“SHIRTLESS!” She said the word so loudly it was in capitals.
“Shirtless, and sweaty. It was as good as you imagine it to be.” We’d always talked more like best friends than mother and daughter, and when it came to men it was no different. Back home, my relationships had been sporadic, life was too busy, but on the rare occasions I dated Mom knew all the details. Well…almost all. A girl has to keep a few secrets.
“You’ve been in town all of five minutes and you’ve seen a half-naked guy?”
“What can I say? Just lucky, I guess. And while he is nice to look at, he’s so far from my type he’s not even on the maybe list. Besides, I’m not looking for love, I’m looking for…” What was I looking for? Except a way to fulfill my mom’s wish.
She interrupted. “Oh yes you are!” Her cackle rang out. “Go on, what’s he like?”
I weighed up how to answer without causing undue worry. “He’s recently inherited the Maple Syrup Farm, which is really run down, and he’s kind of…angsty.”
“A moody jerk in other words?”
I bit my lip to stem the giggles that threatened to pour out. “A major moody jerk.”
Mom harrumphed. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus, you’ve found yourself a bad boy. He won’t know what hit him, meeting the likes you of you. He’s one fortunate guy. I want to be kept informed. Promise me?”
Mom knew I could be fiery at the best of times. Life was far too complicated as it was without anyone trying to bring me down a peg. My ex-manager at the diner had tried his damnedest to break me—I don’t know why, but he had it in for me. He’d steal my tips, which I relied on, and say customers had complained about me. Or he’d roster me on when I’d specifically asked not to fill that shift because of one of Mom’s appointments. A weasel of a man who knew he had me over a barrel because I needed the money. He was swiftly sorted out with a glass of ice-cold water over the head, and a phone call to the owner of the diner about the deficit in the takings. No one had the right to treat me that way, especially not someone who did it just for kicks.
“I’ll let you know every single thing I do on the farm, tree hugging, raking, hoeing, erm…”
“No,” she interrupted. “Keep your hoes to yourself. I mean about the love god!”
“Clay?” I feigned surprise.
“Oh Lord, his name’s Clay?”
“Right?” I knew she’d understand.
She sighed. “It couldn’t be more perfect. I bet he’s a hulking muscle man with an intense scowl. Gosh, ring me tomorrow and tell me everything.”
Mom’s enthusiasm for my news brought a smile to my face and I said, “I will, I’ll be energized from the outdoors and ready for anything life throws at me.” With daily phone calls to her, maybe I could enjoy this adventure. Mom sounded brighter just hearing about Ashford. Would that invigorate her, living vicariously through my travels?
“The tarot did throw up the lovers’ card each and every time I shuffled.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m going to love those maple trees something bad.” If only she’d seen Clay in the flesh, then she’d know he was a no-go zone. Someone that frosty wasn’t in my dreamboat book, no matter how gorgeous he was. But it was nice to make Mom happy even if it was all hot air.
The chat had fatigued her. Her voice came back barely audible. “And paint what you see. I know you’ll find beauty there.”
We rang off, and I fell back against the bed, my heart tugging. Mom spoke about beauty as though it were a person, a real tangible thing. She saw it everywhere: in the reflection of a raindrop on a leaf, or the way a cloud moved across the sky as though it were searching for a mate. So far, without her my world was tinged with gray. Though the edges colored a little as I thought of my new job, and the girls at the Gingerbread Café.
I moved the bedside table away from the wall to use as a makeshift desk, and took my watercolor paints from the drawer. Taking some water from the bathroom, I leaned over my new space, tapping the brush against my chin. Of course, I’d paint him. I couldn’t think of anything other than the lines of his body, the way he held himself taut, like he was afraid to let go, to show too much of himself. The psychology of art helped me to see through a person’s actions, right to the core of them. And somehow I knew Clay wasn’t what he made himself out to be. As the painting took shape, the fluid brushstrokes softened the fire in him. I’d have to use oils; he was too intense for dreamy watercolors.
***
After washing my paintbrushes up I joined Rose in the front room. We sat drinking tea out of dainty cups. “Where would I find a clothes store?” I asked, taking in the way she did everything elegantly, from sipping, to crossing her ankles.
“There’s only the grocery store, my dear,” she said with a shrug.
“The grocery store? For clothing?” I tried to mimic her, by sipping the tea, and not slurping.
“Yes,” Rose smiled. “They sell everything, from groceries, to clothes, even kayaks. It’s a one-stop shop.”
Small-town living would take some getting used to. What was I expecting, a mall full of boutiques? “Right. Handy then. Do you need anything while I’m out?” I placed my teacup on the saucer and stood.
“No, dear, you just tell Bonnie I sent you. She’ll look after you.”
The grocery store had the most eclectic range. Thin aisles were jam-packed with toys, bedding, even a range of beside lamps. From what I could garner there was no particular order. I was yet to see any foodstuffs, but I’m sure they were crammed in there somewhere.
I went in search of Bonnie, who helped me find the clothing section.
“Now what exactly are you after?” she asked, with a Texan twang. Ashford was full of a multitude of rich accents. Maybe what CeeCee said was true—people came here, and never left. I could see the appeal, the way most of the locals were warm and welcoming, though I’m sure just like any other place, there were less perfect people.
I folded my arms. “Clothing to suit farm life. So I’m guessing some kind of slicker, and maybe some rubber boots?”
“Great! We supply all the farm folks round here, so I’m sure we have just the thing.”
Bonnie shuttled around the store, yabbering to herself, as though the thought of helping me excited her. She unearthed everything she thought I’d need and led me to a change room.
“I’ll wait here.” She shooed me in, and pulled the curtain closed. “You holler out if you need another size. These clothes are the very latest in farmer’s attire so I think you’re going to be super excited.” Her high-pitched twang had a tinge of hopefulness to it.
“OK,” I said, not convinced. The clothing looked like something the Ghostbusters would wear. The slicker was fluoro yellow, and plastic, and made a crunching sound as I pulled it on. The pants were so big at the thigh I felt like Ronald McDonald. Lastly, I donned the hat, which was as wide as it was tall. My reflection looked like some kind of backwater hillbilly. Surely not? Was it so cold outside farmers dressed braced for an apocalypse?
“How do they fit?” she asked chirpily.
“Erm…” Laughter threatened to burble out of me at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. I was a ghostbusting, burger-selling, cowboy-hat-wearing farmer.
Bonnie drew the curtain back with a flourish. “Oh, now, don’t they just fit you real great?” She smiled so genuinely I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.
Clay hadn’t been dressed like this. I wasn’t sure farmers actually wore such clothing, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe Clay had been barely clothed because he was working indoors, and once outside we’d need to be protected from the elements. Because if there was one thing I was sure of, nothing was getting through the layers of plastic that now crinkled noisily over my body. I held on to the curtain. “I’ll take them.” Bonnie had the puppy dog eyes down pat, and rewarded me with a happy squeal.
“You’ve gone and made my day,” she said, closing the curtain, so I could change back. Her smile threatened to swallow her
up, and it dawned on me that maybe Bonnie didn’t get many customers, just like the travel agent Henry, who appeared hopeful seeing a new face in town. “I’ll go and ring them up for you. And I’ll throw in a pair of socks, since you’ve been real nice. They’re a new brand. Meant to help with the circulation, you know, for the diabetes?”
I didn’t know. But I played along, anyway. “That sure will come in handy. Thank you, Bonnie.”
Chapter Five
My alarm shrieked, waking me from a deep sleep. Groggy, I rubbed my eyes, and yawned, taking an age to remember where I was. The shadows were unfamiliar. When I flicked on the bedside lamp, and the flowered wallpaper stared happily at my crumpled frame, it all came back. Begonia Bed and Breakfast. And day one of working with the half-naked, intensely arrogant Clay.
With a groan, I wrenched the covers back and dressed quietly in the shoebox-sized room. The last time I’d seen five a.m. was coming off a double shift at the diner. Maybe once I acclimatized this would be better, watching dawn break, fresh, after a good night’s sleep.
I tried to creep quietly but the garb I wore had other ideas, and crinkled like someone scrunching cellophane. Once outside, I breathed fresh air deep into my lungs. The sky was awash with gray, not even a bird chirp for company.
I crinkled along, wishing I’d made a cup of coffee for the journey. Rose had given me a travel mug for that very purpose but I didn’t want the shrieking of the kettle to rouse her. I turned the corner and headed down the main road of Ashford. It was gloomy, the store fronts somber without the light of day and their cheery owners.
A beam of light coming from the Gingerbread Café caught my attention. I resisted the urge to fist pump as thoughts of strong coffee danced through my mind. I jogged up the road, and spilled through the door in a flurry.
Lil jumped, her eyes wide. “You scared the bejeezus out of me!” She clutched her chest. “Coffee?”
“I will love you forever.” As much as I loved drinking cups of tea with Rose, a strong dose of caffeine would fire up the old brain synapses and enable to me to make sense at such an early hour.
She grinned and went to the percolator, poured two mugs, and motioned to a stool. “I bet you haven’t eaten.” She stared me down the way my mother would, even though Lil and I were probably around the same age, give or take a few years.
“No, I was going to but…”
“Say no more.” Lil expertly moved around the kitchen, gathering bowls and utensils before cracking a couple of eggs, adding some spices and whisking. “French toast, OK?”
“Do you always make people’s dreams come true?” I said faux seriously.
She threw her head back and laughed. “I try.”
There was something about Lil, something indistinct that made me act differently with her. She had a unique energy. I sensed her life hadn’t been smooth sailing, but she’d come out the other side. Studying people in the background for so many years had made me read people on a deep level, somehow seeing past the cosmetics of a situation and finding the heart of them. For that reason, I connected with her more easily than I usually would have.
While Lil worked, I walked around the café sipping my coffee and taking in every tiny detail. It was cozy and warm, not just from the fire, but also from the little touches they’d added to make it kitschy and cute. The walls were painted the color of dark chocolate, gingerbread-man bunting hung in garlands, twisted with rows of fairy lights, which pulsed like stars.
Hand-knitted throw rugs were tossed lazily on sofas. Fat fluffy mismatched cushions perched on chair seats. By the bookshelves was a veritable mountain of European pillows adorned with cartoonish dinosaurs or pink-swathed princesses. I imagined toddlers falling into them face first, shrieking with joy, the stack taller than their little bodies. In a corner a green plastic table sat tucked away, full of jars of brightly colored pencils, and craft supplies so kids could create while their parents took a break from their day over a cup of tea and a plate of something delicious.
Lil and CeeCee’s passion for their business and customers shone through from the way they greeted their customers, to the way they joked with one another, and the love they poured into baking. It was so far from the diner I worked in it was hard to reconcile the two. The diner had needed a damn good scrub, and some life poured into it, but it was always busy because of its location, and the customers who frequented didn’t seem to mind the seventies décor.
On the bench by Lil, knobbly loaves of bread cooled on a wire rack. The scent of fresh bread reminded me of my mother, and how once upon a time she loved baking, humming while she kneaded dough, flour dusting her forearms. These days, even baking was too much for her. Sometimes, it was hard not to let the bitterness creep in. She was such a vital person, and her condition snatched that away from her.
“What’s on your mind?” Lil asked taking two slices of freshly baked bread and dipping them into the egg mix. “You’re away with the fairies.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I walked back to the stool, cupping my face in my hands, and watching her work.
“Nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing.” She raised her eyebrows and gave me a look that meant share my woes.
People were so perceptive in Ashford. Maybe it was because they all knew each other, and could read moods like some people read the ocean tides. When they asked you a question they stared you full in the face, giving you their undivided attention. Like you mattered. That the words that fell from your lips were important.
“Every now and then sadness catches up with me, that’s all.” I ran a hand over the bench, wiping down bread crumbs. “I wonder if I’m making the right choice by leaving my old life.”
Lil clucked her tongue. “Leaving is always hard. But I suppose, you won’t know until you try, right?”
I toyed with the coffee mug, avoiding Lil’s sincere-eyed expression. Sensing my mood, she went to the stove and lit the element, then groveled under the bench for a frypan. She dropped a dollop of butter into it, which slipped and slid around the black pan, melting into a sunny yellow liquid.
“Waking up at five a.m. brings out the maudlin in me. I just need to get used it.” I tried to make a joke of it, lightening my tone, and forcing a wide smile. I hadn’t devoured the first coffee of the day; I was still half asleep at such a crazy hour of the morning—that’s all it was. In the still of the dawn, reality always seemed that much more frightening, and sometimes harsh and cold. Who was I pretending to be? I wasn’t an artist. I wasn’t anything, except my mother’s daughter, and running off to change that didn’t feel right. Shouldn’t I put her first always?
“You’ll get used to it, Lucy. Things will get easier over time.” Lil flipped the buttery brown French toast, and glanced back over her shoulder at me. “Viola.” She pushed the dish in front of me, and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“You’re some kind of miracle worker,” I said, gazing at the plate, glad for the interruption of breakfast so my somber thoughts didn’t fall out in a sad jumble.
“Wait!” she held up a hand and then dashed to the fridge, pulling a bottle out. “Maple syrup!”
“Of course!”
She drizzled a helping of syrup over the French toast and took the stool beside me. “As soon as you’ve made the first batch of syrup, you tell Clay we want some. Nothing better than locally made produce.”
I nodded. “Can you imagine making it? I can’t wait to see how it’s done.”
“It’ll be wonderful.” Lil picked up a fork. “Eat,” she said. “And remember to stop by tomorrow on your way. I love a bit of company in the lonely dawns. I’m not as good as Cee with dispensing advice, but if you need a shoulder to lean on, I’m here.”
“Thanks, Lil,” I said, truly grateful. CeeCee and Lil had a way about them, a genuine kindness that took the edge off my homesickness.
***
After refusing a lift from Lil, I trekked down the long, dark road out of Ashford. By the time I arrived at the farm I had my hands s
hoved deep in my pockets. I walked down the driveway, my eyes wide at the view ahead. Before the winter sun had risen, the snow-covered maple trees looked hauntingly beautiful in the dark of the morning.
It was a touch before six, so I sat on the back porch, not wanting to wake Clay. There was no sound from inside the cottage. Time marched on; the sky slowly shifted from a moody gray to a diaphanous blue. It was like being inside a dream.
I imagined setting up a canvas here, capturing the sky before it changed hue. But I couldn’t. I would hate Clay peering over my shoulder at my work.
For me, painting was deeply personal, and private. It was like my heart was right there on the canvas, along with the brushstrokes, leaving my soul exposed. My mom said I was all sorts of kooky to think such a way, but she understood.
I wasn’t ready for judgment—I wasn’t good enough yet and what I painted sometimes was murky and hazy with grief, a way for me to get all those feelings out, not let them simmer too long inside me. That’s why I’d never applied for the Van Gogh Institute in case they replied with a negative. I imagined these geniuses of the art world, shaking their heads, confused by clumsy attempts, like I was a fake, a phony, pretending to be as good as them.
My pictures, whether sketched or painted, reminded me of how I felt, what I did, even though the subject might be something as innocuous as a piece of fruit, like the bruised bananas on a lunch tray, served to Mom in hospital. Like a metaphor, the damaged skin of the fruit, a once perfect thing, marred by all those who had touched it, leaving it indelibly changed. The paint—bleeding, soaking into the canvas—took some of the angst away. Whatever I was feeling, I purged part of it when I painted. Life made sense when I could recreate it in color.
But now the world in front of me was different. The farm would be another chapter. Could I catch the light here? Would my art evolve?
Sitting on the porch, the cold settled in my bones. I jiggled to warm up, wondering if I should just go inside but slightly hesitant in case Clay was undressed. He’d be the type who wouldn’t appreciate a girl wandering into his sanctuary. From what I’d gathered he was a private sort.
Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm Page 6
