Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

by Rebecca Raisin

  She laughed, and her eyes, those eyes, twinkled and glittered like there was a whole constellation in them. And she said, “Well, why didn’t you say so? Shall we dance?” And we never parted again after that night, until she was summoned by God.

  Whoever this man had lost, he had her in his heart always. It was a real-life love story; I was blessed to read it. The next sketch was of the couple dancing, the way they held each other tugged at my heart. I almost wanted to look away, as it was so private the way he stared at her, almost like I was intruding. Curiosity won out, and I scrutinized the sketch up close, trying to garner if Jessup shared any facial traits with Clay. They had the same jawline, the same mouth, but aside from that, the rest of their faces were unique to them.

  I took my sketch pad out and picked up a pencil. I smudged the thin lines, and attempted to draw the man, but when I appraised the picture, the face staring back was Clay’s, with his unfathomable eyes, and complex features. His strong hands, and tense shoulders. I’d seen him smile, and laugh, when he was caught unawares, so I flipped the page and drew him like that instead. It was a revelation—my heart flipped, and I was glad that no one could see me.

  There was something about him, some pull he had, and I could admit to myself in the privacy of my room, that I wanted to know him, all of him. Despite the façade, the tough, surly Clay wasn’t real. I’d seen enough people pretending in my life to know that for sure. Hanging around hospitals will do that to a person.

  Something had happened to Clay that made him fold in on himself, to become the person he thought would keep people away. To hide his so-called weakness. What that was though, was anyone’s guess.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday appeared, like any other day, under the cover of darkness. Early March and it was still cold out, snowing and foggy most dawns, but the drift wasn’t as heavy. It wouldn’t be long, until sunshine poked through gray clouds, and spring woke the flower beds up. I longed for April, when the landscape would change, and I could paint bright yellow tulip bulbs or the delicate mauve of the cherry blossom flowers.

  I dressed in the small room, and made my way straight to the farm.

  When I got the cottage Clay was sitting on the back porch, swinging idly on the love seat.

  “Good morning,” I said, and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

  He gave me a half smile. “Hey.”

  “What’s on the cards for today?” I tilted my head.

  “Sit, take it easy.” He gestured to the spot next to him.

  Take it easy? This coming from Mr. Work Work Work? I sat gingerly next to him, making sure our arms didn’t brush.

  “I love it here,” he said, quietly. “Sometimes I forget to stop and admire the view.”

  I flicked a sidelong glance at him. It didn’t sound like the type of thing Clay would say. His tone was mellow, almost mellifluous.

  I glanced at the trees. “It’s even prettier the way the morning mist slips around each tree in the early light. Almost like it’s shielding them.”

  “Yes…” He crossed his arms, his gaze into the distance. “Today, we’ll clean the spiles for the trees. Some of them are rusty from sitting so long. We’ll go through our checklist and make sure we’re ready to go for Monday.”

  With a booted foot, he kicked the deck of the porch, the swing swayed softly.

  “The journals say the best time to tap is after a full moon, and that you have to talk to the trees and warn them about what’s coming so they loosen up, and…” I broke off, thinking how much Mom would get a tickle out of talking to the trees, and planning things around a full moon.

  He put a boot down to stop the swing and faced me. “What?” He was incredulous but there was still a peaceful glimmer reflected in his eyes. Like he’d slept well, or something had changed in the hours I was away.

  “That’s what it says.” I threw my hands up. “And it makes sense to me. If someone was going to poke a piece of steel into my trunk, I’d want some warning too. I was going to trek through and have a good old chat with them and see if it helps.”

  “OK, well fell free to talk to them once you’re done for the day. I guess we can check when the full moon is. It can’t hurt.”

  I resisted the urge to jump up and down. I’d expected Clay to clench his jaw and say I was sprouting nonsense. I knew he really wanted to get this right.

  “I already checked. It’s on Sunday.”

  “Well we said Monday, anyway. So it’s perfect.”

  “I can’t believe I’m a fully qualified farmer’s assistant and we’re about to make maple syrup. Can you imagine what it’ll taste like?”

  “Sweet, I hope.”

  “I bet it tastes like love feels…” I broke off, embarrassed I said something so weird out loud.

  He laughed. “Lucy, I can always tell what you’re thinking. Did you know that? Everything you’re feeling is written on your face, for all to see.”

  I blushed. “You cannot!” This was as personal as he’d ever been, but I was horrified. Was my face so open? I’d changed here, relaxed into this new life. My constant frown had disappeared when I wasn’t pushing a finger in a doctor’s face for some answers. I’d been run ragged at the diner; here was just as hard, yet I felt better than I ever had.

  The fresh air, the deep sleep, it was…different. I missed Mom so bad my soul hurt—but each day got that little bit easier. I found myself enjoying it: the trip, the work, and what the future would bring. Sketching again—the way the pencil almost had a mind of its own—boosted me.

  While Clay studied me, I thought about the sketch I’d done of him the night before. Had I managed to catch the right curve of his mouth? Without thinking I raised my hand, wanting to brush a finger along his bottom lip, to see what it felt like, to memorize it, before I caught myself and snatched my hand back. What was I thinking!

  “See?” he said, smiling. “You just have to touch me.”

  “I do not! I was…I was…”

  “What?” Humor reflected in his eyes.

  Awkwardness shocked me silent, while I desperately tried to think of an excuse.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I paint, and sketch, and I was…” My throat closed. Now I’d gone too far and I’d have to tell him I’d drawn him last night. What if he laughed at me? He would think I was obsessed with him. Or even worse, what if he wanted to see it? “It ended up being a likeness of you…”

  “You sketched me?” He raised his eyebrows, but the mocking tone was gone from his voice.

  I blushed. “Yes, but I was trying to draw your uncle. And without much thought, I’d actually sketched you.” Urgh. “Probably, because I was picturing the farm in my mind’s eye,” I added hurriedly.

  “You’re an artist?” He sounded impressed by the notion. It was the first meaningful conversation we’d had that hadn’t dissolved into bickering.

  “No, well, I mean…” I blew out my cheeks. Why did I find it so hard to admit that’s what I wanted to be? Like I’d jinx myself if I told everyone, and it wouldn’t come true. Instead, I’d be working in a dingy diner for the rest of my life. “Yes. I’m an artist, of sorts. I’m still learning.”

  “You know, I can see that about you now.” He gazed at me, like I was a piece of art, like he was trying to appreciate it, see something in it.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, you’re different, Lucy. The things you say, the way you talk is like art. You just said, ‘It’s even prettier the way the morning mist slips around each tree in the early light. Almost like it’s shielding them.’ I haven’t known anyone who speaks like that before.”

  My jaw fell open. “How can you remember exactly what I said?”

  He colored. “I have a good memory, that’s all.”

  “What…like a photographic memory?” There was no way he could have remembered the exact wording, especially something I’d just thrown into conversation.

  “No, nothing like that. I just find it easier to remember th
ings, because I’ve needed to rely on it.” His voice tensed up so I let it drop, still amazed at his recall.

  “Your uncle’s journals are spectacular, Clay. You should see his sketches.”

  He spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “I want to see yours.”

  “It’s not finished,” I lied, chastising myself for opening my big mouth. What would he see in the sketch? My heart wide open…

  He gave my knee a pat. “Forget it. Work calls.”

  I flushed at his touch. Seeing him languidly looking at the trees, his expression soft with a type of love he had for the place, it was hard to remember the other Clay. The Clay who’d sat next to me for the last ten minutes was the one I wanted to know.

  ***

  Later that night I burst through the doors of the café. “We’re tapping Monday!” I screeched, scaring a small child, who dropped his cupcake, eyes wide in fright.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed to his mother who smiled back. “I’ll buy him another one.” Lil waved me away, and went to the display cabinet and pulled out another chocolate cupcake for the child.

  Becca was at a table and motioned me over. “You look as if you’ve gone and won the lottery!”

  If anyone knew what Clay’s story was, it was his cousin. But from what CeeCee had said, they were as thick as thieves, and it was unlikely Becca would spill the beans about him. The fact he said he had a weakness though, made him more real and I wanted to know what he was implying. We all had a weakness, some more than others, so I wasn’t sure why he held on to it.

  “If only I could win the lottery,” I said. Wouldn’t that just fix Mom’s life or at least make it a darn sight easier? “Clay says I’ve become a full-fledged farmer’s assistant, and we’re tapping the trees Monday.” I was breathless, so I sat, and plonked my backpack on the floor.

  “Gosh,” she said. “You’re the first one to stay on the farm so long. I knew it the moment I clapped eyes on you that you were the one!” Her eyes twinkled.

  “The one?” I asked.

  “The chosen one.” She did some jazz hands and the usual Becca histrionics, like she was an actress. “Let me order some gingerbread coffees and we can have a proper chitchat.”

  She ordered at the counter and then returned to the table, tossing her curls over her shoulder.

  “So,” she said, clasping her hands in front like she was praying. “I’ve been meaning to drop past and see how it’s progressed but, honestly, people come into the salon, and they get to talking and the day races away. By night-time, I’m not so eager to drive down that dark road, all those shadowy trees scare the life out of me. I’ve had to make do with Clay coming to my house for dinner and hear about all the latest goings-on at the farm.”

  “Maybe a weekend visit, then? You’ll be amazed at how much it’s changed. I’m amazed. Clay never stops working.”

  She chewed on a piece of gum so hard I thought her jaw might dislocate. “Oh, he’s always been like that. One of those people who just has to be doing something. There’s no sitting down, no relaxing for him. We’re so different! My idea of heaven is watching a chick-flick marathon, and not moving from the sofa, unless I need more chocolate. I don’t think Clay knows what rest is.”

  The street lights flicked on outside. “He said he doesn’t sleep much. I wonder why?”

  Becca raised an eyebrow and dodged the question like a pro. “Anyway,” she said. “You must come see me at the salon. Your hair is wild, though it does suit you, all tangled and bed-head like that.” She tapped a finger to her chin. “Some girls spend an age trying to achieve that look. What’s your secret?”

  “My secret? I’ll never tell.” It hadn’t dawned on me to worry about my appearance, especially working outdoors. There was no point doing my hair or my make-up only to get to the farm and have the outdoors muss it up. Plus, I was more of a lip balm and pinch-your-cheeks-rosy kind of girl.

  “Three gingerbread coffees, and three slices o’ chocolate meringue pie, with a generous helping o’ Chantilly cream, and some strawberry coulis. Don’t mind, if I do,” CeeCee cackled and sat with us, pulling a plate toward her.

  “Thanks, Cee,” I said, my belly rumbling just gawking at the piece o’ pie in front of me.

  “How’s it going there? You still lovin’ that place?” CeeCee asked, before taking a sip of coffee.

  I swallowed a mouthful of pie, the sweetness of the meringue and the rich chocolate almost making me cry out in delight. “My body aches in spots I never knew I had. But today was a good day.” I thought back to the morning, sitting by Clay on the love swing, when he was unguarded and real. “We’re getting somewhere. Tapping starts Monday, and I can’t wait, to see what happens.”

  Becca hit the table so forcefully the plates jumped in fright. “What the hell is in that pie?” she yelled. “I’ve never tasted anything so good!”

  CeeCee laughed. “You’ll get used to Becca’s dramatics.”

  Becca gave me a toothy smile. “Seriously, though,” she said between mouthfuls, “Clay’s raving about you. Reckons, with your help, he just might be able to make that place a success.”

  “Raving about me?” Somehow I couldn’t see Clay raving about anyone, or anything.

  She nodded. “Oh, yeah, he is. He was all Lucy read up on how to tap the trees and explained it all; I know we can do it. And Lucy said she’s an artist, and I want to see her work, and Lucy has this crazy laugh, like a hyena. Lucy this, Lucy that…”

  My mouth hung open so wide, I almost had to pick my jaw up off the table.

  CeeCee turned to me. “Sounds to me like someone’s been bitten by that old love bug again. Rife round here at times.” She guffawed, and hit her knee, amused at her own antics.

  I tried to cover my surprise by eating, but choked on a piece of cake. Becca jumped up and patted me hard on the back. “Sorry.” I fumbled with my napkin.

  Becca sat back down, and winked. “I think CeeCee is on to something. You’ve turned a shade of red that’s so bright I’m almost sunburnt just staring at you!”

  I took a huge gulp of the gingerbread coffee, which burned all the way down, doing my best not to snort it up my nose at what Becca had said. “No, girls.” I swallowed, tried to compose myself. “You’re wrong. So, so wrong. Clay hardly speaks to me, and when he does it often ends in a petty squabble.”

  CeeCee exchanged a look with Becca, her face crinkling into a wide smile. “Aw, now ain’t that the sweetest thing? When two people pretend that little spark of love ain’t there? Them there’s the fireworks, you see? It’s Cupid saying, here you go…celebrate!” Her voice turned wistful. “Some folk read the messages from the cherub all wrong, thinking, oh lookie here, I need to douse this fire ‘fore it spreads.” She tutted. “Love, ain’t that hard. You just gotta recognize it. And I surely do.” She looked me straight in the eye. “Do you?”

  I dropped my fork, which clattered to the floor. “No.” What was this crazy talk? My belly somersaulted so hard I hugged myself to stop the sensation.

  ***

  “So, what’s the problem? You’re starting to feel something for him, but you’re fighting it, because it doesn’t make sense? Is that what you’re saying?” Mom’s voice was heavy with confusion.

  I sighed, it wasn’t clear in my mind so how could I explain? All I knew was when I watched Clay something inside me flickered on, something I’d never felt before. “I don’t know what I’m saying!” I laughed. It was crazy. I was crazy. “He’s the most infuriating person I’ve ever met, so what the heck am I thinking? And…I really don’t know a thing about him when it comes down to it.”

  “I bet you’re painting him a lot, right?” In the background, I heard the usual blare of a TV.

  “In oils.” And they were magnificent. I had far too many canvases with Clay’s face adorning them. Michelangelo would be proud of this specimen. He put David to shame.

  It was Mom’s turn to giggle. “This is the best thing you’ve ever done. How about you send some of
those to the Van Gogh Institute? After seeing the photo of him you sent, phew…” she pretended to be hot under the collar “…they’ll choose you first thing, no questions asked.”

  “Mom! You’re saying use his looks to get me in!” And I bet it would go a long way too in their decision. But there’s no way I’d ever part with those paintings. They were too private.

  “Well why not! After all, it’s your brushstrokes that bring him to life!”

  I fell about laughing, missing Mom, but loving our conversations, it was almost as good as being with her, in fact better, because now we had something else to talk about other than my sad life in Detroit.

  Chapter Twelve

  Monday morning, I was back in the café with Lil, jittery, and not paying much attention on account of it being tapping day.

  Lil touched my arm to get my attention. “Now that the oats and honey mix is cool we can add it to our dough mixture and knead it.” I shook the maple daydreams away and tipped the contents of the bowl she passed me into our dough mix.

  Lil said, “Time to get your hands dirty.”

  We broke the mixture into two and kneaded it. We were making honey, oatmeal bread rolls for the breakfast crowd. The town was lucky to have the café, everything baked from scratch, the menu endlessly rotating.

  “So what happens next?” I grabbed a pad and pencil. I had started taking notes of the recipes we cooked together.

  Lil kneaded like an expert. Her dough was already together and smooth, whereas mine was still a globby mess. “We let it rest for an hour in a warm spot and the dough will rise and double.”

  I tried to copy Lil, the way she rolled the dough into itself with her nimble fingers. I looked almost like a surgeon with my blue latex gloves on. My hands were still a blistered, calloused mess after farmwork.

  “Then section into rolls, and bake. Easy!”

  I groaned. “I’m going to miss these coming out of the oven as well!” Most things we cooked took longer than thirty minutes or so to bake, and I’d have to head to the farm, missing them coming out of the oven warm and heavily scented.