Page 20 of The Leaving Kind

“Hmm? I’m fine. Why?”

“You’re quiet. And you’re not drinking.”

“Just thinking about a new series of paintings.” If only that wasn’t such a lie. “You know how I get when I’m lost in my head.”

Sage frowned and hefted his wood. “Okay.” Then, “I’m glad you got rid of Tholo.”

Victor found perhaps his first genuinely effortless smile of the day. “Me too, Sage. Me too.”

A combined sense of accomplishment and letdown assailed Cam every time he passed Raymondskill Road without making the turn. By Tuesday, however, a week after having reacquainted himself with the neighborhood, the feeling was more an itch than anything else. An itch that caught him miles away.

After making a delivery of soil and stone to a place in Bushkill, he passed a house painted a similar shade of red and had to force his hands to remain at the wheel. No, he would not turn into a complete stranger’s house and stand there doing only God and the devil knew what.

An order of dogwoods—not for immediate delivery, but to be put on reserve for the fall, when one should plant trees—caused an itch at the back of his skull. With each plastic tag he wrapped around a slender trunk, the scratch deepened. Had Victor planted his trees yet? Or were they still suffering in pots? Had he spread the mulch?

Was he still dressed in a robe and underwear and subsisting on a diet of white wine?

Hands on his hips, head tipped back so that the late-afternoon sun fell full on his face, Cam breathed in and out. The scent of soil grounded him. The quiet rush of leaves from the gentle breeze soothed his thoughts. But the itch persisted.

He checked his phone, saw it was past five, and decided enough was enough. He’d be making no further deliveries today. It was time to see if he could drive past Raymondskill Road without turning.

Luisa wasn’t in the office when Cam ducked inside to hang up the keys to the truck. He found her in the nursery seeding a plug tray. The work looked meditative. Soil, seed, soil. Soil, seed, soil. After completing a row, she glanced up.

“Heading out?”

“Yeah. I marked the trees for that order.”

With a wry smile and soft shrug, Luisa said, “Not that it matters. I doubt we’ll sell so many between now and then that we’ll be left scrambling.”

“You never know.”

She rubbed her forehead, her gloved fingers leaving a smudge of soil below the graying hair that had escaped her bun. “I should be advertising. Doing a sale. Didn’t we do a sale last summer?”

“We did.”

“Does it make sense that I ...” She shook her head. “Olvidate. You should go enjoy the rest of your day.”

Cam folded his arms and leaned a hip against a nearby table. “I’m in no hurry. Just a chicken potpie, a six-pack, and two or three episodes of boldly going where none have gone before waiting for me.”

Chuckling, Luisa shook her head again. “A young man like you. You should be out having a good time.”

“I’m forty-nine, Luisa. And I’ve had my share of good times.” He lifted his chin. “I get it, you know? Sometimes enough is enough. If you want to take some time, Jorge and I can handle business. Maybe head out west to visit your kids. If something comes up that we can’t figure out, we can always call you. And you can log into the shop’s inventory systems and whatnot from about anywhere, right?”

“I ...” Surprise widened Luisa’s eyes. “I could. But there is the ordering for fall.”

“You did that already. I know how to check stock off the invoice as it arrives.” Seasonal stuff such as hay bales, pumpkins, and apple cider. Corn stalks and scarecrows. Then there were the mainstays—fertilizer, mums, bulbs—and the monthly deliveries of products they always kept on hand. Natural pesticides and herbicides. Tree food. Stock for the small shop in front of the nursery, the seedlings Luisa raised herself. The colorful pots from local artisans and other assorted crafts. Plant stands, hangars, wall plaques.

As Cam finished compiling his mental list, he realized Luisa had been watching him. He met her gaze, and she smiled. “Maybe I will move to Oregon. Leave the business to you. Hmm?”

It was Cam’s turn to express surprise. “I, ah, um, I’m not ... That’s not what I meant.”

She touched his arm. “I know. But it’s worth considering. I’m old, Cameron. Much older than your forty-nine. I’m tired. I miss my children. My grandchildren. I think it is time for me to consider these things. To either find someone who has the energy to keep this business running, or sell it, maybe.”

“If you sell it, some developer will pull up all the trees and build a bunch of houses.”

“Probably.”

Luisa could make a lot of money on a deal like that. Enough to retire on, easily. More than enough to move out west to be with her kids.