on the counter while she gives the tomato her undivided attention. This is its audition. She sniffs it intently, peers at the skin, runs her fingers over it, then marches to the sink, rinses it, and takes a bite.
She winces immediately and tosses the tomato in the sink. I feel Mike’s shock.
I’m shocked that she didn’t spit out the bite. That would be more her style and the fact that she chews and swallows it is a hint that the tomato is better than she’d have him believe.
Shedoesknow who he is.
“That’s not a tomato,” she says with disdain. “That is a balloon of cellulose fiber and water that might as well be artificially coloured. Atomato hasflavour.”
Mike bristles. “It is a cocktail tomato from our greenhouses, picked at the peak of ripeness...”
“You need a higher peak,” Merrie says, interrupting him.
“Itdoeshave flavour.”
“Not enough.” She comes back to examine his other offerings. There is a package of bright red cherry tomatoes, also on the vine. There is a deeper package with a jumble of loose cherry tomatoes in different colours: red, orange, yellow and striped green. There is a pint of red grape tomatoes, and a package of larger red tomatoes.
Merrie’s expression is dismissive. “You don’t grow any heirloom varieties?”
I can see the struggle in Mike, how he wants to defend his company’s products, but is trying to respond fairly. “They’re less vigorous and tend to bear less. These varieties have been hybridized to grow particularly well in greenhouses…”
“And yet they taste like water. Really, I’d rather take a tomato out of a can. At least they’re harvested when they’re ripe.” Merrie shakes her head, even as Mike inhales sharply.
“Our produce is picked when it’s ripe…”
