“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder whether I made the right choice.”
“Really? Why?” She’s added a bit of cheese, and I watch as she folds the omelette over itself. At her nod, I push down the button on the toaster.
I frown. “Okay, Dad was an innovator. He jumped into this early and did really well. He expanded quickly and it was a success long before I finished school. I was able to refine some processes and improve yields, but what we do is not that different from the way he started out.”
“Bigger.”
I nod. “But the same varieties. The same rhythm of the year.”
“I’m going to guess that the world out there has changed while things stayed consistent here.”
“Exactly. Lots more competition. That cocktail tomato variety we call ‘old faithful’ is grown much more extensively,which means the price per kilo has dropped. I want to try new hybrids but Dad likes to stick to the tried-and-true.”
“You brought Merrie those pretty cluster tomatoes.”
I almost laugh. “Those are a story.”
“Tell me.”
“A friend in Europe recommended the variety, said people were wild for it. No one was growing it here but it was only a matter of time before someone did.”
“You wanted to be first,” she says with approval and I nod.
“But the grower who starts our seedlings would only import the seed if I made a hefty minimum plant order. Enough to fill greenhouse seven with plants.”
“Wow.”
“Wow.” I agree. “I went for it, based on that recommendation, and they’re fabulous.” The toast pops and I miss the butter. I don’t want to sound critical of Dad, not out loud, though in my thoughts, he’s been unfair. “In between the purchase agreement and the first harvest, though, Dad decided he was still in charge. He was very unhappy with the bill from the seedling growers.”
“Is there a happy ending?”
“Kind of. The biggest grocery chain in the country bought an exclusive on the entire harvest, at a premium.”
“Nice! So, your dad is on your side now.”
I laugh again. “Not hardly.”
“He doesn’t change his mind easily,” she says quietly and something in her voice makes me look up.
“No.”
I wait and she shrugs. “He’s never changed his mind about me.”
He hasn’t but I don’t want to say it.
She slides the omelette onto a plate and I feel her waiting for me to continue.
“The thing is that I feel like my place is here, but then, it’s not. Dad and I can’t talk reasonably about anything. He won’t hire an operations manager, and he second-guesses every choice I make. He comes at me with some accusation or criticism and before I know it, we’re arguing as if I’m six and need to ask permission to leave the room.”
“Maybe you need to change how you interact.”
I shake my head. “He’s set in his ways and I don’t think well on my feet. Neither of those things are going to change.”
“But no one does well when they feel attacked.” I look up and she nods. “You do. I can hear it in your voice.”
I have to cede that. “What would I do change things?”
“Break the rhythm. Instead of waiting for him to appear unexpectedly, make an appointment with him. Prepare your arguments and present them without emotion.”
