“It’s either that, or listen to your dramatics.”
“You’re the one being dramatic.”
He glances away, a tendon thrumming in his jaw. Herubs his forehead, like I’m the active cause of a migraine, then mutters, “Suit yourself.”
Grinning triumphantly, I trudge onward, stopping a few feet from where he fiddles with a post to observe the network of suspended baskets, thousands of oysters contained within.
The system doesn’t look like a hack-job, but it’s rugged. Utilitarian, like everything else on the farm. “Did you build this yourself?”
His attention on a post beside him, Grayson answers, “With my team.” He grunts as he jerks something into place. “My buddy Jay who owns a farm up in the bay helped out.”
“They don’t make ready-made systems?”
“Some parts are proprietary, but we modify and custom-build a lot. Needs to suit our conditions and production goals.”
I’m reluctant to give Grayson any veneration, but it’s admittedly impressive—the breadth of knowledge and skill he has. Every day makes it clearer that Grayson does more than pluck oysters from the water and zip around the pond like a grungy James Bond. He’s part-mechanic, part-engineer, part-maintenance-man, and a billion other occupations. Anson may be the business lead of the operation, but Grayson’s a respectable force of his own.
Though I’ll shake hands with a crab before I ever share that compliment.
“Your floating system’s obviously doing well.” I step over a basket and move closer to see what he’s doing. “Why try this one out? Expansion?”
“Not looking to expand.” He straightens, examining the attachment point he was tinkering with. “Just seeing if we can improve our product. Offer a little variety.”
“Youdon’t want to expand? Go big?”
“Absolutely not.”
This surprises me. Anson brought me on board to help grow the Gold’s name, value, and awareness. But I figured he and Grayson also want to increase production. Distribute nationally.
“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Quality over quantity,” he says simply.
I think he might stop there. Make me beg for more information, just to be difficult.
But he keeps going, his tone earnest. “And even if we could maintain quality with higher production, getting bigger, relying on automations, expanding the team—it takes the personal touch out of it. Feels wrong. Unnatural.” He shakes his head. “I’d end up stuck in an office all day, drowning in paperwork, separated from the actual work out here. And I didn’t get into this business to sit in front of a computer under fluorescent lights while machines and people I don’t know put our oysters into the world.”
I consider him, this man who continues to draw outside the neat little box I first drew him into. He’s like an onion you’d leave at the grocery store. Stinky and rotting at first glance, but each layer proving more redeemable and ediblethe further you peel it.
Wait, am I calling Grayson edible?
No, you’re calling him an onion.
A rotting onion.
“There are many bosses who enjoy that separation,” I say, shaking myself loose from that doomed train of thought. “Not doing the actual work, but reaping all the benefits.”
“I’ll sell this farm before I do that.”
I snort. “I wish you could have a conversation with my old manager.”
“He the reason you lost your job?” His eyes regard me with honest curiosity.
Swallowing my self-loathing, I smile bitterly. “No.I’mthe reason I lost my job.”
Regret hits me the second that honesty slithers out. It’s a harsh, shameful truth I haven’t shared withanyone.Kitty’s phone calls are too short to get into that kind of therapy, my parents are too judgmental, and my Boston friends are, well…yeah. But here I am, blabbering it to a man who hates me, in a moment of temporary insanity.
I expect him to smile in glee. Store away this stupid, vulnerable nugget to wield against me later like a flaming sword.
