Page 92 of Always Meant for You
“They were a splurge,” he admits. “Custom-ordered from Texas. Your mom saw a pair in a magazine. Had them circled. She said they were too pretty to wear, so she wore them everywhere.”
There’s warmth in his voice, maybe even a trace of longing. But I’m intrigued. He never talks about her. And for a second, I hear laughter filling this room and see these boots like I’m sitting on the floor, tracing the stitching with little fingers.
I press my palm to the boot’s side and nod, more to myself than to him. “She had good taste.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Put on your shoes, get your plate, and follow me,” my father says, holding the door open.
I step outside in my pink Dior heels and take in the scene. The strawberry field still stretches along the southern edge, but the rest of the landscape feels unfamiliar. It’s reorganized and more intentional.
“Where’s the corn? And what’s growing next to the berries?”
“Buckwheat.”
“We grow buckwheat?”
Things have changed.
“Yep. And amaranth,” he replies as a long, throatymoocuts through the morning air.
I stop mid-step. “When did we get cows?”
And there they are. An actual herd is grazing across the north field, tails swishing, and hooves heavy in the damp ground.
“From the Sperry Dairy,” my father replies.
I squint toward the barn. “Cal takes their cows, too? Cats and cows?”
“It’s part of the sustainable initiative,” my father explains. “They’re good for the soil, so Larry Sperry lets them graze on our dormant land.”
Dad points in the opposite direction. “We still grow wheat on the far end. We just approach it a little differently now.”
Differently is one way to put it.
We pass the barn, and I stop short. A wide structure with glass walls rises from the earth like a sunlit cathedral. “Is that a greenhouse?”
“Built it about three years ago,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s nothing.
I press my hands to the glass, awed by what’s inside. Rows of crisp greens stretch across the floor in neat, thriving lines.
“It must’ve cost a fortune,” I murmur.
“Your brother called it an investment.”
I nod, surprised he mentioned my brother. Then again, he just mentioned mom.
My father opens the greenhouse door, and a rush of warm, damp air spills out, heady with basil, mint, and tomato vines. The scent hits the back of my throat and floods my senses. Earthy, sweet, and alive.
“We can grow year-round here,” he adds.
We walk slowly between rows until we stop at a cluster of chive pots.
“Hold out your plate, Mabel Ruth.”
I do, and he pulls a pair of shears from his back pocket, snipping fresh stalks and letting them fall across the steaming quiche.
“Take a bite,” he says with the hint of a smile.
