We stare at each other, a whole lot of energy crackling between us as I try to figure out how we can both be right on this.
“There were no letters, Sylvia,” I say and she inhales sharply, as if I’m the one lying to her.
“Suit yourself.” A bell rings from the kitchen and she glances that way, then glares at me. “Are you eating or not?”
Until this gets sorted, I’m not going anywhere. She wrote me a letter. I didn’t get it. Maybe she wrote me another that I didn’t receive. Mail gets lost. We can solve this.
I will solve this.
“Yes,” I say, hearing the determination in my own voice. “I’ll have the paté and then the lamb. A glass of red house wine. Maybe dessert, too. I’m going to be here a while and I’d like to talk to you again when things get quieter.”
“Whatever,” she says, sounding a lot like Sierra, before spinning away.
I seize the water glass and take a drink, my thoughts churning.
If Sylvia wrote to me and I never replied – mainly because I never received the letters – she has every right to be angry with me. I’d be annoyed in her place.
Why wouldn’t those letters arrive? Our family has lived on the same piece of dirt for over a hundred years. Even if Sylvia wrote the address incorrectly, the post office would have delivered any mail to us.
Assuming the letters got to our house, why didn’t they get tome?
I was at university for four years, so not around all the time. They could have been set aside for me, then – what? disappeared before I came home on holidays. How?
I can’t believe Sylvia is lying about this. She’s too mad.
I drum my fingers on the table, thinking. We had a housekeeper back in the day, when my mom was pregnant with Abbie. Mrs. Wilson. She was protective of all of us, especially after Mom died, kind of a surrogate mother or kindly auntie. I can’t believe, though, that she would have discarded personal letters. She died a few years back so I can’t exactly ask her.
Would Candace tell me anything? My stepmom is so absorbed with her own concerns and comforts that I doubt she would notice anything that didn’t directly affect her. The smartest thing I ever did was move out of the monstrosity she’s been making of that house – we can justifiably call it Casa Cavendish now, given that it has turrets – but I didn’t move far enough for complete seclusion from my family. I live in theoriginal house that’s still on the property, the one my great-grandparents built when they started the farm, the one we were living in when I went to university. It’s old and draughty but it suits me well enough, plus the commute to work is non-existent.
Would Dad know? I doubt that anything happens in his vicinity without his knowledge. I can’t believe, though, that he’d interfere with the mail. That seems sacred somehow.
Limited possibilities, that’s for sure. Would Jake or Austin have taken the letters to play a trick on me, then forgotten all about it? Not out of the question.
Sierra sets the pâté down in front of me and I forget everything except the smell of it. One bite and I’m blown away. It’s fantastic, the best I’ve ever had. I know the serving is too big but I can’t stop myself from having one more bite. And the chutney is perfect with it, a little sweet, a little tart. It even looks good together, the red chutney and the crusty bread.
I’ve finished the pâté when Sierra slides into the chair opposite me. She leans over the table, her expression intent. “I need your help,” she confesses in an undertone, her gaze clinging to mine. “In a non-dad specialist kind of way.”
“A what kind of way?”
“I need to know about greenhouses. Actually, about growing plants in greenhouses.”
I sit back to survey her, wondering what her scheme is. “Well, you’ve come to the right person.”
Her smile is triumphant. “Iknow. I have to head home to do my homework soon, so you need a plan ASAP.” She throws a glance toward the kitchen and bounds to her feet, a sure sign that Sylvia is looking at her. Then she bends closer to whisper. “Merrie wants fresh herbs all year around. I told her she needs a greenhouse and she said she could maybe put one on the roof.”
“That’s a good idea. No trees close by, so the sunlight would be great.” I nod approval. “That could work.”
“The problem is that neither she nor Mom have time to do it. I thought I could make it my project.”
I nod, liking her initiative.
“But I don’t know how to grow plants at all, so you have to teach me.” She nods at the perfect logic of this. “On the weekends, but not when I have guitar lessons or when I’m working here, at least until school is done.”
I think this is an admirable impulse and I want to encourage it.
I remind myself that I can take a day off once in a while.
“Maybe tomorrow we could do a research trip,” I suggest.
