After that, it was time for my game in Havelock with the guys and dinner there. I drove past the bistro on the way home, but they were still serving dinners. I headed home alone, knowing Sylvia will be tired when she’s done, and she’d want time with Sierra.
By the time I got to the greenhouse Sunday morning, Sierra was waiting for me and Sylvia was in her studio. Sierra and I worked together Sunday morning on the planting and got all the seeds in before it was time for her bus. I was instructed to send pictures the moment anything green breaks the soil as she darted out the door. It won’t be long until school finishes and she’s here all the time.
But Sunday night is for Sylvia.
It’s dark by the time we come up for air, night pressing against the windows. Sylvia’s wearing one of my T-shirts and it’s ridiculously huge on her. Her hair is in a messy bun and she’s barefoot in my kitchen. I can’t believe my luck having her here and I keep looking at her to make sure she’s not an illusion. Actually, I have other reasons to keep looking at her. She’s every fantasy come true. I’m only wearing a pair of shorts as we rummage for something to eat in my woefully understocked kitchen.
“There aren’t any tomatoes here,” I reply. “Although I could probably go over and get some.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She’s examining the carton of eggs from the fridge, frowning at the expiration date. “Is this July of this year or last?”
I grin. “I just bought them. Avoid the chocolate, though. It’s been in there so long it should be carbon-dated.”
“Omelettes it is,” she says, grabbing a piece of cheese. I’m glad I went grocery shopping in Havelock because there’s milk and bread for toast, too. She puts the last piece of butter in the pan, but we’ll survive.
“What about tomatoes?” I ask when I’m whisking the eggs.
“I wondered why you ended up doing this, that’s all. Tell me your favourite parts.”
“I like the greenhouses and the challenges of growing under glass. I like the scale of it and the feel of it.”
“They are huge.” She nods out the window at number one, glowing faintly with its night illumination. I can see the tomato plants from here, in silhouette inside.
“I like how it’s all mathematical, the balance of water and light, the way the plants respond to even incremental changes. I like controlling the variables.”
“Fewer things to fix,” she teases and I grin.
“There is that.”
“And you like buying bees.” She’s laughing at me, but I don’t mind.
“You know, I do. And I love watching them at work.”
She takes the bowl from me and pours the eggs into the pan with an expertise I can’t match. I watch her lift the pan and spin the liquid egg around, then put it back on the burner. “And you like taking care of your workers.”
“I do.” I lean against the counter to watch her. “I respect that they make a hard choice to do what they think is best for their families. I don’t want them to feel like a cog in the wheel. They’re people, fathers and brothers and sons.”
She casts me a smile. “Like you.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“But why tomatoes?’
“They were the first crop to be financially feasible in these greenhouses. Plus, I think a lot of the farmers here, like my dad, grew up raising tomatoes outside. It’s a crop they understood, although everything shakes out differently in the greenhouse.”
“You’d never train them in the field to grow like that.”
“Or prune so much. No. Although they are training fruit trees to grow more vertically in some local orchards.”
“Science and nature in harmony?”
“Something like that.” Just math. Plain old math. I got a thrill when that apple farmer told me that the line of espaliered trees was calculated to be at the best angle for maximum sunlight on the fruit, given our latitude.
“And what about the future?”
I heave a sigh, my gaze trailing to the greenhouses. “It seems that I’ll have a place here as long as I want it.”
“Don’t you?”
