by Scott, D. D.
Some kids cleaned their rooms for allowance. Zayne had fermented tomatoes in glass jars, waiting until the seeds fell to the bottom. Then he’d sprayed off the slimy crap from his harvest and counted the suckers, before sealing the cleaned seeds in zip-locked bags and swapping them with his father for cash.
That’s it. That’s all Zayne knew about heirloom tomato farming.
After graduating from college thirteen years ago, he’d lived in The Village, creating media campaigns to make good on his degree, teaching bootscootin’ at The Neon Cowboy to fulfill his passion. He’d left the tomato business in his father’s rough, field-hardened hands, leaving their relationship as scattered as the seeds his father planted.
Zayne had no choice now but to rely on Cody and what the two of them could glean from these damn cards. Once the vines were in place in the field beds, Cody could work the soil. He was a genius working the land. But only Zane’s father had prepared the plants for that point. Kent McDonald had been the genetic maestro breathing life into the dirt mounds. Cody was the field workhorse. All Zayne could do was pull his head out of his ass and pretend he knew something useful.
Zayne picked through the divider tabs. Jesus. He couldn’t read half his dad’s scribbles. What a fucking mess!
Reviewing the first card, he skipped the illegible sections, hoping he could deduce the missing elements once he’d read all the cards. He perused the second card before flipping to the third. A scrawl at the bottom referred him to a fourth card for a list of errors his dad had made and couldn’t afford to repeat.
But where was the fourth card? The one behind three was numbered five and contained the foliage spray and watering schedules. Terrific, Zayne thought, slamming the box lid shut. His mom had said she’d replaced the cards in order. Not that she’d been the imbecile who dropped them. She must have misplaced the card he needed. Or perhaps it was stuck to another one in the box.
He’d have to go through the whole damn container again, looking for one fucking card. Thank God his dad had labeled each one with the variety name and card number. All he had to do was find ‘Red Rocket Brandywine Card 4 of 5.’
He certainly didn’t have time to repeat his father’s mistakes. He’d make enough blunders of his own to fill another box of cards.
Zayne may be a pro at saving Red Rocket Brandywine seeds in glass jars. But getting these heirlooms vine-ripened to harvest new seeds was unproven territory. The process was ripe for major, costly errors unless Zayne found the missing card. Without the perfect specimen, winning the contest was impossible. Without knowing how to harvest the seeds, the Red Gold prize contract was worthless.
Zayne studied the cell packs, comparing what he was seeing to what he was supposed to see according to card number one. So far so good. The transplants were mid-sized and a healthy green. But hmmm. They were a little leggier than suggested. At least he’d managed to keep them from flowering. That victory would make the root systems stronger in the fields, giving the plants more growing power.
Getting warm from the sun and from the turmoil staring him in the face, Zayne took off his flannel work shirt, throwing it up on the bench, careful not to brush against and break the new starts in the trays.
The greenhouse wasn’t the only environment producing too much heat and a lot of legs. Roxy had generous proportions of both. Seeing her at Raeve earlier in the day, dressed in that cotton candy-colored get up had him hotter than he should be. He’d dropped back the greenhouse thermostat to allow for the afternoon sun but he couldn’t compensate for the heat Roxy stirred inside him.
She was the real hybrid. And no card could teach him how to nurture the volatile mix they created together. She was another transplant he didn’t have a clue how to cultivate. But not knowing what he was doing had never stopped him.
Roxy’s flare for the avant-garde, coupled with her haughty independence had an erotic hold on him he couldn’t explain. But one he planned to explore. Oh yeah, Baby. Her barely-there designs, menacing in their bold, busty dares, made him hunger for what was tucked underneath.
But for all Roxy’s whimsical fancies, Zayne felt a solid strength in her that would wear a lifetime.
Forcing his mind back to the legs in his cell packs, he pulled the Brandywine growing chart out of his back pocket. Hopefully, the spreadsheets he’d created would keep the schedules straight. Taking a pen out of the antique vegetable can holder on the bench, he went through the chart. His dad kept most things in his head or in the note box, but Zayne preferred a multi-media approach. He’d been doing his homework and had the graphics to prove it.
According to his chart, during the fifth week of growing the transplants, he was ready…let’s see…he turned to the next page…for hardening the plants for the cooler outdoor temperatures. Not exactly the same hardening Roxy gave him. But since he’d had plenty of practice cooling off from her shenanigans since she’d rear-ended his truck, the process with these plants should be easy in comparison. Something else Roxy wasn’t…easy.
Zayne’s spreadsheet indicated he’d need to move the plants into the sunlight for a few hours each day, reducing their water supply but not letting them wilt. He remembered a shady spot behind the tractor barn. As a boy, he’d carried what seemed like thousands of cell pack trays to that area each morning for a couple of weeks in early summer. Then he’d hauled them back into the greenhouses at night. He’d have to do this for the next two weeks, returning the trays to the greenhouse each night until the shoots were hardy enough to plant outside. Some things in life you must not outgrow.
Zayne stuffed the chart back into his pants pocket, irritated as hell he’d entered the contest with the hybrid they’d sowed more trays of than any other variety. He’d be moving trays until his body buckled from exhaustion. Although that high sowing rate would allow for more errors, he reasoned, a contingency even Martha Stewart would acknowledge was a good thing.
He wiped runaway sweat from his brow. Damn greenhouses were always so stuffy, and he hated the pungent, acidic smell. He sucked in a breath as he surveyed the job, the chemical-saturated air burning his lungs.
Hell. He had forty, four-by-eight foot benches with approximately sixteen trays in double rows on the top of each bench. He’d be hardening these suckers for hours.
Hoping Cody had made it back from town, Zayne unclipped his Nextel from his belt and dialed Cody’s number. He had to start moving the trays out of the greenhouse. Since it would be another two weeks before they could plant the vines in the fields, they could mix the starter solutions later. But if they didn’t get the trays out, the straggly shoots wouldn’t need starter solution. They’d need a compost pile.
Not getting any response from bumping Cody, Zayne grabbed as many trays as he could stack in his arms without crushing the starts and headed for the hardening area. Muscling his way to the greenhouse entrance, he heard a vehicle pull into the lot in front of the door.
Good. Cody must be back.
Leaving the greenhouse, the screen snapped hard against Zayne’s back, sure to leave a welt. The high noon sun beat down into his eyes, but he was unable to shield them on account of his tray-packed arms.
His upper body strained against the weight of the trays as he squinted into the sun’s glare, trying to spot Cody’s truck. But he didn’t find Cody or his truck. He found Jack Baudlin, adding nothing but disgust to Zayne’s damn near debilitating distress.
Chapter Eleven
Zayne fought the blinding rays ricocheting off Jack’s white Silverado as the truck rolled to a stop in front of the greenhouse. Dust churned from the dry ground, plastering the Baudlin Brothers Tomatoes sign covering the side of the truck’s cab.
Six feet, five inches of farm-buffed muscle stepped out of the driver’s side, activating Zayne’s defense mechanisms before his brain could argue. His shoulders squared to Jack’s solid frame, his chest inflated, pressing against the buttons of his shirt.
As Jack’s boots hit the ground, he tipped his hat. A friendly ge
sture contradicting the serious furrow of his brows, Zayne thought.
Jack’s straw-blond hair made for a sharp contrast to the man accompanying him. Santos, a good seven inches shorter than his employer, was made of the same home-grown muscle. He was the dark yang to his boss’ golden boy ying, with hair and skin the color of the earth. Whereas his eyes were light, a clear blue holding nothing but kindness, Jack’s were weary with darkness brewing.
Zayne hadn’t seen much of Jack since high school, except for occasionally at The Neon Cowboy. Each time he’d run into him, however, Santos had been at the youngest Baudlin’s side, always with a good-natured gentleness balancing Jack’s rowdy, drunken bravado.
Zayne, unlike Damian, though, couldn’t rationalize that the two men’s brawn, coupled with Jack’s ultra-conservative family, would allow them to be more than work partners.
Interesting too, Zayne thought, that Harry wasn’t leading his pack this time. Two visits in two days from the Baudlin bunch. What was up with that? Nothing smelling of good will.
Putting value in his body’s cautionary instincts, Zayne refused to relax the hard-set tension tightening his jaw.
He believed in friendly neighbors. But this double drop-in was beyond neighborly. Baudlins weren’t known for affability. In fact, except for Jack’s tendency to smile and Santos’s polite, reserved demeanor, Baudlins were assholes, especially when it came to tomato contest time.
Jack wasn’t smiling today. His lips were set in a taught line. He sucked-in his stomach, puffing out his perfect pecs. This was the last place he wanted to be, Zayne thought, watching Jack posture as he closed the short space between them.
“I’d shake your hand, but mine are full,” Zayne said, nodding toward the cell packs. “What brings you two by again?”
“So you’re really serious about the contest this year?” Jack asked, his voice’s forced ease betrayed by his intensely dark eyes.
“Yep. Sure am.” Zayne adjusted the packs in his arms, hoping for a brief visit from his competitors. The trays, still heavy from last night’s watering, were about to buckle in his arms. “Why are you asking again? Did we not make ourselves clear on that point yesterday?”
Scuffing his boot on the ground, the only son Harry Baudlin produced, gnawed on a piece of straw in his mouth. A habit Zayne had taken-up too, but just about the only one he shared with his old man. Hell. Kent McDonald should have been buried that way.
Jack moved the straw around his mouth with his tongue, chewing on his question. “You were perfectly clear. But after we left, we all got to talking. You haven’t been in the business for what, Zayne…ten plus years?”
“Something like that,” Zayne answered, not sure where this conversation was headed but curious enough to continue. “But why would that worry you? Hell, with me at the helm, I’d think your farm would already be celebrating a win.”
Jack laughed. But Santos didn’t, choosing instead to stare at the ground, drawing the heel of his boot against a jagged piece of crushed rock as if he was reluctantly standing guard, dutifully waiting to follow his mentor’s lead. Santos’s seriousness tempered by his concerned look seemed to offer Jack the loyal support of a friend. A devotion Zayne admired despite the trouble the man’s silence predisposed. Something was brewing at the Baudlin farms.
“Well, you’re not far off there,” Jack said, cloaking the awkward silence. “Dad sure is whoopin’ it up knowing you’re his competition.”
Yeah. He would be, Zayne thought. But why was Jack singling out his father as the only poor sport in the bunch? The Jack Baudlin Zayne had grown up with would have been bellying up to the winner’s circle right along with his dad. All Baudlins were in love with their tomatoes and knew their farm produced the best in the county. And Baudlin men stayed true to the family line, regardless of truth or what act would better serve justice.
“Dad swears he’ll be Nashville’s tomato king forever.” Jack tossed the limp piece of straw to the ground, mashing it into the dirt with his boot. “His only real competition was your father. So, yeah, he’s feeling confident.”
“Good for him. Just don’t let him get too confident.” Zayne shifted his weight, antsy to move the trays off his cramping arms. “I’m planning to win.”
“I’ll tell him that,” Jack said with a sly grin.
Although Zayne would have liked to dig deeper into Jack’s apparent angst at the promise of a tomato showdown, he had work to do before the heat of the day gave way to sundown. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’ve got to get these trays out.”
“Here. Let me help you.” Jack took two trays.
Santos took two more. “Hardening time?”
“That it is. Thanks. Cody should be back soon to catch the rest.” Zayne set off for the shade behind the tractor barn with Jack and Santos following close behind him. “So things working out for you farming for your dad?”
Jack edged ahead of Zayne and Santos, effortlessly maneuvering the trays. “You bet. Farming. Tomatoes. Family. That’s my life.”
Santos quickened his strides, securing his place next to Jack, leaving Zayne faltering alone. But Zayne needed the extra time to digest Harry Baudlin’s hell-bent drive to win the competition.
Jack slowed down so Santos could match his gait then hollered over his shoulder to Zayne. “But I’ll never have the insane devotion to the farm that Dad does. There’s more to life than tomatoes.”
Zayne fell back further, not remembering it taking this long or this much effort to get from the greenhouse to the tractor barn. His stomach tightened in raw acknowledgment. He faced more of a battle than he’d prepared for by entering the contest. Dancing and tomato growing required different muscle groups. The reality of his incompetence sickened him, while at the same time producing an unshakeable will to beat the odds.
A fleeting glance passed between Jack and Santos. Or was Zayne imagining it? With the early May heat, greenhouse gases and manual labor overload, hard telling what was real and what was a mirage messing with his mind.
“Jack’s dad will do anything to prove he’s the king,” Santos said, shaking his head almost as if he were in a disturbed daze.
Despite his stoic detachment, Zayne sensed Santos had a sharp edge grinding underneath his composed surface. His muscles twitched under his skin, giving Zayne the push to needle both him and Jack for specifics. “What do you mean by anything?”
Santos brushed Jack’s shoulder with his hand as if attempting to sooth his friend’s unrest.
No, Zayne thought, he wasn’t imagining a bigger connection between the two men. There was something more going on there than work. But Zayne sure as hell didn’t have the time or right to ask. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know how well they were connected, although he definitely needed more on their cryptic behavior regarding Jack’s dad’s intentions.
“Just be prepared for a hell of a competition.” Jack set the trays in the shaded grass behind the barn. “Dad’s devoted to his growing operation. So are Santos and I. I’m sure your dad told you the stories. My old man’s not always the best sport during the game.”
Zayne hadn’t talked tomatoes with Jack even when they were boys. ‘Course, he’d never been direct competition. His father was their threat. Only now had Zayne filled those boots.
And boy he sure didn’t like the implications of foul play being levied. Jesus. He wished his dad were here. He’d know what to make of this. Did the Baudlins play fair? Or would they do whatever it took to win?
Maybe his dad had despised Harry Baudlin for a valid reason. Zayne had thought the riff between the two was petty jealousy, perhaps Harry’s obvious fondness for Zayne’s mom. Now he wondered if his dad had a sounder basis for his fierce despise of all things Baudlin.
“Thanks for the warning.” Zayne put his tray next to the others, wishing he’d spent more time with his dad, picking up pieces of the man’s knowledge.
He turned toward Jack and Santos, wanting to question them further about Harry’s sportsmans
hip, but they were already returning to their truck.
What was Jack trying to tell him? And why were both he and Santos all but speaking in codes? Even though Jack had never been the in-your-face guy his father was, he hadn’t been a man who played games. He’d always played straight. Well, maybe that wasn’t exactly true regarding Santos. But where business was concerned, Jack, unlike his father, had no history of walking as the crow flies.
Did he?
Reaching the driveway, Jack turned back toward Zayne. “Make sure you get those trays off the ground. They need to drain.”
“I planned on it,” Zayne said. Once you told me to, he thought.
Zayne rubbed his ears, shaking out the roars of confusion assaulting him.
He used to think only the advertising world was full of anomalies. Not anymore. The man who stood to inherit Baudlin Farms just tipped off his competitor on possible foul play. Plus, offered advice on product development.
Jack had just saved Zayne’s ass. Forgetting the trays needed proper drainage while they hardened Zayne hadn’t bothered getting the benches out of the barn to hold the trays off the ground. Hell. He would have drowned the shit out of the start-ups, leaving him with nothing but moldy muck-ups for planting.
Once Jack’s truck was out of sight, Zayne went to the barn to dig out the benches, praying Cody would get his ass back to the farm to help.
Shit. Now Zayne didn’t have time to look for the missing card. He had too many of his own fuck-ups to avoid to worry about his dad’s.
Chapter Twelve
7:17 p.m. So much for a dinner companion, Roxy thought. Kat had been in the Sunset Grill powder room for over twenty minutes.
Roxy tapped the tip of her home-manicured nail against her wine glass. Her hands may no longer be Elizabeth Arden quality like her mother’s, but they still passed for high maintenance. She’d paid attention to the extravagantly tipped technicians she’d employed every Friday in Manhattan. She may be frugal for the first time in her life, but she was still fashionable.
