A New Hope. Robyn CarrЧитать онлайн книгу.
work with Paco on the farm and George, my oldest brother, he has the sheep end of the business. When it’s time to shear or breed or anything real busy, I help. Everyone helps. And Uncle Sal has the vineyard—we go to the wine harvest on and off between August and the end of September, the same time we’re bringing in the pears. The whole extended family is running around the state—grapes here, sheep there, pears and potatoes.”
“That orchard,” she said. “One of the most beautiful places on earth.”
Cliff brought a glass of wine for Ginger, and they both ordered the same thing—Cajun ahi. “There’s a small butcher shop in Portland where you can get ahi steaks. They cost the moon but you can eat them with a spoon, they’re that fresh and good.”
“Portland? You live in Portland?” he asked.
“It’s where I’m from. I live here now. I really hope it works out and that I can stay. At least for a long time. I love the town, the shop.”
“Tell me about flowers,” he said.
“What can I tell you? I work for Grace, who owns the shop. I’ve only been there a short time but I’m learning to make very nice displays—bouquets, centerpieces, wreaths, wall hangings. I love it when she gets an order from a big hotel or resort and we do something huge, like an underwater obsidian stem in a tall cylinder glass vase. It’s more of a sculpture than an arrangement.”
“How’d you know you wanted to do that?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” Ginger said. “I was visiting with Ray Anne, just sitting around completely unmotivated while she went to work, and she told me I had to do something, no matter how small it was. That very day Grace asked me if I’d consider her shop. She was in desperate need of help and I had absolutely no experience. Honestly, I took it because it was there. I had no idea I’d like it. I shouldn’t be surprised—I like all those sorts of things.”
“What sorts of things?” he asked.
She laughed a little uncomfortably and looked down at her hands. “For lack of a better description, girl things. I’ve worked in retail, in clothing, in housewares, in domestics. I’m the youngest of three with two older brothers and am the only member of the family who doesn’t work in the family business, my dad’s trucking company. Small but pretty successful. My dad runs it, my oldest brother is the comptroller, my other brother is operations VP and my mother has been the dispatcher and scheduler since he had one truck. And I, the baby of the family and a girl, never found my niche. I’ve taken some college courses, never found a degree program. But boy, can I organize the house! And I know how to change the oil in the car, landscape the yard, bake a soufflé, hang wallpaper. The joke around the family is that since my mother has always been at the company, working with Dad, I am the only housewife in the family.”
“Landscape? Ever have a garden?”
“I rented a small house and planted flowers around the border.”
“You’d like my mother’s garden,” he said.
“I saw your mother’s garden. A small farm! Looking at it made me hungry!”
“We grow things for a living,” he said with a smile. “What was your last job before coming here?” he asked.
“I worked in a department store in the bridal registries. But I needed a change.”
Then it came to him suddenly. “Jesus, what a dunce! Dysart Trucking!”
“That’s right,” she said. “You’ve heard of them?”
He grinned. “We use them, Ginger. They take our crops to market. They’re a good-size company.”
“Locally,” she said. “My dad started with one truck.”
“My grandfather started with a small grove and a few sheep and a lot of debt, but every time he had two nickels to rub together he bought more land.”
“He invested in himself,” she said.
“He invested in his sons. My dad has the grove and sheep and potatoes, Uncle Sal has grapes, Andreas has a couple of fishing boats. As you no doubt noticed, there’s quite a lot of family.”
Then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it, sent the caller to voice mail, put it back in his pocket. Lucy. They’d gone out a few times. She’d like to go out a few more. Time to move on.
“I don’t mind if you take that call.”
“That’s okay, I’ll call back. So, everyone works in the trucking company...”
“Except me. I’m willing to help out but I don’t have any talent for it, except maybe washing rigs.” She laughed. “I’m very good at all the things people don’t get paid much for—cooking and cleaning, that sort of thing. I suppose when my parents are very old and infirm and I’m an old maid, I’ll be the one to take care of them. And all your family is involved in the farm?”
“No, only a couple of us. Peyton is here, Ginny and Ellie are homemakers and their husbands are not farmers, Mike will be a professor married to a professor, Sal is a CPA for a large winemaker in Napa. He’d like to buy a vineyard someday. I guess, named for Uncle Sal, it makes perfect sense. He’s good with numbers and has a very good nose. They’re all pretty successful. My parents pushed us hard.”
Through dinner they talked about their families, some of their childhood experiences, what movies and books they liked. He told her he was a part-time teacher and she told him about her three best friends from high school and how they’d all left Portland for big careers. He made her laugh and he was mesmerized by her sweetness and charm. They had a cup of coffee but neither wanted dessert. Two hours had flown by. She told him that as apology dinners go, this was the best she’d ever had.
“So,” he said, “what is it you like so much about this little town? Why do you want to stay?”
“The people have been so lovely. And that flower shop—it’s perfect for me. I’m around people sometimes but I spend a lot of time alone, making up arrangements, cleaning up the cooler and back room. I need that time—time to think. But I shouldn’t have too much time or I get caught brooding.”
“And what does a pretty girl like you have to brood about?” he asked, flashing his dimples.
“Peyton didn’t tell you anything about me?”
“Come to think of it, she told me you’d had a bad year and made me promise I wouldn’t be a wolf.”
“Well, we have maybe a couple of things in common. I’m also divorced. Just over a year.”
“Is that so? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”
“You first,” she said.
“It’s not that interesting,” he said. “Everything Natalie and I talked about for the year leading up to our wedding, we agreed on. Immediately following the wedding, she was unhappy. She didn’t want to be married to a farmer, I got up too early, went to bed too early, had dirt under my nails, shit on my boots. She wanted me to go to med school or get a PhD and teach. She wanted fancy cocktail parties rather than big hoedowns at the farm. She was intimidated by the sheer size of my family. So we fought, and fought and fought. We’d married the wrong people. It was a damn shame, but there it is.” He shrugged. “See? Not interesting. Make yours at least interesting.”
She took a breath. She twirled the coffee cup around on the saucer. “Maybe I shouldn’t...”
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I married the wrong person, too. I married a musician. A singer/songwriter with the voice of an angel. The first time I heard him sing was in Portland at a fair and he sang ‘I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City.’ My bones melted and I fell right in love with him. I was young—twenty-one. He was older and had been trying to make a breakthrough in the music