Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

by Rebecca Raisin

  She tutted. “Long day, though. Sheesh, that boy works you too hard.” She said it with a smile and I didn’t doubt she’d already been on the phone to Clay.

  I nodded. “We were in the moment, really. It was only when we finished the fatigue caught up.”

  “How was Clay? Not too grumpy, I hope.” Becca took a sip of coffee, and gazed quizzically at me.

  “Grumpy?” I raised an eyebrow and Becca tittered. “He was good today, happy. I asked him along for pizza but he said flat-out no.”

  Becca squirmed. “He’ll get there.”

  Get where? Why wouldn’t he make friends? There was being shy, and then there was being outright hostile. Clay was somewhere in the middle. “Why does he avoid town?”

  Becca’s name was yelled out. “Sorry, that’s my pizza. How about we meet up for a proper chat soon? If I don’t catch you at the farm we can meet back here for pizza and wine, or at my place?”

  Again, his secrets stayed hidden. “Pizza and wine, a match made in heaven. Let me know when you’re free.” I waved goodbye as she tottered on high-heeled boots to grab her pizza.

  My name was called shortly after Becca’s. I took the box and trundled home. The lights were out so I crept to my room, placing the pizza on the buffet. I tried Mom’s cell phone, and got her message bank. The pizza remained uneaten as a jolt of foreboding hit me. She’d expected my call, specifically asked for it. Maybe she was tired. Or not having a good day. Though usually she’d text at least to tell me. I opened the pizza box. And then closed it. I couldn’t shake off the feeling something was wrong. I tried Aunt Margot’s number, and it rang out. Dammit! Why did that woman even have a phone when she hardly answered it!

  I sent Mom a long text and hoped by the morning I’d have a reply. I switched the light off, the thought of eating no longer appealing. What if something had happened to her? It was crazy—we’d had plenty of days we didn’t speak but I couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that settled heavy in my chest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, I dashed past the café, and told Lil I’d take a baking rain check. She rushed out with a gingerbread man cookie, and a blueberry muffin. “For the road,” she said, winking. I gave her a warm smile, and promised I’d stop by later. I was ravenous after no dinner, and bit into the muffin. My phone buzzed. Please be Mom.

  Pulling it out of my pocket, it lit up.

  “Hey, honey! Sorry I worried you. The new medication I’m on makes me ditzy, well ditzier than normal.” Her croaky laugh rang out.

  Relief coursed through me at the sound of her voice. “So you’re OK? Nothing’s happened?”

  “I’m fine, precious! Don’t worry about me! You promised you’d go off and explore, and phoning home’s only going to halt that enthusiasm. I want you to be free.”

  I walked quickly, puffing slightly as I listened. “I am free, Mom. C’mon. I worry when I don’t hear from you and you know it. You wanted me to call you and, I don’t know, I just had this awful feeling for some reason.”

  “Put it out of your mind, honey. I’m fine. I’m sleeping more, that’s all. The new meds, they’re gonna take time for me to get used to. So I don’t want you panicking if I don’t call. I’ll text, and that’ll be enough until my body sorts itself out. OK?”

  My eyes stung. I knew she’d do this eventually—try and distance herself from me so I’d forget Detroit. Forget the merry-go-round of our lives. The hardships, the humor, the health battles. I was adrift without her.

  One day, she would be gone. Is this what it would be like? This emptiness? I took some shallow breaths, grieving that day when I’d be alone in this world, without her.

  Did she make me promise to leave, so I’d make some friendships, and learn to live without her, my one true friend, and the only person I ever loved? A bleak, gray cloud of loneliness settled over me. No one would ever be able to replace her, not a friend, not a location, nothing.

  “OK…but I’m not going to stop calling or texting. If you don’t answer fine, but I’ll try again the next day.”

  “I miss you just as much, baby, trust me. I’m dreaming of you though. I’m seeing you surrounded by trees, and love and light, and I know I’ve made the right choice.”

  “Love and light?”

  She cackled. “So I’m a little mystical? I have to go, baby.” A clattering sounded down the line.

  “Where on earth are you, Mom?” I could hear people speaking, muffled, not the usual quiet of our apartment.

  “Oh that’s just the TV. Send me some more pictures, and we’ll talk later. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  As I trudged to the farm with a heavy heart, I focused on the best times I’d had with Mom. In each and every memory was her face, her smile, head thrown back, shiny white teeth flashing. The sound of her laughter, like chimes.

  I tried to shake off despondency, and live in the moment, like she’d do. It was like I was swinging between intense highs and lows. I’d never be able to shake the worry away, and being so far from Mom exacerbated it. Walking down the driveway at the farm I thought of her. She’d point out the birds, and know what species they were by their call. There was no point dragging my feet, despite the gloom I felt. Besides, I was excited to see if the maples had produced anything overnight. I wanted it to work, for Clay’s sake. When he spoke about tree tapping, he changed. He relaxed his shoulders, and unclenched his jaw.

  “Let’s go,” he said, when I stepped up onto the porch. With a nod, I followed him to the barn, and jumped into the truck, grateful for once he wasn’t a big talker.

  While the sun splintered the horizon we drove through clearing between the trees, parked, and went to inspect the sap buckets.

  “They’re full!” I said, gazing down at the clear liquid.

  If we’d put the tap in at the wrong angle, or the tree wasn’t as healthy as we’d thought, the buckets would have been empty. It was a mix of science and a little luck and we’d done the job right the very first time.

  “We better hurry,” he said. “We don’t want them to overflow.”

  We went to high five—but Clay stopped, grabbed my palm and inspected it. “Lucy, God, haven’t you been wearing the gloves? Look at your hands!”

  I snatched my arm back. Even with gloves on, after pushing in spiles the day before, my hands had copped another beating and were red raw with grazes. They didn’t seem to heal, not when the work continued each day.

  “It’s OK. Come on, let’s get the buckets emptied.” Shoot, the last thing I needed was an argument with him.

  “You can’t work like this!” He gave me a hard stare.

  “I’ll put my gloves on now. It looks worse than it is.” With my head buzzing, I’d forgotten to hide my hands. What if he said I wasn’t fit to work? I turned to walk to the trees, but he pulled me back by the shoulder.

  “I’ll empty the buckets, you drive the truck forward as we go. Will that still hurt, holding the steering wheel?”

  “Really, I’m fine, I’m used to it now. It won’t hurt to drive.”

  He grunted. “You’ve been working with your palms like that? It looks like you rubbed them on a cheese grater.”

  I smiled. “This is new.”

  He tilted his head. “What?”

  “This caring side.”

  With a kick of the ground he said ruefully, “Can’t have you reporting me to the farmer’s assistant association now can we?”

  I gave him a playful shove. “OK, it’s not called farmer’s assistant. How was I supposed to know? What am I actually called?” In light of everything, his concern warmed me. It was exactly what I needed after the strange call with Mom.

  “A farmhand.” He laughed.

  “A farmhand?” We doubled over laughing at the double meaning. “That should have been my first clue, then.”

  “Just be careful,” he said, motioning to my palms before striding off to empty the first bucket into a drum we had on the back of the truck
. “If it hurts, you let me know.”

  “I will,” I said, surprised by the care in his tone.

  Once we collected the sap, we’d begin the boil process, which turned it into thick golden syrup. The fire pits were set up behind the barn, with great big pots that looked like cauldrons. The thought of filling them with the maple liquid and stirring them while it reduced made me grin like a fool. I remembered Clay’s uncle’s ponderings about making maple syrup, and how much he loved it. A shiver of sadness went through me as I thought of him doing it all alone.

  Clay jogged from the trees, grabbing buckets and emptying them, while I idled in the truck a few feet behind him. When he ran toward a tree with his back to me, I goggle-eyed him as the world around me drifted away. That body, that fire in him, was enough to make me heavy-lidded. He was mellow, happy, like a kind of peace had found him these last few days. Whatever shadows had followed him here were slowly evaporating.

  With a bucket in his hand, he turned and faced me. We locked eyes. There was a question in his gaze, like he was trying to read me, or recognize something in my expression. My hands trembled. I wanted him to stare at me like that forever. But I wasn’t staying in Ashford. This time I was the one doing the leaving—even though a part of me wanted to stay. Would he miss me? I’d miss him, and this place.

  ***

  Clay drove the truck slowly as if we carried a newborn baby inside. He didn’t want to waste a drop of liquid that was now all safely tipped into a barrel in the bed of the truck.

  With a chain and hoist, he rigged up the barrel, and slowly poured the contents into one of the vats. He then reversed the truck to the next vat and did the same, until all the vats were full of liquid.

  “Go up and relax on the porch,” Clay said, with a half smile. “It’s too hot near the fire pits.”

  “OK.” I retreated up the steps, and fell into the swing.

  From my vantage point, it was like watching a raincloud be made. The steam from the bubbling vats mushroomed up and out, eventually dissipating as it rose in the sky.

  It took an age for the liquid to burn down into thick syrup. I sprawled out on the soft cushion, and closed my eyes, every now and then peeping one open to see Clay’s face, scrunched in concentration as he stirred the liquid in the vats and checked the temperature. His skin shone with perspiration, his muscles flexing hard, as he went from one vat to the next, the heat scorching his skin red. It was his face I focused on, despite the searing flames under the vats and the cloudy air from the fires. Clay looked happy. It was like he was meant to be here, in this place, this farm, always. Without knowing why, I had a shiver of comprehension—Clay needed this place just like the old man did. There was something here, something tenuous that calmed them, and made them whole again, despite what they’d faced. I felt it too.

  As dusk colored the sky ocher, I stretched, my body snapping back into place. Clay had left me snoozing for hours. There hadn’t been much for me to do while he stood over his syrup, like a wizard.

  The porch creaked, as Clay made his way over.

  “How’s the syrup?” I asked, brushing my mussed hair back into place.

  “It should be just about perfect.” He stared at me intensely, his gaze traveling to my hair, my mouth. Absently I touched my bottom lip, and he blinked and looked away.

  The thought of us producing a bottle soon was mind-blowing. We’d achieved so much for two people who knew nothing about maple trees when we first stepped foot onto this fertile soil.

  I followed Clay to the vats, and stood a few paces behind. He pulled on thick gloves to protect his hands from the heat. I shuffled from foot to foot, eager to see what was hiding beneath the lid.

  The vats, with their cauldron-shaped, blackened bottoms, looked like something you’d cast spells over. I silently prayed that the first batch would be a success. Clay lifted the lid, and peered inside. “Can you pass me the candy thermometer?”

  Maple syrup peaked at a certain temperature and if you left it too long or it went too high the batch would be ruined. Once the temperature was right, we would filter the syrup to remove any sugar sand that had crystalized. That had to be done while the syrup was still molten so Clay had to be cautious, and take it slowly.

  I found it by the first vat and raced it back to Clay. Our fingers brushed, and we locked eyes once more. He mumbled, “Thanks,” and dipped it in to check the temperature.

  I leaned close, and scrutinized the inside of the vat. It had reduced so much there were rings around the edges, as it had slowly evaporated to a thick syrup. The stately trees had provided for us. It was almost like we were some mystical beings with the saccharine scent of the syrup permeating the air, and the steam from the vats encircling us.

  “Well?” I couldn’t help prodding a finger into his back. “Is it ready? It looks ready.”

  “I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “It is ready. We somehow managed to make our very first batch of syrup. Now we just have to bottle it.”

  “It’s like magic.” Manna from heaven. Mom would’ve got such a kick out of watching it made. Could she even travel this far these days? Even if we had the funds somehow…which we didn’t. The thought of her never leaving Detroit again was heart-wrenching. A seasoned traveler and her last stop was a town she’d declared too gray to be pretty.

  “Lucy…” Clay said. “What’s wrong?”

  I averted my eyes. “Nothing.” How could I explain? Everything was right, and wrong, and I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t make Mom better. The yin and yang of life struck me, and I couldn’t formulate an explanation quick enough or easy enough without blubbering like a baby.

  Clay didn’t say anything, just stared at me with those hazy, deep brown eyes of his. He stepped forward and embraced me. My arms remained folded and prodded into his chest, and I held myself stiff. I had to, or I’d dissolve into messy tears. The way he’d sensed my sadness only made it worse. People cared about me here. And I guess that was beauty. Mom’s type of beauty.

  “It’s OK, Lucy,” he said with so much feeling, I held my breath. His scent, washing powder, the woods, mingled together with him, and I wanted nothing more than to stay in the safety of his arms.

  ***

  I watched Clay from the corner of my eye. He was so complex. We each knew nothing of each other’s pasts, but obviously there were layers of baggage that shaped us into who we were, and somehow the universe conspired to throw us together. I took comfort in it. And got back to the present moment. Bottling the syrup.

  We’d moved everything we needed to the barn and were ready to pour the liquid into leaf-shaped bottles.

  I fastidiously cleaned a workspace. The silver bench top sparkled so much you could eat off it, and we had to make sure nothing contaminated the syrup when we poured it.

  “If this works, then it was worth it. All the long days, the longer nights…” His voice petered out.

  “It was worth it anyway.”

  We glanced at each other, our eyes twinkling with excitement. “Ready?” I asked. The liquid had thickened, and the color was perfect, but somehow seeing it in the bottle, the way it would go out into the world, was even more thrilling.

  “You go first,” he said, motioning to the funnel.

  “No, this is your farm, the first ever bottle of maple syrup should be poured by you!” I rummaged in my pocket for the phone. “I’ll take a photo.”

  “No photos.” He went to the sink to wash his hands.

  “Why, in case I sell it to a celebrity magazine?” I cocked my head.

  “Very funny. Right, let’s get this done.”

  He placed the funnel into the first bottle and tipped the syrup in. It oozed slowly down, its amber color catching the light, as if it were real gold. Screwing the lid tight, he held it aloft and inspected it. It was as precious as a gemstone, the vibrancy of the color and the thickness of the syrup.

  “I didn’t think it would work,” he said, his voice wistful.

  We were silent,
unable to speak as we stared at the bottle like it would solve the meaning of life. It was so much more precious than an adornment for pancakes. All that love, and work, bottled, just like that.

  “Your turn.” He passed me the funnel. “Maybe we can take few photos then?” There was a playful hint to his voice.

  “Lucky me,” I teased. “OK, here goes.” My hands shook, and I laughed nervously to cover it up. Clay gave me a wide smile as I poured my first ever bottle of maple syrup.

  “Photo together?” I asked.

  He moved beside me and looped his arm around my waist and I snapped a shot.

  “There,” I said, and dropped my gaze to the floor.

  “We probably shouldn’t celebrate just yet,” Clay said. “What if it tastes terrible?”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “What if it does? No,” I said firmly. “It couldn’t look that pretty and taste ugly. Impossible.”

  Clay poured a dab of syrup on the tip of his finger and pushed it between his lips. My own lips parted in need. “Taste it.” His voice was husky.

  I stared at Clay’s full mouth. My breath hitched in my throat.

  “Don’t you want to try it?” His gaze burned into mine. The air around us hummed with a sense of urgency.

  “Yes…”

  Clay reached for my hand and poured a dot of syrup on the tip of my index finger. I lifted it to my mouth, and licked the circle of sweetness, my eyes never leaving his. The moment was charged with our silence.

  His gaze traveled to my mouth. With a low moan he said my name. All I wanted to do was touch him. I stepped forward, an invitation. With one swift movement, he cupped my face and pressed his lips against mine. The sweetness of the syrup was all there was between us. We kissed urgently, as though it would the first and last time. The intensity of it stole the breath from my lungs. When we parted his gaze burned into mine.

  “Lucy…” His voice was throaty with desire. I ran my hands over his T-shirt, wanting to feel the warmth of his body more than anything before. He grinded against me, and kissed the soft skin behind my ear, and down to my neck, making me shiver. The world around me dimmed, as my lips found Clay’s.