Ihave Friday off and nothing planned. I try to savor the luxury of not having to get up before six.
It doesn’t work.
I wake up right on time, as well trained as one of Pavlov’s dogs, after years of routine. I turn off the alarm when it rings and stay in bed, fighting my urge to get up and get to it. I manage twenty minutes before I can’t stand it any longer, then get up and shower.
I hear vehicles arriving and car doors slamming in the parking lot as I rummage for something for breakfast. There’s cold cereal but no milk. I eat a bowl of it dry and plan to stop at the grocery store today. I text Sylvia but she doesn’t answer right away.
She’s busy, I remind myself. Give her space.
I think about going over to check in with Dierdre before I indulge in my day off, but the bright yellow Mustang roars into the lot before I step out the door. That clinches it. The last person I want to talk to is my half-brother, Ethan. He’s probably stopped in to hit Dad up for money. I can see Dad’sCadillac at the far end of the lot, which is more than enough encouragement for me to get in my truck and drive away.
We haven’t talked since Monday and the silence is deafening. I wonder what the comeback is from this, or even if there is one. Maybe Dad actually has changed his will, instead of just making empty threats about it.
That’s a sobering prospect.
Maybe we’re just going to pretend I didn’t say anything at all. I could go over there and find out, but I’ll save that treat for another day.
As usual when I need to think, I head out to Rupert’s place. I’d love to have lunch with Sylvia and talk, but she’s working until Sunday night.
The clouds are rolling in and rain is forecast.
Rupert gives me a hug, just like always, and seems particularly spry. We walk the length of his main field and check a drainage ditch that he’s worried about. It’s plugged up a bit and I fix it with his supervision before the rain, then we head back toward the house. It’s getting darker, the sky filling with dark-bellied clouds, and there’s a wind picking up. I can smell the rain coming. I can see the wind rippling through the plants in advance of it.
“Annette must be coming soon,” I say when we’re seated on his deep porch. He loves to talk about his daughter and grandsons and I figure their arrival is responsible for his mood.
“In three weeks,” he agrees. He heaves a sigh, which surprises me. He pretty much lives for the summers when they’re all here. “She says it’s the last time.”
“Last time for what?”
“For them spending the summer here.”
I stare at him. Rupert is one of the last of the old-school growers, the ones who don’t use foreign workers. He’s able to do that because his daughter and grandsons come every summer tohelp out. I always thought it was a transition plan, that one of the boys intended to take over the farm.
“Ever?” I ask.
Rupert nods. “Ever. Annette says she’s getting too old to pick tomatoes, though I don’t know what she’s complaining about. I’m twenty-five years older and I’m not too old for it.” He’s a little indignant so I don’t smile. I sense there’s more to this and I wait for it. He sighs and glances at me. “Martin’s earned a scholarship. To Oxford. In England.”
I didn’t think they offered a lot of agricultural programs there but I keep silent.
“History,” Rupert exhales. “And English Literature. He always loved his books but I thought there’d be room for more than that.” He raises a hand. “Lots of time to read in the winter, to my thinking.”
“What about the other two boys?”
“They’ve no interest in the farm at all. Geoffrey is interested in computers, artificial intelligence, whatever that is. Stephen is wild about hockey, though it’s yet to be seen whether anything comes of that. Annette isn’t going to take her summers off anymore, either. She’s enrolling in a course to upgrade her skills. This year, it’s online, but next summer, there’s classroom work.” He sighs, peering over the fields, and I know he’s upset. “This is the last year.”
“What about you? How will you manage?”
He snorts. “Annette wants me to move to Sarnia and be closer.” He pushes to his feet and heads back into the kitchen, proof positive that the next bit is hard for him to say. “She says it’s time I sell.”
Sell.
The air is filled with the weight of his disappointment. He returns to the kitchen to put more ginger snaps on the plate thatis still half full. He comes back to the porch and sits down heavily.
I take a cookie when he offers them, on principle.
“You’ll get a good price,” I say. “It’s a good parcel, with great soil.”
“Flat, which is perfect for greenhouses,” he says with a frown. He’s looking across the fields again, maybe trying to picture the future. Even I don’t want to think about those fields filled with glass greenhouses. There’s something soothing about the rows of vigorous tomatoes, their leaves rustling in the wind, the line of trees on the windbreak, the crooked line of beehives and bright flowers, a whole lot of sky.
