Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

by Rebecca Raisin

  This place it will save me from myself. Nowhere else have I felt the vibration from the land, like a sign I belong.

  He wrote so beautifully, but it was full of melancholy. Maybe as I continued reading there would be more clues as to who he was and I’d learn more about his art. Tomorrow, I’d sketch, hoping one day I’d be as good as he was.

  My eyelids grew heavy, so I tucked the journal away, and fell into a dream-filled sleep. When I awoke, all I could remember were the colors, great swirls, and lashings of paint on a too-white canvas. Hazy visions, of her eyes, the girl from the sketch.

  As though I knew her.

  Chapter Eight

  A few weeks later I was stepping into the Gingerbread Café to find Lil grinning and holding out an apron. My daily baking sessions had been a highlight, and I’d learned so much in those quiet mornings, while the town still slept, and it felt like Lil and I were the only people in the world. She was so patient, and explained each step carefully, waiting for me to jot down notes, or ask questions.

  “In celebration of the Maple Syrup Farm running again I’m going to teach you how to make fudge. Specifically maple walnut fudge. It’s easy, it’s delicious, and you can go ahead and throw just about any flavor in and it’ll work.”

  I pulled the apron over my head and tied the strings at the back. Lil had the bench laid out with ingredients, and mixing bowls. “Fudge sounds great! What should I do?”

  “It’s as simple as melting all the ingredients, and then pouring the mix into a baking dish and putting it in the fridge to set.”

  “OK.” I opened a can of condensed milk, and broke up a block of white chocolate. Lil added them to a pot, and flicked on the flame. In Lil’s kitchen I felt at home, she glided around me, fussing with things, and it was one of the times in my long day that I could just be me. My worry floated away—nothing mattered except the recipe in front of me. When Lil would show me a complicated technique, and produce a cake that was art on a plate, I was in awe. Her art and my art were vastly different, but our motivations were the same. She poured every ounce of herself into what she did, and you could see her passion reflected back in the dish. It was amazing watching her create something out of a few basic ingredients.

  “What else?” I asked as she stirred the pot, the scent of the condensed milk sweetening the air. “Add the butter, the maple syrup, and then the walnuts. You take over.”

  I added the ingredients to the pot and took the spoon.

  “And remember, don’t have the heat up too high or you’ll scorch the chocolate.”

  I ducked my head to check how big the flames were. “Is that really it? It’s so simple for something that tastes so amazing!”

  Lil laughed. “It’s that simple. Now pour that into the dish and we’ll put it in the fridge to set.”

  With great care, I tipped the molten mix into a dish lined with parchment paper, and put the pot in the sink. “If there’s not a piece of this left when I come back tomorrow I’ll cry. I mean it, I’ll throw myself to the ground and pummel the floor, like a toddler.”

  “I promise I’ll save you some.” She rubbed her belly. “It’s not me who eats all the food, it’s the baby I swear it. It was that one time, I sat down to eat, and accidentally inhaled the whole pie and no one has let me forget it!” Her face was radiant with laughter.

  “You’re pregnant?” She nodded. “I didn’t know! Congratulations.” I hugged her.

  She lifted her apron, and you could just make out a slight swell to her belly underneath her sweater. “Thank you. It’s this little munchkin, you see. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.”

  I gave her a wide smile. “So if there’s no fudge left, it’s the jellybean’s fault?” I pointed to her belly.

  “Exactly.”

  We giggled as Lil put the dish of fudge into the fridge.

  “Now that’s done we can eat. All that talk about food has me hankering for something.”

  I wiped down the bench while Lil sliced bread and toasted it.

  “So tell me all about the hunky Clay,” she said, taking slices of bacon and sizzling them in a pan. “You always avoid my questions about him.” She waggled her eyebrows. “What’s he really like?”

  “I do not avoid your questions about him!” I laughed. These last few weeks with Lil had taught me so much about friendship, and the way in which we bantered back and forth was natural now, rather than my first awkward attempts at fitting in. When the toast popped, I slathered them with butter. “For starters, he’s the most argumentative guy I’ve ever met. You can’t say anything to him without a rebuttal of some sort. But that might be because I find it hard not to disagree with him. He keeps the day’s plans to himself…like some kind of power trip, and I tend to get uppity at him. I like knowing what’s in store. But he prefers to bark out one-word orders, like Fence! Paint! Clean!” I did an impersonation of Clay pointing, eyes fierce.

  Lil giggled as she tonged the bacon atop the toast, and added a slice of cheese, which flopped, melting quickly. She added a handful of peppery-scented rocket and a pinch of salt and pepper.

  “So what’s his secret? Why does he hide out there?” Lil’s voice was light, and I knew she was more interested in what made Clay tick than idly gossiping. He was new, and didn’t want to make friends, which made him stand out even more.

  “I don’t know, Lil. I think he’s just one of those people who likes solitude. We found a bunch of journals hidden under the floorboards, and he didn’t blink an eye. Wasn’t the least bit interested in reading them. But I tend to think sometimes the whole broody guy thing is an act. I catch him smiling at me, or sizing me up when I lift piles of wood that weigh almost as much as I do, but then he catches himself, and turns away.”

  “He’s a puzzle all right.” Lil’s eyes lit up. “What are the journals about?”

  I wasn’t sure if I was meant to keep the find to myself. Maybe Clay was intrinsically a private person, but the journals weren’t his, so he probably wouldn’t care. “They’re mainly about a woman. I think she passed on. But they have the most intricate sketches accompanying the writing.”

  “Hmm,” she said, absently. “Jessup was a lot like Clay. He kept mainly to himself.”

  “They must be his, then. The person who wrote them lived alone.” I shrugged. “But whoever it was, their work is top notch. I dare say professional.”

  “Maybe you were meant to find them, being an artist yourself.”

  I blushed. I don’t know why I was so shy when it came to even talking about my art. “Maybe. They’re out-of-this-world good. I’m not even remotely close to that level.”

  She gave me a stern look. “I doubt that. I’d like to see your work. Maybe I could buy something from you to hang in the café. That way when you leave, we’ll have something else to remember you by.”

  “Oh, no, no. I have a long way to go before my work can hang on anyone’s wall.” Just the thought was enough to make my toes curl.

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  Some of my paintings were murky with grief, red with anger, or sunny yellow with love. They weren’t good enough to share, and they told too much about me for me to feel comfortable.

  “Soon,” I said. There’d be nothing worse than Lil flicking through my portfolio and feeling compelled to choose a picture because she had to. I’d never be able to look her in the eye again.

  “When you’re ready,” she said, giving me a dazzling smile.

  ***

  When I stepped into the cottage my breath caught. The walls were painted, the floorboards polished to a shine, highlighting the whorls in the wood. Even the furniture had been re-covered and rearranged. If you looked from outside, the way the cottage leaned, it’s chipped and faded face, you’d never imagine inside was functional, and remodeled.

  “Wow,” I said, leaning against the door jamb. “This place looks amazing.” The furniture had been his uncle’s cast-offs, but Clay had re-covered the sofa in
royal blue velour and sanded back the coffee table, and lacquered it. I admired the fact he didn’t simply replace it with new stuff. I had a thing about people ditching memories like that. I guess it had been ingrained in me to use whatever I had at hand, and not to waste even if we could have afforded it. By the front door there was a buffet I didn’t recognize. “Where did you get that?” I knew Walt’s furniture store was empty, and I couldn’t imagine where he’d get something so well made around here.

  “I’m a carpenter,” he said. “Well, I was.” His eyes shadowed.

  “Was? What happened?” His mouth set into a tight line.

  “I don’t have that business anymore.” He wasn’t as closed off today. Usually he would have told me to forget it, and stalked off. I weighed up whether to push for more details. “Seems trust isn’t always a two-way street.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said lamely.

  He let out a hollow laugh. “No, it wasn’t. But I’m here now, thrown the proverbial lifeline.”

  So had the inheritance come at the right time?

  “Will you concentrate on bottling and selling maple syrup?” We wandered back the living room. The plastic cover was gone from the sofa, so I flopped into it, hoping to rest after the long walk to the farm.

  He stood in front of the fire, and watched me, like he was deciding whether to respond. I waved a hand in the air to say go on.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  I sighed inwardly. To get Clay to participate in conversation was almost impossible. I hoped he was thinking ahead business wise, if he had no other options to fall back on. I changed tack. “I made some maple walnut fudge at the Gingerbread Café this morning. Lil’s excited that she’ll be able to buy syrup from you. She’s a great cook, and I think she really tries to help people in business here—sounds as though it’s tough to stay afloat.” I knew I was babbling, but I wanted Clay to at least try, to help himself.

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t go into town much.” He tidied the living room, picking up strewn bits of newspaper, relics from when he’d painted the walls.

  “Why?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  Here we go. He was so testy, all the time. “Well, I’m thinking of you, Clay. If you’re big old plan is to sell maple syrup, you’re probably going to have to meet the locals, and tell them about the farm, since they’ll be the ones buying it.”

  “They either will or they won’t. I’m not one to get all pally with people.”

  “Geez, I hadn’t noticed.” I gave him an eye roll. “They’re good people, they look out for one another.”

  “Look, Lucy, I didn’t come to Ashford to make friends, I came here to fix up the farm. Shall we?” He stalked outside, so I followed behind, wondering what the hell had happened to him to make him so short with people.

  I caught up with him at the entrance of the barn. “You think people will buy from you when you’re so dismissive?”

  He frowned. “Not all of us are like you, Lucy. Some of us prefer our own company.”

  What could I say to that? He was so moody, maybe it was best if he kept away from the people of Ashford, who seemed genuinely happy to band together and help each other out. “Well, I hope you find someone to work for you.”

  “You’re not staying? Farm life not what you expected?” He strapped his tool belt on in the gloom of the barn.

  “I’m staying.” I pushed my chin out. “But not forever. Farm life suits me just fine, but I’m heading elsewhere eventually. Sure it’s fun for you hiding out here, but after a while, won’t you be bored?”

  The tools clanged together on his belt as he walked outside. It was like playing catch-up, chasing after him as he moved on. “How could I be bored here? Look at this place.”

  It was breathtaking, the way the farm slowly came to life with soft dappled sunshine poking through clouds. The air fragrant with possibility.

  “Yeah but what about night-time? What do you do?” From the amount of work that was done before I returned each morning, I knew Clay just kept on going. How he wasn’t exhausted was beyond me, but didn’t he want to relax? Have a beer with a friend? Head into town for dinner?

  “I fix the cottage, or sort out the barn. I don’t sleep much, so I work.”

  Obviously he was in much better shape than me, just hearing the word sleep provoked a yawn. “I fall into bed and sleep like a baby, a very loud, snoring baby. I’m amazed you don’t as well with all the physical work.”

  We got to the fence line and Clay dropped to his knees near the posts of my nightmares. I’d spent so long on freeing them from ivy, they invaded my dreams. “Sleep tends to dodge no matter what I do.”

  “Doesn’t it catch up though, and you eventually go to bed zonked for like a day?”

  “No, never does. Anyway, now we’re all caught up about our sleeping patterns, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like some help removing the broken posts so we can replace them. If you’ve finished your inquisition?”

  I sighed. “Yeah regular old chitchat can be tough if you’re used to using a scowl to convey meaning. You’ll hear no more from me.”

  ***

  We took a break for lunch. Clay made us sandwiches, which I wolfed down with an insatiable hunger. The hard work gave me an appetite I’d never had before.

  “I only managed a few pages of the journals,” I said to Clay, who was still chewing. Everything he did was measured, from the way he ate to the way he spoke. Often he stared at me for an age, like he was deciding if what he had to say sounded OK in his mind first, as opposed to me who blurted out any old thing to stop the conversation from stalling.

  “What were they about? Farm life, and all its bedazzling glory?” he said, his face twisting sarcastically.

  “No.” I stretched my arms behind me, turning my face to the winter sun. “Diary entries, eloquent and poetic. A man who’d lost his wife, or girlfriend. I don’t know if she died, or just left. And beautiful drawings, you have to see them. Does that sound like your uncle?”

  Clay shrugged. “No idea, all I know is he was a crazy old man. He didn’t keep in touch with anyone except my mom.”

  I closed my eyes, the desire to sleep strong now I had a full belly, and time to sit down. “How did you know he was a crazy old man, if you didn’t meet him?”

  With a wave of his hand, he said, “Family gossip. I don’t get into it much, not my problem.”

  He was infuriating. “But he gave you his farm? Aren’t you curious at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “Right.” I bit into the sandwich, to stop myself from hollering at him.

  “Let’s get back to work.”

  I shook my head. What kind of mean-spirited person was he? A man, poetic and artistic, gives him his farm, his legacy, and Clay doesn’t give a damn.

  Chapter Nine

  Back at the bed and breakfast, I was clattering around Rose’s kitchen, a little more invigorated than I’d been for an age. After a month a bit in Ashford everything still ached, but I was almost used to the heavy-legged sensation at night-time, knowing bed was close.

  Mom had sent me a bunch of text messages saying she was having an early night, and not to forget to drink three liters of water each day, and chant some affirmations. She’d signed off with love heart emojis, having just been shown them at the last hospital visit by a young nurse. I’d held off from responding in case the ping of the message woke her.

  Rose sat at the table, sipping a glass of white wine. “Are you ready to be impressed?” I asked, carefully balancing two bowls of spiced pumpkin soup.

  “I’m ready.”

  I placed the soup in front of her and a grabbed a basket of sliced sourdough I’d picked up from the café on the way home. “CeeCee’s recipe?” Rose asked.

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “I’ve been a regular down that café for years now. You tend to get to know who cooks what. This soup’s been a winter warmer favorite of mine for aeons.”

 
“Oh no, so you can compare the two. Bad news for me!” I laughed. CeeCee had scrawled down the recipe for me when I’d stopped past to buy some soup only to find they were all out. I’d wanted to make a nice meal for Rose, but something simple I couldn’t mess up.

  “It’s delicious,” Rose said, dipping her spoon. “All those long days, and you’ve managed to make a lovely dinner. Are you still enjoying the farm? I don’t know how you manage all those hours.”

  I blew out a breath. “I actually am. While Clay’s not the sunniest person in the world, he’s fun to look at. And there’s something inspiring about standing up, a crick in your back, at the end of the day and knowing you’ve achieved something.”

  Rose took a sip of wine. “We were all excited to hear the farm had a new owner. Poor Jessup hadn’t been able to keep up the place for years. We were sorry to hear he passed on, but happy to know his farm would stay in his family and not be sold to some developer. We hoped maybe whoever took it over would continue to tap the trees, make the place new again.”

  “Clay says he was a crazy old man, but somehow I can’t see that.” I’d told Rose all about the journals, and she said it they were definitely Jessup’s.

  A cuckoo clock in the living room chimed eight o’clock, so Rose waited before saying, “He wasn’t crazy, far from it; he was a recluse. Didn’t like to get out much, didn’t accept any invites when people tried to befriend him. He was always polite about it, but that was just his way.”

  “Well, his nephew isn’t much different, except he’s not as polite about it.”

  Rose gave me a small smile. “The town, of course, was rife with gossip about what brought Jessup here, lots of conspiracy theories flew around town for the first few years, until his sister visited town, and brought with it his story—well a version of it anyway. Word was, he’d lost his wife in an accident, and retreated to the farm, which had been vacant for a long time—so long most locals weren’t sure who’d owned it previously. Jessup was so mired in grief, we all just backed away, and hoped he’d come to town when he was ready. But he never did. That sister, the one who visited all that time ago would be Clay’s mom.”