“Because it’s more efficient. When you grow outside, you have to hope for good weather. There could be a late frost and you could lose your seedlings. There could be an early frost and you could lose part of the crop. The summer could be too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry. When you think about it, it’s a huge gamble, each and every year.”
“But not in a greenhouse?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “The plants are sheltered, which means they can be nurtured. If I know that tomato seedlings prefer a certain temperature, I can give them that temperature, exactly, twenty-four seven.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. 21 to 27 degrees Celsius in daytime and 16 to 18 at night.” Sierra beams that she has a number. “They also like to have the soil at a specific temperature. Plus, we can provide the humidity level they prefer and the amount of water. I don’t have to wait for sun and rain.”
Sierra nods. “You can give the tomatoes their perfect tomato world.”
Mike smiles. “Pretty much. And because of that, I can plant earlier in the year, which gives me a longer growing season and a better yield.”
“More tomatoes.”
“Which means more money from the crop and a whole lot less uncertainty.”
“Why doesn’t everybody grow in greenhouses, then?”
“A lot of people around here do. Take a look at Empire onGoogle Maps sometime and switch to the satellite. You’re going to see an amazing number of large black rectangles around here.”
I know she will do this as soon as she gets home. She tries it on her phone, then mutters about the cellphone service being crap.
I can’t hide my amusement and neither apparently can Mike. Our gazes meet over Sierra’s head and my heart goes thump. There’s a warmth in his eyes that makes me all hot inside, and I have to look away again.
Rupert leads Sierra further into the greenhouse, fielding her many (many) questions with good humour, leaving Mike and I to follow behind and listen. I’m smelling the tomato vines in the sunlight, feeling the warmth radiating from the gravel underfoot. I smell flowers, too, and feel the slight breeze coming through the vents.
It takes me right back to that summer and when Mike gives my fingers a little squeeze, I have to think he’s there, too. I glance toward him and he smiles at me, his eyes alight with possibilities.
I want to grab every one of them and forget everything else.
Rupert is asking Sierra about what she plans to grow, how much of it she’ll be producing, what she’s going to do with any excess that Merrie doesn’t need. He’s prompting her to think and plan, and though she looks back at Mike for guidance, he shrugs.
“It’s your project. You need to make the plan,” he says, and that seems to be enough for her.
Once again, she’s asking questions, this time about yields and schedules, and I see Mike’s smile.
“You must be proud of her,” he murmurs, guiding me around a hose left coiled on the floor. “She’s so clear thinking.”
“She was always analytical,” I say. “Always a planner and a puzzle solver.”
Always like Mike.
Rupert defers to him again, and Mike steps forward. I stand back and listen, smiling at the way he and Sierra interact so intuitively. I feel like they recognize something in each other and will be finishing each other’s sentences soon.
And once more I feel a little ache that I could lose her.
“So, what herbs are you going to grow?” Mike asks, pulling out his phone to make notes.
“Basil.” Sierra is sure.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know!”
Mike shakes his head. “But you need to decide. See?” He holds up his phone. “There are small leaf basils and large leaf ones, as well as a lot of varieties with different flavours.”
“Hundreds of varieties,” Rupert agrees. “Not all do well in the greenhouse.”
