Berry Picking (4 page)

“Is there a problem?” the young woman asked with a tentative smile.

Paula gritted her teeth. “Yes.”

The waitress left and Conrad leaned towards her. “What's wrong?”

“Don't take a single bite.”

“But--”

The chef, Judson Delord, arrived at the table. A hearty looking young man with silvery blonde hair and a tan that seemed to come by way of a cheap tanning booth rather than the sun. He gave Conrad a warm greeting. “What can I do for you two?”

“Give us what we ordered,” Paula said.

“What?”

“We ordered the seafood platter. Unfortunately, what I see on my plate is rice that is only partially cooked, and scallops that had clearly been frozen on their way here rather than fresh. I won't even ask what this pile of mush is supposed to be, crab cakes perhaps.”

“All our food is fresh.”

She raised her plate. “Since you don't believe me, have a taste.”

Judson hesitated then lowered his voice. “Look fresh is expensive. Most people can't tell the difference.”

Conrad set his napkin on the table. “Funny, that doesn't sound like an apology.”

Judson glanced at his friend then sighed. “I'm sorry.”

Paula pointed at Conrad. “He knows the owner.”

“Paula--” Conrad said.

She ignored him. “Give me a reason not to call the owner.”

“I'm the owner,” Judson said.

“What?”

“That's what I was trying to say,” Conrad said.

“Is this how you treat your friends? Cutting costs at the expense of your business's success?”

Judson stiffened. “I'm making money.”

“You could make more.”

His eyes lit up. “How?”

“I charge for information like that.” She stood. “Let's go.” She left the restaurant before Conrad could stop her.

He caught up with her a block away. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You know I'll take you home.”

“I'm so angry.”

“He said he'd cook us something else for free.”

Paula stopped and stared up at him. “I wouldn't even nibble bread he buttered. How dare he smile at you while feeding you garbage at the same time? You said you helped him finance this?”

Conrad took her arm and moved off the sidewalk to stand under the awning of a building. “Yes, he said he didn't know.”

“Of course he knew. He's the chef
and
the owner. He's just sloppy.”

“He's willing to learn.”

“You're lying. I bet he hates my guts.”

“Doesn't matter. You were right. He wants to hear your ideas and he's willing to pay you.”

She frowned. “I doubt he can afford it.”

“I can.”

“Will you profit too?”

“Yes.”

She glanced back in the direction of the restaurant then looked at him.”Then I'll do it for you.”

He gave her a brief hug. “Thank you.”

“I'm still annoyed,” she said but his warm embrace had improved her mood.

“I'm sorry. I hate to see you this upset.”

“Don't apologize. It's not your fault.” She paused. “Okay, maybe it's partly your fault. You're too understanding. You have to command respect. Demand it. Don't you care what people think about you?”

“Not really.”

“That's the problem. How people see you is the key to your power. It's the basis of every decision they'll make about you. You're the size of a redwood yet people treat you like a toothpick.”

“The only opinions that matter to me are the ones from the people I care about.”

Paula sighed. He was clueless and that frustrated her. But she'd fallen for a dreamer before so she couldn't blame him for being fooled. But as man he should know how important power was.

He grinned. “You can be quite fierce.”

“I know.”

He took her hand. “You mean a lot to me.”

She smiled her bad mood disappearing. “I know that too.”

They walked back to his car. “Have you ever gone berry picking?” he asked.

“No.”

“Would you like to try?”

Berry picking. It was something new. “Sure, that sound interesting, but why berry picking?”

“It's the right time and my grandmother wants to meet you.”

“Oh.” Paula didn't mention that she hadn't thought of introducing him to any of her family. Perhaps one day soon. “I haven't said I'll be your girlfriend yet.”

“I know. She still wants to meet you.”

The following Saturday, Conrad took Paula on a comfortable, quiet drive, thirty minutes out of town. She didn't tell him that Andre had called her twice, and that she'd gone out for coffee with him. And Conrad didn't ask. Paula wondered why they got on so well, when there seemed to be so many differences between them. She liked to get to the point. He handled things in a laid back way. She still remembered seeing her first sight of snow at the age of eight, when they had arrived in Ontario, Canada in the middle of winter. He'd been skiing since he was four. His grandmother had a berry patch. Her grandmother lived a life of privilege and wouldn't know what manual labor was. Any chore she needed done, she would give to her housekeeper. Paula inwardly laughed thinking of how she'd guarded herself from telling her aunt and mother where he was taking her.

“Just to his grandmother's place, she has a berry patch.” she'd told the two women at lunch. Her mother liked to invite her over monthly to have lunch with her at her apartment. Calls from her mother always felt more like summons than invitations. About every two weeks her mother had a new outfit made. She pretended to want her daughter and sister over for their opinions and to eat, but in truth she wanted compliments. Which they always gave. Today the menu included baked plantain, steamed greens and curried goat. Her mother wore an expensive lace gown, which she planned to wear to an upcoming wedding.

“Why?” her mother asked. Her mother looked just like Paula, except she was taller, and wore glasses. She had striking features but was not as beautiful as her sister Miriam. She still turned heads and always looked as if she were ready for a portrait.
“He wants me to see it.”

“How much does he make?”

“Six figures.”

“Low, middle, or high?”

Her sister sent her a look. “Does it matter? Six figures is enough.”

“More is always better than enough.”

“I don't know,” Paula said.

“Find out. You should know information like that by now.”

“What's so special about a bloody berry patch?” Aunt Miriam asked.

“Watch your language,” her sister said.

Aunt Miriam only rolled her eyes then looked at her niece. “Tell us the truth.”

“I am,” Paula said. “We're going berry picking.”

“What? Is that an American slang for something?”

“No, we are actually going to pick berries.”

Her mother scowled. “Doesn't the woman have workers to do that? What's the point of having property if you have to toil the land yourself?” Her mother was averse to manual work of any kind, including preparing a cup of tea.

Paula smiled. “I think it will be fun.”

“Be careful,” her mother warned pointing at her. “He may just want to see how hard you'll work. You want a man who will take care of you not vice versa. They can be sly in their ways. “

“Mother, it is simply a trip to his grandmother's berry patch nothing more.”

Her mother frowned, but for some reason her aunt began to grin.

Paula wondered about that smile as Conrad drove up to a lovely colonial house nestled among what looked like woods. The house was impeccably kept, with a lovely garden in the front, displaying a wide variety of blooming flowers and off to the side, Paula caught a glimpse of a neatly tended garden bursting with an array of vegetables. They walked up a paved walkway and then Conrad knocked on the front door. A tall woman, with sharp eagle-like eyes, answered and hugged Conrad then grinned at Paula.

She extended her hand. “You must be Charlotte.”

Paula paused. “No.”

“Juanita?”

“No.”

“Giselle?”

Paula shook her head.

“Stop teasing her Gran,” Conrad said in good humor. “You know she's the only woman I've ever brought here. Come on.”

His grandmother giggled like a naughty school girl and then took her hand. “Oh, that was lots of fun. You should have seen your face.”

“Well, I wouldn't blame him if he’d brought all of his girlfriends here.” Paula said. “This place is beautiful.”

“Flattery will get you everything. Now let's go pick some berries.” His grandmother moved quickly, with a speed that belied her age of eighty-one. She led them to the back of the house where several large cane blackberry bushes grew. She handed Paula and Conrad a basket each.

Within seconds Paula realized she didn't know what she was doing. Conrad and his grandmother seemed to have a rhythm she couldn't pick up, but she didn't care. She was enjoying herself and imagined the sweet blackberry pie they would bake later.

His grandmother came up to Paula and looked into her basket. “You're doing it all wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Yes. The way you're choosing the berries. The ones that are hard and shiny are usually bitter inside. Instead, you want to look for the ones like this.” His grandmother reached out and pulled several berries from deep inside the bush. “You want to look for berries that are sort of dull, plump, and undamaged, rich with color that almost fall away in your hand.”

“Oh.”

His grandmother looked down at the ugly looking berry. “Not attractive I know, but they're delicious.” She popped several in her mouth. “The best way to find the berry you like is to taste them.”

“You're the expert.”

“Yes I am.” She sent Paula a sidelong glance then lowered her voice. “You pick your men that way too, don't you? Don't look so shocked. You wouldn't be the first. Most women do. They go for what they see on the outside or for what
sounds
good and not what
is
good.” She looked over at Conrad who was busy eating a handful of berries. “I know he doesn't look like much, but he's a solid man. Most women pass him up because he doesn't meet the typical standard of charm or attractiveness.”

“He's a nice man.” Paula continued picking, uneasy with how accurate his grandmother was.

“He's more than that but you don't see it. He’s ‘black gold’, just like the finest blackberries. So do us both a favor and break up with him before you break his heart.”

Paula looked at her surprised. “What?”

“I know your type. I like you. I really do, but not for my grandson. He needs someone who really sees how special he is and that woman isn't you.”

“Mrs.--”

“I can tell that you're the kind of woman who likes to get to the point and so do I. I don't suffer fools gladly. I love my grandson and when he finds the right woman I'll know it.” She tapped her chest. “Just like I know how to pick berries, I know how to read people. That man you have hanging on the side.” She began to grin. “Thought I didn't know about him? Yes, I do. Conrad told me you still want to be free. You want your options open. Well, I'm here to tell you that option number two is perfect for you. You want a suave, sophisticated man who looks good in a dinner jacket and charms clients, so go after him. He's who you deserve. Leave my grandson alone.” She narrowed her eyes and hardened her tone. “And if you stay with Conrad to spite me, I promise I'll make you pay.” She turned and left.

Paula stared at the older woman’s back, speechless. Sugar and spice she was not. She didn't think she was good enough for Conrad? Maybe she didn't think
any
woman would be. Who did she think she was to tell her about the man she deserved? She was a catch and no one would tell her what to do.

She walked over to Conrad and looped her arm through his. She glanced up and saw his grandmother tighten her lips. Paula didn't care. She glanced down and looked into his basket and saw it was full. “You're really good at this.”

“I've had the practice.”

“Your Gran let me know I was doing it all wrong so I had to start over.”

“Better to start over than have a basket filled with bitter fruit.”

“That almost sounds like a proverb.”

“I'm a man of hidden talents. Have you tasted one yet?”

“I thought I'd wait for the pie.”

“No, nothing's better than a ripe fruit.”

“Said Eve to Adam.”

“This is not that kind of garden.” He held a berry out to her.

She could have taken the berry from him. She could have fed herself, but she didn't. Paula opened her mouth and let him place the berry inside.

He was right. There was nothing like the fresh juicy taste of a ripe, juicy, blackberry and having someone you were quickly growing fond of feeding it you.

“Well?”

“It's delicious. Help me pick some more.”

***

“What was it like?” her Aunt Miriam asked the next day when she and Paula's mother came to visit. She knew there was no way of stopping them.

“It was wonderful,” Paula said setting tea on the table. “We picked berries and laughed and then his grandmother made this delicious pie. She gave me one to take home.”

“How is he with her?”

“They're very close.”

“That's a bad sign,” her mother said.

“Why?”

“He might always compare you to her.”

“I doubt he expects me to turn into a pie making, berry picking woman.”

“You never know.”

Aunt Miriam shook her head. “Don't listen to your mother. She married flash and I married substance. Substance lasts longer.”

“How would you know with two dead husbands?” her sister chided.

“Only one man lasts longer in my heart. Had he lived it would have been heaven.”

Paula's mother shook her head. “So called 'substance' can only last you so long. It was your father's connections that got us here. He treated me well...I just didn't like the household. But I was well taken care of.” Her mother tried to sound offended, but they knew she wasn’t. Paula was well aware of her father’s contributions. Neither she nor her siblings had lacked for anything when her mother had up and left her father. He was out of the country at the time, and she had just gotten into one of her many fights with his third wife. She was the most recent addition to their household, and had taken an instant dislike to Paula’s mother and her children. She was always complaining and shouting at them, but one day she went too far and struck Paula with a wooden kitchen spoon, leaving a large welt on the back of her arm. Her mother had never raised her hand to any of her children, and without her husband being there for protection, decided she didn’t want her children to grow up in a home with quarreling and, worst of all, violence.