A New Hope
Page 73
Love, he was learning, was deeper and more complex than chemistry, than friendship. It was about the melding of souls. Of trusting someone with your dreams and learning you were safe to do so.
They would talk about this again someday—he and Ginger. This was stuff Ginger already knew and had been trying to explain to him. Ginger had learned this in the same tough, painful way he had. She had learned that she knew everything about Mick, knew and understood his dreams, his strengths and weaknesses. But Mick had known nothing about her.
“I did something,” he whispered to her. “I got out of that apartment.”
“In one day?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“A little more than that but not much. I made a lot of phone calls, went over there and stuffed my clothes in two big duffels, had everything that wasn’t nailed down put in a storage locker. I thought that was logical, in case we want that stuff in our house. But it didn’t take me long to change my mind about that. I don’t want any of it. When there’s time maybe we’ll run an ad and sell it. More likely, though, my brothers or sisters will hear I’m not using that sectional or bedroom furniture and borrow it. From that point on we can visit it at one of their houses because I’ll never get it back. So it goes in a big family.”
She laughed. “How does it feel?”
“It feels good. It feels really good. I didn’t think it would matter so I’m a little surprised—the second that truck unloaded into the storage locker and drove off, I felt so much better. I only did it because you wanted me to. I wasn’t convinced it had anything to do with anything. I’m appreciative of the things women do to make their houses comfortable, but I don’t care about that shit. I think I could live in a cave.”
“But not that cave,” she said, playing with his hair.
“Not that cave,” he said. “But why not?” he asked her. “Memories?”
“I’m sure there were some,” she said. “But mostly you didn’t really live there. It was even less personal to you than a motel room. You just needed a place to bring the flavor of the week that wasn’t under your mother’s roof.”
“Huh,” he said. “By the way, you do know there hasn’t been a single flavor since you coldcocked me at my sister’s wedding.”
“Shoved,” she corrected. “I assumed there hadn’t been anyone but thanks for telling me that. So, I guess that means we’re either staying with my parents when I come up to the farm or we’re bedding down in the back of your truck.”
“I rented us a little something. It’s not much. I’m not going to tell you anything about it. I want your first reaction to be honest. It’s adequate—better than being in your old bedroom or the truck bed. It’s convenient. And private.”
“Is it nice?” she asked eagerly.
“Well, I think so, but you’ve already seen how wrong I can be about that...”
“It wasn’t that apartment that was wrong, Matt. It was you while you were in it that didn’t seem right. If you’d liked it there, it would’ve shown somehow. I’m not sure how, but somehow. I can’t wait to see what you came up with for us.”
“There is an us, right? Because you’re all I think about.”
She gave him a kiss. “There’s an us, sweetheart. We’re just tying up loose ends so our future isn’t cluttered with our pasts.”
Matt had done something about that, too. He just wasn’t sure whether it had worked. He had called Dr. Weymouth, the head of the biology department where he occasionally taught. He told him that he’d commit to three plant biology labs after the harvest if they needed him. And he also said, “Don’t wait too long to get your teaching schedule together because I’m getting married. Before Christmas, I hope.”
Matt hoped that news might filter through the biology department. If he knew Natalie at all, it would send up her radar. If that didn’t happen, Matt would get in touch with her when he had the time.
He left Ginger at four in the morning to drive back to Uncle Sal’s vineyard for one more weekend with the grapes. He was planning to come back to her Saturday night. When all the uncles and cousins were celebrating and drinking too much wine, dancing and toasting a successful grape harvest, Matt would drive to Ginger. He’d spend Saturday night and most of Sunday before heading back to the farm to get started on the pears. They were ready.
* * *
Matt had five seasonal hands who worked for him during the pear and potato harvest. First they would bring in the pears, which finished ripening in their shipping crates and gift boxes. They handled them carefully, delivering pristine, smooth and clean fruit to the retailers, from grocers to Harry & David.
Then came the potatoes, which were less labor intensive; they were tougher and didn’t require gentle handling. Plus, the harvester could dig them and the farm hands would help to separate and bag them.
There were two Dysart semi trailers parked on the property behind the barn and house. Richard Dysart had driven them over himself, one at a time. Matt, Paco and Richard took cups of coffee on the porch. Richard asked after Ginger. “I spent Sunday with her in Thunder Point, a good day. The weather was excellent and she’s in happy spirits,” Matt said. “She’s planning to come up on Saturday. The rest of the family will be here tomorrow sometime and she’s anxious to witness this harvest business that will take every second of my time for weeks. And she’s more than a little anxious to experience the food the women will put together.” What he didn’t share with Richard was that it had been three nights without Ginger beside him and it felt like an eternity.
“You make a good argument for the Dysart clan to show up to pick pears,” Richard said.
“You are always welcome,” Paco said. “I warn you, you might never be the same.”
“Nah,” Matt said. “The pears won’t take too much of a toll on you, but if you really want an experience, come up in the spring for the sheep shearing and lambing. It’s exhausting. And not just a little dirty.”
Also parked on the property, on the north side of the house, was an RV. From that spot Matt could see the mountains to the north, the orchard to the east and the plot he’d chosen for his house. After the harvest was complete, he’d work with the architect to finalize the plans. At the first blush of spring, they could pour a slab, grade a road for construction access that would be followed by a better road for his personal access to his new home. His and Ginger’s home, he prayed.
They would talk about this again someday—he and Ginger. This was stuff Ginger already knew and had been trying to explain to him. Ginger had learned this in the same tough, painful way he had. She had learned that she knew everything about Mick, knew and understood his dreams, his strengths and weaknesses. But Mick had known nothing about her.
“I did something,” he whispered to her. “I got out of that apartment.”
“In one day?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“A little more than that but not much. I made a lot of phone calls, went over there and stuffed my clothes in two big duffels, had everything that wasn’t nailed down put in a storage locker. I thought that was logical, in case we want that stuff in our house. But it didn’t take me long to change my mind about that. I don’t want any of it. When there’s time maybe we’ll run an ad and sell it. More likely, though, my brothers or sisters will hear I’m not using that sectional or bedroom furniture and borrow it. From that point on we can visit it at one of their houses because I’ll never get it back. So it goes in a big family.”
She laughed. “How does it feel?”
“It feels good. It feels really good. I didn’t think it would matter so I’m a little surprised—the second that truck unloaded into the storage locker and drove off, I felt so much better. I only did it because you wanted me to. I wasn’t convinced it had anything to do with anything. I’m appreciative of the things women do to make their houses comfortable, but I don’t care about that shit. I think I could live in a cave.”
“But not that cave,” she said, playing with his hair.
“Not that cave,” he said. “But why not?” he asked her. “Memories?”
“I’m sure there were some,” she said. “But mostly you didn’t really live there. It was even less personal to you than a motel room. You just needed a place to bring the flavor of the week that wasn’t under your mother’s roof.”
“Huh,” he said. “By the way, you do know there hasn’t been a single flavor since you coldcocked me at my sister’s wedding.”
“Shoved,” she corrected. “I assumed there hadn’t been anyone but thanks for telling me that. So, I guess that means we’re either staying with my parents when I come up to the farm or we’re bedding down in the back of your truck.”
“I rented us a little something. It’s not much. I’m not going to tell you anything about it. I want your first reaction to be honest. It’s adequate—better than being in your old bedroom or the truck bed. It’s convenient. And private.”
“Is it nice?” she asked eagerly.
“Well, I think so, but you’ve already seen how wrong I can be about that...”
“It wasn’t that apartment that was wrong, Matt. It was you while you were in it that didn’t seem right. If you’d liked it there, it would’ve shown somehow. I’m not sure how, but somehow. I can’t wait to see what you came up with for us.”
“There is an us, right? Because you’re all I think about.”
She gave him a kiss. “There’s an us, sweetheart. We’re just tying up loose ends so our future isn’t cluttered with our pasts.”
Matt had done something about that, too. He just wasn’t sure whether it had worked. He had called Dr. Weymouth, the head of the biology department where he occasionally taught. He told him that he’d commit to three plant biology labs after the harvest if they needed him. And he also said, “Don’t wait too long to get your teaching schedule together because I’m getting married. Before Christmas, I hope.”
Matt hoped that news might filter through the biology department. If he knew Natalie at all, it would send up her radar. If that didn’t happen, Matt would get in touch with her when he had the time.
He left Ginger at four in the morning to drive back to Uncle Sal’s vineyard for one more weekend with the grapes. He was planning to come back to her Saturday night. When all the uncles and cousins were celebrating and drinking too much wine, dancing and toasting a successful grape harvest, Matt would drive to Ginger. He’d spend Saturday night and most of Sunday before heading back to the farm to get started on the pears. They were ready.
* * *
Matt had five seasonal hands who worked for him during the pear and potato harvest. First they would bring in the pears, which finished ripening in their shipping crates and gift boxes. They handled them carefully, delivering pristine, smooth and clean fruit to the retailers, from grocers to Harry & David.
Then came the potatoes, which were less labor intensive; they were tougher and didn’t require gentle handling. Plus, the harvester could dig them and the farm hands would help to separate and bag them.
There were two Dysart semi trailers parked on the property behind the barn and house. Richard Dysart had driven them over himself, one at a time. Matt, Paco and Richard took cups of coffee on the porch. Richard asked after Ginger. “I spent Sunday with her in Thunder Point, a good day. The weather was excellent and she’s in happy spirits,” Matt said. “She’s planning to come up on Saturday. The rest of the family will be here tomorrow sometime and she’s anxious to witness this harvest business that will take every second of my time for weeks. And she’s more than a little anxious to experience the food the women will put together.” What he didn’t share with Richard was that it had been three nights without Ginger beside him and it felt like an eternity.
“You make a good argument for the Dysart clan to show up to pick pears,” Richard said.
“You are always welcome,” Paco said. “I warn you, you might never be the same.”
“Nah,” Matt said. “The pears won’t take too much of a toll on you, but if you really want an experience, come up in the spring for the sheep shearing and lambing. It’s exhausting. And not just a little dirty.”
Also parked on the property, on the north side of the house, was an RV. From that spot Matt could see the mountains to the north, the orchard to the east and the plot he’d chosen for his house. After the harvest was complete, he’d work with the architect to finalize the plans. At the first blush of spring, they could pour a slab, grade a road for construction access that would be followed by a better road for his personal access to his new home. His and Ginger’s home, he prayed.
