Rocco likes being there. It would be just as easy—easier—to meet with Andrew John in his city office, near Union Square, where Andrew John works one or two days a week. But Rocco likes coming to his house. It’s more casual, friendlier, less like a business meeting, though of course it is a business meeting.
From the outside, the house looks icy cold—but it’s pleasant inside. Warm but not too warm. Like its owner.
Andrew John gives Rocco a light hug, which Rocco returns, first because Andrew John is his boss, and it would be awkward to just stand there, and second because he likes to feel the rich fabrics of Andrew John’s shirts and jackets. Even his country clothes are expensive. If he has the money, and that’s what he wants, so what? He’s giving back enough. He’s repairing the planet.
Ordinarily, Rocco might hate a guy like Andrew John—a privileged rich guy who doesn’t have to work. But Rocco has respect for him, partly because Andrew John is so cool about this weird situation: Rocco, the farm’s former owner, working for him. It might be really uncomfortable if Rocco’s boss were anyone else.
Rocco’s grateful for the job. He likes the work. Andrew John hired Rocco right after he got out of rehab. It might have been tough to find work. And Rocco wants Andrew John to be glad that he took a chance on him.
Delicacy, tact, respect—something about Andrew John’s humility and simple good manners smooths over the awkwardness of the fact that a billionaire Argentine, with vast estancias in his homeland, now owns the land that used to belong to the dispossessed American guy, who transports the vegetables from his farm. Rocco couldn’t have taken on the responsibility; he doesn’t have the vision or the resources. He wouldn’t know how to hire the people Andrew John has hired to advise him on how to turn the valley into an organic, productive, profit-making—and beautiful—farm.
Andrew John shows Rocco to what he calls his “napping couch.” It’s been almost seven years since Rocco began working for Andrew John, and he’s gotten used to the little jokes that Andrew John makes, the catchphrases he uses over and over. He’s so rich he can repeat himself without worrying that anyone will judge him. But there’s a purpose to it. Everything Andrew John does has a purpose. The little repetitions—“my napping couch”—create a kind of ceremony, a sense of continuity. They remind Rocco of how many times he’s been here, of how well he and Andrew John know each other without knowing each other at all.
Rocco always thinks the same thing. Who could nap on this couch? It isn’t as comfortable as it looks. Rocco sits on the couch, and Andrew John accordions his tall frame into an armchair beside it.
“Coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee would be great.”
Andrew John transmits a message—telepathically, it must be—and Margarita, his “house manager,” appears with two cups, a coffeepot, and a pitcher.
“Hope you don’t mind that it’s heavy cream. My weakness. None of us live forever.”
The coffee is delicious, and the gas fire in the freestanding fireplace is surprisingly warm.
“How is your mother?” asks Andrew John.
This too is a delicate subject, best handled with care.
“Mom’s fine. She loves being in Mexico.”
“And your sister and brother-in-law?”
“Charlotte’s business is booming, Eli’s working on a play.”
“And your niece?”
“She’s great. I took her to the circus for her birthday.”
Rocco notices that he’s said I. First person singular. And the circus was for Ruth’s birthday, not Daisy’s. It’s a good thing that Ruth’s not here.
“Was it fun?” says Andrew John.
“Was what fun?”
“The circus.”
“Lots.”
Andrew John’s wife and son and daughter elected to stay in Buenos Aires until their kids finish school. They agreed it would be too much of a change, not just from Argentina to America, but from the city to the country.
Rocco knows this from the internet, where he’s seen pictures of his boss’s wife—a beautiful woman with beach-streaked hair and two fashion-model-grade children. Andrew John visits them every few weeks. Otherwise, he never talks about them, and Rocco never asks.
Andrew John walks over to the window. He has a habit of standing up in the middle of a sentence, drifting over to the glass, and talking with his back to Rocco. Rocco can’t blame him. If he had that much money and land, he wouldn’t be able to look people in the eye, either.
Andrew John returns, sits down, and grabs a sheaf of printouts from the table. They go over the figures, discuss the shelf life