Today, though, I’m thinking about Sylvia.
I’m remembering that kiss.
You.
In number eight, things are behind since Jerry is foreman there. Neil, the other foreman in that house, looks like junk so I send him home. I give direction there for a while, getting everyone doing what they need to do while I hope we don’t have another outbreak.
In number seven, I check out the first fruit of the new hybrid that Elke recommended. The cherry tomatoes are almost perfectly uniform with this variety, a dozen on a stem. The colour is remarkable: burgundy at the top of the stem, they shade to golden yellow at its tip. They look like jewels and are as sweet as can be. I’ll take a carton to Merrie and maybe change her mind about Cavendish tomatoes. We should have a couple of flats of ripe fruit tomorrow to take up to the sales team.
In number six, our most reliable cluster tomato is bearing above and beyond expectations.
We have a small moth infestation in number five, but everyone knows the routine to solve that. Action is already being taken when I learn of it.
And on it goes throughout the day. There are workers picking fruit in every greenhouse, containers loaded with ripe produce heading off to be packed, the heat of the sun, the smell of the plants and occasional joke in Spanish. By mid-morning, it’s hot, hotter than Hades, and I’m not the only one with a soaked T-shirt. One thing I admire about my teams is that the heat never slows them down. In every greenhouse, flat after flat of carefully picked and stacked tomatoes is heading out.
It’s after six when I finish my big tour and since I was out of theoffice all day, there’s a queue of emails waiting on me as well as a pile of phone messages. Dierdre in the office has a stack of paperwork and mail to review with me, and even though I skim through it, it’s seven thirty before I call it a day. I head home for a shower and change, then take Pat’s glorious bouquet and drive to Una’s.
The Subaru is there. Una is sitting on her fenced-in porch and she waves a greeting to me. “She’s still at that studio,” she calls. “With all those supplies you bought, she might never leave.”
“Do you need anything?”
“There’s so much food in this house that I’ll never eat it all. I had a bowl of the most delicious soup tonight.”
I wish her a good evening before starting the truck again.
When I get downtown, Merrie is just heading into the front door of the café. I park behind her Jeep, then offer the flat of freshly picked tomatoes.
She grins. “For me?”
“Who else?”
She stops closer, looking at the fruit. “Is this bribery?”
“It’s the first harvest of a new cultivar for us. Naturally, I thought of you.”
“Tomatoes for me, but flowers for someone else,” she notes, eyes twinkling. “It sounds to me like your instincts are right on the money.”
“I hope so.”
She leads me into the darkened café, putting down her bag on the counter. I lock the door behind us as she opens the seal on the package and sniffs. “Smells like sunshine.”
“Go figure.”
She snorts then heads to the sink, washing an entire cluster. They stay on the stem, which is good. When they fall off easily, the package doesn’t look as appealing by thetime it reaches its destination. Merrie plucks one from the stem and pops it into her mouth. I’m braced for criticism, maybe just on principle, but her eyes widen as she chews. “Oh my god,” she whispers, staring down at the package in awe. “These are amazing.”
“I thought so.”
She eats two more in rapid succession. “I’m going to need more.”
“You’re going to need a commercial account with Cavendish Enterprises.”
Merrie laughs, leaning against the counter as she eats tomatoes. “You win,” she says. “I do.” We smile at each other for a moment in the darkened bistro, then she nods at the flowers. “You’d better deliver them before they wilt. Up the stairs, the studio is in the storeroom that faces out back.”
I thank her and head for the stairs, shrouded by shadows.
“You should have brought me more,” she calls after me.
“You’re not open for two more days.”
