Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

by Rebecca Raisin

  “Right,” I said with forced cheer. “I’ll be back.”

  I zipped up my jacket, and spun to leave. As I stepped from the porch, snow drifted down like confetti, and despite the cold, the vista ahead was truly breathtaking. I sized up squares of the view, committing each nuance to memory so I could paint it later. The way the maples in the distance stood earnestly, dappled with white flakes, the wind blowing through them, like a whisper. I’d never felt so attuned to any place before…almost like I’d been here in another life. My mom would have a field day with that line of thought.

  When I reached the fence posts that were still ivy-covered, much to my surprise, there was a pair of thick gloves, and a thermos that was hot to the touch. Glancing over my shoulder, I half expected Clay to be watching me from the cottage. He wasn’t. But a small part of me softened toward him a little. He must’ve seen the damage to my hands that I’d taken pains to hide. Perhaps that stone-cold heart of his had a little warmth to it after all?

  Pulling on the gloves, I bent and set to work, determined to get the posts free of ivy as quickly as possible—though, the ivy was beautiful to me. The green foliage, with its white maze-like veins, each leaf a small miracle, a thing of beauty. Maybe Clay wanted to fireproof the edge of the property by removing anything that when dry was combustible come summertime, but to me, ripping out these leaves hurt. I was killing something of value, no matter whether he thought of it as a weed or not. My mother had ingrained into me the mantra to live and let live, so destroying something as pretty as ivy hurt a little.

  ***

  After hours outside, the cold settled into my fingers, despite the gloves, and my stiff hands seized. With great difficulty, I twisted the thermos open and took a swig of sweet milky coffee. I teetered, wondering whether to go inside, or continue on. My nose was numb, and my ears not faring much better.

  Surely Clay wouldn’t expect me to stay outdoors all day in a blizzard. I trudged back to the cottage, taking the handful of tools with me.

  Clay was in a bedroom, which was clear of any furniture. He was swinging an oversized hammer bringing it back to the floor with a momentous thwoar, the boards breaking and flying into the air, like a shriek.

  I stood back and watched him heft the weight of the hammer, beads of perspiration edging his brow line.

  After a few minutes, and a huge stack of broken floorboards, he stopped and noticed me hovering. “You get it done?”

  He took his sweater off, and wiped his face with it, that body of his, encased in a tight tank top again. “There’s still more, it’s just…I needed to warm up for a bit. Thanks for the gloves, and the coffee.”

  He ignored me, and held out the hammer. I looked at it, and then him.

  “Well?” he said.

  I blinked. “You want me to try?”

  “Be careful. The sledgehammer might be too big for you.”

  I scoffed. “Why, because I’m a girl?”

  He tutted and went to the window, wrenching it open. Dust from the floorboards swirled, making the room cloudy. “Because it’s heavy.”

  I tried to heft it over my shoulder like Clay had done but I only got as far as my waist. I tried once more, determined to get it into the air and back to the floor with a force that would shake his insides, but it was impossible. “It’s too heavy,” I conceded. With the stiffness of my hands, and the blisters, I couldn’t get a strong enough grip on it.

  “Go grab the broom and start picking up the debris.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” I gave him a mock salute, trying to get him to at least smile, and went to find the broom and a bag big enough for rubbish.

  When I returned Clay was swinging the hammer like a man possessed. His hair flew up from his face with each heave, and every single muscle in his arms flexed and rippled. Muscles like that had never appealed to me before, but with Clay, it was all hard-working, well-earned brawn and if I forgot about his personality, I had admit to feeling a trifle electrified watching him.

  “Clean by the window,” he said. “And then I’ll smash out the section by the door, and we’re done.”

  I swept the broken shards of wood into a corner before bagging it all up. Once again, I was covered in a thick layer of dust that had probably been living under the floorboards for a century or so.

  Clay balanced on wooden beams that had held the floorboards in place. Underneath you could see earth. The house was so old there’d been no slab, just thick floorboards to protect it from the elements. He gave me a lopsided grin as he wobbled and then regained his balance.

  I picked up the rubbish bag, and stood in the hallway as Clay tackled the last bit of flooring by the doorway. A few more sexual-sounding moans escaped his mouth as he worked, so I forced myself to look at the patch he was smashing to oblivion rather than directly at him.

  “Clay, wait!” I yelled, pointing. There was a metal chest just visible under the last of the flooring he was about to hit. “It looks like a treasure chest! What do you think’s inside?”

  Annoyance at my interruption flashed in his eyes. “No idea.”

  “Well pick it up.”

  “Who cares, let’s keep going.”

  “What? You’re not going to leave it there, are you?”

  He shrugged. Not even an ounce of curiosity in him.

  “I’ll pick it up.” I jumped down to the hard ground, and bent to inspect the chest.

  Whoever had buried it had obviously done so for a very good reason. It could be Clay’s uncle’s, or someone from even further back. My fingers tingled to open it and see what secrets we’d find.

  “It’s light.” With one quick movement I lifted it, and placed it by the door, the only space that still had enough flooring to rest it on. With as much grace as I could muster, I swung a knee up and groveled on the floor, until I was teetering. Clay grabbed my elbow, and helped me stand. “Thanks,” I said.

  I pulled my coat tighter, cold from the air melding through the open window and the chill from the exposed ground. “Well, are you going to open it?” The chest was tarnished with age, and I wondered what kind of mystery it contained.

  “Why? It’s probably just full of junk like everything that’s scattered around the farm.”

  “What if it’s not? I can’t see someone hiding a chest here if it was only junk.” Secreting a box under floorboards screamed desperation to me. Whoever hid it there didn’t want anyone to find it. Clay turned his back to me and threw the hammer down on the rotted floorboards once more. I waited for him to swing it safely back up before I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Clay, aren’t you intrigued?” What if it contained something pertaining to the farm? The inner child in me thought of myths from fairy tales: a magic lamp, rubies and emeralds, a map. But really, I thought it might be something sentimental, something secret.

  He spun to face me, frowning. “Not really.”

  “Can you just open it? Then we’ll know whether to keep it or put it outside with the other trash.” I wondered if Clay was being obtuse just to rile me.

  He huffed, “Fine, if it’ll stop you harping on about it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just open it.”

  He made a show of dropping the sledgehammer on the floor with a thud, wiping his face, stepping around me exaggeratedly so we didn’t touch, before finally bending down and creaking the box open.

  I held my breath. Inside piled somberly were a stack of red leather-bound journals wrapped tightly with twine, as if it would stop their secrets from spilling out.

  It was all I could do not to gather them up and flick through them. “Whose were they, do you think? Your uncle’s?” The red leather had faded, but you could see they’d been loved, the way they were tied, each loop exact and bound together, like they mattered to someone.

  Clay shrugged. “No idea, I never met the man.”

  “You never met him?” Surprise made my voice rise.

  “No, why? Does that bother you for some reason?” Again, he pulled the hem
of his tank top upward, and wiped his face with it. When he exposed his body like that, it was hard to focus.

  Instead, I stared down at the journals, wondering why someone would choose to hide them there. “No, it doesn’t bother me, but you inheriting the farm, I just presumed…”

  “You presumed wrong.”

  I ignored his steely eyed gaze. “Are you going to read them?” I asked. Honestly, it was like talking to a rock. A very subdued rock.

  “What for?”

  “You’re not the least bit curious?” His eyes were bright, and even though he was feigning disinterest, his expression told a different story. I continued: “What if it’s a brilliant manuscript? Or someone’s memoir? Wouldn’t you want to read it?”

  “No.” And just like that, his granite face returned. “Now can we work?” He motioned to the remaining piece of flooring.

  “Can I borrow them? I’ll read them and report back.”

  He waved me away. “You ever think they might be blank?”

  “Doubt it. Don’t see anyone hiding a box of old journals under the floor if they weren’t full of secrets.”

  “Fine, take them. But bring them back, once you’re done.”

  “Fine, I will.”

  “Work?” He motioned to the hammer.

  “Right.” I shifted the box so it was out of the way and continued picking up shards of wood, feeling a tad victorious.

  ***

  Back at the bed and breakfast, half delirious with fatigue, I called Mom, eager to see how she was doing and fill her in on everything. First I tried the home phone, and was rewarded with a robotic voice telling me the phone was no longer connected. Shoot. Had I forgotten to pay the bill? Next, I tried Mom’s cell phone.

  She answered after the second ring. “Precious! How are you?” A TV sounded in the background, a news anchor’s voice, deep and serious.

  “Oh my goodness, Mom. I’m beat! How are you?”

  She laughed, which came out like a croak. “Peachy, honey. So what’s the love god like now? Has his attitude improved?”

  It was so good to hear her voice. “The love god? He wishes. He’s so frosty, he’s almost a snowman. But it’s still fun in some weird way, to tease him. He really doesn’t understand humor. It’s all work, work, work, and a few grunts, and moans about well, work. Suits me fine, I’m only there to make a buck anyway.”

  “Young love.” She giggled. “Have you painted?”

  “Oh Mom, yes! And it’s almost like someone else is holding the brush…which is great because my hands are a mess. But it’s like…” I struggled to sum up how it felt to paint scenes here, the magical world I’d stumbled on, the colors, the light so different from Detroit. “It’s like, the darkness of my past paintings has been replaced with an epic kind of…translucence. Does that make sense?” I hadn’t acknowledged it until that moment that my art had morphed into something deeper, more complex than before. And instead of using angry hues of scarlet, and charcoal, I daubed the canvas with bolder choices: limes, teals, dashes of cobalt, splashes of rose. Aside from the beach scenes I’d painted for Mom, my previous work was almost volatile, hostile, as I dealt with pain I couldn’t outwardly show.

  “It makes perfect sense, honey. I had an inkling it might be so.” Her voice returned slightly slurred, a marker things weren’t going as great as she made out. “You need to have a nice long bath, and throw in some Epsom salts. That will help your aching muscles, and those precious hands of yours.”

  Mom had an old-fashioned remedy for everything, from washing my hair in beer to make it shiny, to drinking apple cider vinegar for a boost of energy. “That’s a good idea, Mom. I’ll do that when I hang up. So how’s it going with Aunt Margot? Is she coping OK?”

  “Yeah, she’s doing just great,” Mom said, lowering her voice.

  “Is she really?” For someone not used to the day-to-day tasks involved with Mom’s care, it would take some adjustment.

  “Well, of course she is. We’re having a blast.”

  “You are?” Aunt Margot must realize her behavior toward Mom in the last decade or so had been callous. Maybe she was trying to atone for it now. It made me smile, to think perhaps they’d gone back to the way they were when they were younger, before Aunt Margot morphed into someone who only cared about money. But that kind of neat fix, the letting go of grudges, didn’t ever come naturally to Aunt Margot. And on the phone, she certainly hadn’t sounded like she’d chilled out.

  “You stop worrying. I can hear it in your voice.”

  I held in an anxious sigh. “OK, I’ll try. I just miss you like crazy.”

  Her voice softened. “I miss you too, honey. But things are fine here, same old same old, and nothing to report. Whereas you, I want to know everything!”

  I absently plucked at the tassels on the bedspread. “I’ve made a couple of friends already. Lil and CeeCee from the Gingerbread Café. They’re so sweet and welcoming, it kind of feels like I’ve known them forever. At first it was a bit of a culture shock, these people being so flamboyant, and comical, wanting to include me…”

  “Oh, yeah? You’re gonna meet a lot of people like that. It’s the beauty of traveling. Tell me about them.”

  How could I sum them up in just a few words? “They’re always laughing, and joking, wanting to fatten me up. Lil’s teaching me to bake.”

  “Baking? I bet that’s been such fun! So I take it the café’s not like the diner then?”

  They were worlds apart. The diner consisted mainly of frozen meals, zapped in the microwave, or hamburger patties grilled till they blackened, but at the Gingerbread Café everything was made from scratch. I laughed, and said, “Nope, nothing like the diner. The girls say the secret to their food is that it’s all made with love.”

  Mom giggled. “I like the sound of your new friends.”

  “You’d love them. Hey,” I said, “while I remember, I tried the home phone first. It says it’s cut off? I thought I paid that bill a month or so ago?”

  “Oh, darling, I gotta run. That’s Aunt Margot back from shopping.” A rash of voices came down the line; it sure sounded like a lot more than one person. “Let’s speak tomorrow?”

  “Sure, Mom. But you do need a home phone in case of emergency. Will you let me know? I can check the account online.”

  “I’ll get Aunt Margot to check. Remember you’re taking a break!” she said hurriedly.

  I frowned.

  “Goodbye, darling.” And with that she clicked off. I stared at the phone for a minute. I hadn’t had a chance to tell her about the journals we’d found that day.

  Making a mental note to check the phone bill online, I went to run the bath, pushing the worry away as best I could. Otherwise, it’d build up into a giant ball of stress, and I’d end up with a migraine, which I couldn’t afford to have, needing to lie down in a dark room until it passed.

  But, Mom hung up far too quickly… Maybe she was just tired, or wanted to greet Aunt Margot properly. Shopping at this time of night though? I took a deep breath. It could have been for a quart of milk. Or filling a prescription? A light globe, even. They were both adults, and I was fussing over nothing. It was so hard to disengage from my role as Mom’s carer.

  I lolled in the old-fashioned tub, the steaming hot water like a tincture. My muscles had stretched and snapped to the point they throbbed in time with my pulse.

  I’d thought farm life would be a cinch. A little garden work, some sweeping, maybe the odd hay baling, but not this. Heaving wood from one pile of junk to the next. Ripping down walls, pulling up floors, and carting it all away for hours on end so that my arms eventually numbed and I had to glance down and check they were still attached to my body.

  With the bathwater lapping softly, I was tempted to close my eyes, and sleep, so I extricated my aching limbs as gently as I could from the bath, and threw on a robe.

  I pulled the comforter back, and sunk into the soft mattress with a sigh. Getting into bed after a hard day at the f
arm was bliss as my body became one with the squishiness of the underlay. The moon had only just risen, but it was almost lights out for me. I tossed and turned like a cat to get comfortable, and then grabbed the first journal from the pile.

  The pages were yellowed with age, and musty. The first entry was dated almost thirty years before, the handwriting elegant with loops and swirls.

  Time moves slow here. The winter winds squall outside in the pitch of black night. Almost as if she’s here with me, talking to me the only way she can, through the elements. I miss her every second of every day, but more so in the dark of midnight.

  I thought I saw her today, her reflection in the window as I wandered back from the copse of maples. I ran, ran like a man possessed, hoping to catch her. But the shadow faded as I neared. It’s as though she’s there, hovering on the edges of my life, in the mirror, the lake, the glint of sunshine on a piece of metal. I see her but I never quite catch her. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I like to think she’s waiting for me. In this place or the next.

  My chest tightened. In this place or the next. She died? The passage was poetic, haunting. Was the author Clay’s uncle or a previous long-forgotten owner of the Maple Syrup Farm? I flipped the page, careful not to rip the delicate parchment. I gasped. On the next page was the most exquisite drawing. It was a woman’s face, close up, and even in faded lead pencil, her eyes were radiant; she was breathtakingly beautiful. My skin prickled. Was he an artist? The following page the writing continued.

  I woke, like I always do, with the feeling that I’m being pressed from my head down to my feet. A heavy weight, it knocks the breath from my lungs, and makes me scrunch my eyes closed in pain. I lie there, unable to move, my heart sore with the knowledge I’ll never touch her again. Never feel her heart beat next to mine.

  Another sketch, of the same woman, this time with her lying in a bed, her hands under her head. The beauty of it took my breath away. I looked for the artist’s name but there were no markings. I suppose he wouldn’t sign his own journal. Imagine being able to draw like that…so detailed, and lifelike, I could almost feel her shallow breaths float from the page.