A week has passed since the ill-fated tomato presentation – which I now suspect went poorly because it was less about the tomatoes and more about the messenger. It’s Saturday so Dad’s gone golfing, Thomas is in charge of today’s picking, and I need a break.
Today, it’ll be rugby in Havelock with the guys per usual, but I’ll skip the beer after the game. Instead, I’ll do a little shopping, then have dinner in Empire.
There are some women who appreciate flowers with an apology, maybe chocolates or a bottle of wine. Champagne. Lingerie. A night on the town or a fancy hotel room. A gift certificate to a spa. What Sylvia loved above everything else was art supplies. After we’d been dating about a month, we went to the art supply place in Havelock and I turned her loose, letting her choose whatever she wanted. She was incredulous the first time, argued with me the second, but the third time, she just went with it. I loved watching how happy and excited she was in that store.
I loved that I could give her something she really wanted.
People don’t change that much. I’m sure she’s busy with working and raising a daughter alone, but I have to think that art supplies would be the best apology I could give.
There’s a bounce in my step as I head home to change. For better or worse, I’ll see Sylvia again soon, and that’s the best news I’ve had in a long while.
The Carpe Diem Caféis busy and it’s just a few minutes after six.
It also smells terrific.
I stand just inside the door, waiting to be seated, my anticipation rising for more than dinner. I never thought I’d need a reservation for any place in Empire, but next time, I’ll definitely book ahead. I can only admire what Luke and Merrie have already accomplished.
It’s drizzling a bit today, so the glowing fire is a welcome addition. May can be capricious in Empire, sunny and warm one day, chilly and grey the next. More than half of the tables are occupied and Merrie is darting back and forth in the kitchen space.
I’m carrying a huge bundle from the store because I couldn’t decide. There are half a dozen canvases in different sizes, a big sketchbook – I remember that Sylvia liked the larger ones – charcoal pencils and a pack of oil paints and lots of brushes in different sizes. They wrapped it up for me in brown paper, the clerk joking that it would be Christmas in May for somebody.
It’s a bit late to wonder if Sylvia’s given up painting, if maybe there’s another gift she’d have preferred.
I check out the board on the wall with the daily specials rather than brooding about the choices I’ve already made. Aquiche with asparagus. (Local eggs. Local asparagus. Local cream. I like that Merrie’s listed the producers down the side and am very aware that Cavendish Enterprises isn’t mentioned anywhere.) A baby arugula salad; onion soup, house-made pâté with fresh bread and chutney. Roast leg of lamb with garlic and gratin. Steak frites. Trout Amandine. I can smell fresh bread and caramelized onions and my stomach growls right on cue.
“Hey, Mike,” someone says and I turn to find Sierra wearing a black apron. Her hair is tied back and she’s wearing a bit of pink lipstick. She looks sweet and pretty. Wholesome even.
In fact, she resembles Sylvia so much that I’m startled.
A stab straight to the heart.
“Hi Sierra,” I reply. “I hear this is a good place to eat.”
“The best,” she says, her smile widening. “Got a date?”
“Just me.” This seems to please her, though who knows why. Maybe she has a single table someplace. “This your new job?”
“And my first one ever. This is my first time at dinner,” she confides, leading me to a table at the front corner. It’s near the fire which I appreciate but also a little private. I sling my jacket over the back of one chair and take a seat, settling the package against the wall behind me. I ignore Sierra’s open curiosity. “Did you know Mom’s first job was here, when it was a diner?” she asks.
“Of course. I remember.” I clear my throat. “Is she here?”
Sierra nods, then puts the menu down in front of me. “These are the daily specials.”
“I thought you were supposed to say that everything is special,” I say, repeating Leon’s old joke without thinking about it.
Sierra laughs, then drops her voice to a whisper. “That portobello mushroom burger is going fast, just FYI.”
“Got it.” I scan the menu, knowing it will be hard to decide. There’s a daily pizza and the mushroom ‘burger’ is the daily sandwich. Duck confit, too. Good thing I’m hungry.
“I’ll tell Mom you’re here, but she’ll be busy the next hour or so.”
“Looks like I will be, too.”
“I can get you a glass of water, if you like. Mom will have to serve any alcohol.”
“Water would be great.”
She nods and moves away, Sylvia in the purposeful swing of her hips. She’s taller than Sylvia and a little more slender, but the resemblance is unmistakable.
