I dropped his hand and jumped from the love swing. “I never said I wanted you to change. I’m only worried that you’ll end up like him, when there’s no goddamn reason for it!” I blinked back tears, frustration coursing through me.
“There is a good reason for it, Lucy, but it’s none of your business!”
“Of course it’s not! Nothing is my business… I am nothing to you, I guess?” My words came out in angry bursts. “You’re not emotionally available, Clay. It’s like you’re numb. Dead to the world and all who inhabit it. I wanted you to read the journals, but I won’t ask again. Surely a dead man’s memories should amount to something…”
He gave me a hard stare. “I don’t see how it means anything! He is dead, Lucy.”
I glowered at him. “Do you want to know what the journals are about?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why? What does it matter?”
“How can you be so insensitive? The old fool, or whatever you call him, left you this farm. You’re an ungrateful jerk, Clay. I bet he wouldn’t have left you anything if he knew how icy cold your heart is!”
“Oh, yeah?” His lip curled.
“Yeah! You’re selfish, and pigheaded, and…”
“Dyslexic,” he spat, his eyes blazing.
“And, rude, and stubborn!” I stopped short. “What? What did you say?”
“I’m dyslexic, Lucy! I find it hard to make sense of words. There—you happy now? Let’s dredge up everyone’s secrets and have a group hug? Would that satisfy you?” His voice was guttural with fury.
My shoulders drooped. “I didn’t know.” What else could I say? I rubbed my face. My anger ebbed away and was swiftly replaced with guilt. What had I done? I’d pushed him to this point, with something he hadn’t wanted to share. A shamefaced blush bloomed up my cheeks. I thought back to all the times we’d stared at books, and he’d ask me to read the passages. The way he committed things to memory, like he depended on remembering.
“See what dwelling on the past does, Lucy?” He yelled, his fists curling. “I lost everything, everything, because I trusted people I shouldn’t have. And I wound up here, saved by a man I didn’t know. Given a second chance, and a place where I could hole up, and forget. You go around thinking the world’s this sunny place, where people are good and wholesome, but it’s not like that, Lucy! Not in the real world.” He stalked off into the barn, cursing as he went.
That’s where he was wrong. I knew what the real world was like. I knew the depths of despair, and heartache. My heart sank, watching him storm off. I wished I hadn’t pushed him to breaking point.
In the distance the maples were a more solemn color. It was like the landscape changed with our moods as much as they invigorated us. They were attuned to us too and felt the dips and changes in our psyches.
This kind of beauty, the quiet majesty of the maples, would fix the most damaged heart. His uncle had proved that much already. But could this place fix Clay? I swung back and forth, wondering if he was too broken.
***
“Jesus mother o’ Mary! There you be! Come inside quick, I got some good news!” CeeCee hurried over, wrenching my arm.
I laughed, relieved to run into her smiling face after the tense day at the farm. Clay had ignored my attempts to talk, saying he wanted to be left alone.
“What is it?” I asked. CeeCee’s hands were quaking. She played with her apron strings, unable to stop fussing.
“God’s gone and heard our prayers. I can’t even believe it myself!” She put her hands together like she was praying, and looked to the ceiling. “Seems someone’s been real busy.” She grabbed a scrunched-up tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “This morning some folk left a pile o’ furniture—handcrafted, no less—out the back of Walt’s store. Whole town’s in a tizzy over who made it. No one’s ownin’ up to it. It’s a real-life mystery. Ain’t that the greatest thing you ever heard?”
It took me a moment to unscramble CeeCee’s words—excitement made her speak rapidly. “What?” I said, surprised. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time!”
She chuckled. “You gotta see this for yourself!” She grabbed my elbow and marched me across the street, flinging open the door of Walt’s store. One of the locals I recognized from the town meeting was by the front counter, and welcomed us in. They must have been back to taking shifts to help out.
When I saw the furniture I stopped in my tracks. Beautifully carved tables, buffets, dining room tables and chairs. I walked to the table and ran my hands over the polished surface of the wood, just like Clay had done, when I’d watched him out of sight by the barn door. I recognized the markings in the wood, and the shape of the table, octagonal. The chairs were a work of art, with grooves and patterns worked into the legs. The cushions were royal blue velvet material, the very same that he’d just re-covered the old sofas with.
“Well,” I said, a lump in my throat. “Miracles happen, don’t they?” A rash of goose bumps broke out over me.
CeeCee patted my hand. “They sure do. Whoever did it just gone and saved Walt. I wish there was a way we could say thanks.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.
“I’m sure there’s a way we can find out…” My words petered out. Instinctively I knew he wouldn’t want anyone to know it was him. The ground shifted almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t who I thought he was; he was better.
“I think,” CeeCee said, “it’ll come out soon enough. Rosaleen’s not gonna let this slide ‘til she finds out who it is. But ‘tween us, I got my suspicions.” She winked.
I hid a smile. She always knew. CeeCee had a way of reading people’s minds. “I’m sure you do, CeeCee. I’ve got mine too, but some secrets I’m not so sure need to be shared.”
“Well, then, we’re gonna have to find somethin’ else for Rosaleen to clutch on to ain’t we?” she joked, pulling me back across the road. “Let’s celebrate. How does a piece of pie sound?”
***
“The town’s buzzing, Clay. Did you know that?” We stood by the open barn door, the breeze whipping my hair backward.
“About what?” He turned away. I grabbed his arm and forced him to look at me, clamping my hands around his bicep.
“About the furniture.” I touched his chin, forcing him to look me in the eye.
He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged.
“I saw you, Clay. I know that wood was from here. What you did…it saved him.” It was hard to even think about the grieving Walt and all this friends in town who’d wrung their hands worrying how to stop the bank foreclosing. Now they were all celebrating because of an off-the-cuff comment I’d made to Clay, who’d decided to help save a man he didn’t know.
I pushed past him into the barn. In the corner sheets draped over mysterious shapes. I ripped them back, exposing dining room tables made out of oak, varnished to a shine. There were chairs to match. Small coffee tables, bookshelves. “You made all of this for Walt?” I couldn’t hide the surprise. Clay wasn’t who he portrayed; he wasn’t selfish, he was selfless. The long nights where sleep eluded him, he must have come out to the barn, and worked through till late. “These are beautiful, Clay.”
“Leave it be.”
“Why? Why can’t you just admit it was you, and it was a sweet thing to do? Why do you have to be the tough guy?”
He lifted his chin. “It’s not about being the tough guy, Lucy. You just don’t get it.”
It was hard to read his expression in the dim light of the barn. “So explain it to me?” What kind of person couldn’t understand gratitude? Why was he so messed up?
“It was nothing. I make furniture all the time. I wanted to help, that’s all. I didn’t do it for any other reason, and I don’t want anyone to know it was me. Period.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “I hope it helps. I know what it’s like to lose everything.”
I reached for him, but he brushed past. “Can we do some work?”
�
�You’re a good guy, Clay. No matter how much you try and hide it.” My heart beat that little bit faster, staring at him, and he wrestled with his response. Clay wasn’t such an enigma. He was kind and considerate, but for some reason didn’t want anyone to know it.
“Clay…”
***
While taking a different route back to the B and B, I couldn’t resist trying to catch my mom on the phone. It had been so long since I had heard her voice. No matter how old I was, I still looked to her for reassurance, especially after the conversation with Clay.
“Finally!” I said as Mom answered her phone. “I was about to send out a search party.”
She managed a small laugh. “Oh, you stop that worrying, honey. I was sleeping. I told you these new drugs are sending me straight to the land of zeds.”
“When Aunt Margot didn’t answer her phone I got worried.”
“You called her?” Mom said, concerned.
I bit my lip. I’d forgotten the cardinal rule: I was not to bother Aunt Margot. “Yeah, sorry, Mom. But you do have to understand, I’m so far away, and when I can’t get hold of either of you for days, I panic.”
Her tone softened. “OK, but try not to call her, honey. I don’t want her feeling all beleaguered. I’ll make sure I call you when I’m fresh instead.”
“Good.”
“So how’s farm life? And that gorgeous hunk of a guy?”
I laughed, continued walking through the woods and filled Mom in on what had happened since we last spoke, including all the details about Clay, and his desire to be alone on the farm.
Chapter Sixteen
Mid-April rolled around and with it the end of the tapping season. We were busy with plans for the Sugaring-Off Festival, which Clay had grudgingly agreed to, knowing he needed the visibility the festival would bring otherwise it’d be a long and frugal year for him.
We’d cleared the land by the lake, and mowed the lush green grass, which seemed to grow overnight now that the weather had warmed. Daisies grew wild and free in bright yellow bunches, and bees buzzed gaily around them, making me yearn to make honey. How hard could it be, I could picture Clay dressed in beekeepers’ garb, pilfering the sweet nectar they made. Maybe one day, he could do it. I made a mental note to tell him.
I’d left the barn, where I’d been sorting a string of tangled fairy lights, and headed to the porch for my water bottle. Clay wandered over.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a five-minute break, boss. You?”
He stroked back my hair. “Why don’t you take today off? I’m going to fix up the old applecart, give it a lick of paint.”
“A day off? Did you bang your head this morning?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.
He gave me a lopsided grin. “You’ve worked hard, Lucy. Harder than I ever imagined.”
I rested my head against his shoulder. “Well, you won’t hear me argue,” I said. “I’m might go sit by the lake, and soak up the sunshine.”
Clay stood, and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. It was something so simple, but it spoke volumes to me. It was loving, unlike the passionate clinches that sometimes overcame us.
I went into the cottage and found my backpack, hefted it onto my shoulder, and trekked to the lake at the back of the farm. The water was flowing freely, its gentle waves lapping against the embankment. I found a shady patch of grass to sit on and took my sketch pad from my bag.
I sketched the maples, their long languid trunks, their marks and scars. Each tree unique as a fingerprint, the names Jessup gave them easy to recollect after spending so much time with them. I drew an elderly couple, legs entwined, hair splayed out, as they embraced under the leafy canopy.
Twigs snapped, and I turned to the sound. Clay. I bristled.
It was too late to cover the sketch; he’d seen it already. I closed the book anyway, and squinted up at him, half annoyed he didn’t warn me of his approach, and hoping he wouldn’t mention the picture. He’d know it was us I had recreated. But it was the us of the future. If he’d looked long enough he would have seen the gnarly, arthritic hands of age—the seventy-year-old Clay. And the elderly me, beside him, trapped for eternity on the parchment. Did it mean I wanted to grow old with him?
“Finally,” he said crouching next to me. “I get to see a masterpiece.”
He prized the book from my hands, my protests falling on deaf ears, but left it closed. A ray of sun shone, landing in a soft shard on the sketchbook in his hands. It sparkled under the light, and I thought of my mom, and her love of signs from the universe… What if he liked what he saw? What if he didn’t? Did it matter? I knew him well enough now to know he’d be supportive, that under all that gruffness Clay was more genuine than almost anyone.
“Why are you so scared, Lucy?” His gaze burned into mine. “About showing your art to anyone?”
I stiffened. “It’s private.”
“But why?” he probed. “Come on, you’ve grilled me. Answer me this one thing.”
I swallowed back my fear. “Because it’s the only thing I can control. It’s the only thing in my life where I get to decide its fate. And I don’t want to fail at the one thing that’s mine.” How could I tell him…with my mom, I had no say, I had pleaded with the gods, all of them, to spare her. I’d prayed, and bawled, and begged, and she continued to deteriorate. She would leave soon; I felt it like a whisper on the wind. And I would have no one. Who would I be without her? How could fate be so cruel as to try to take away a woman so vital? My art was like a friend,—that shadow who was always there for me, a way to help deal with the pain. And if I failed at that, I would be alone. But how to say all this without Clay reassuring me it would all be OK. Because I didn’t want reassurances. They were just hollow words.
“And you think me seeing a picture will somehow hurt you? I would never hurt you, Lucy. Ever.” His voice was husky with emotion.
“But how can you know that, Clay? None of us know what’s going to happen. We can make promises, but that doesn’t guarantee things won’t change. Life is fickle…love, health, happiness, it can all change in an instant.”
“Do you see what you’re doing, Lucy? Because life can change, you don’t really live it. You hover on the outside looking in, trying to protect yourself from future hurt that may never happen! You say I hide, but you hide too.”
My mouth hung open with surprise. “I don’t hide, Clay. I’m here, aren’t I? In a strange place a million miles away from home—”
“Stop,” he said, twisting his mouth in frustration. “Don’t sit there and give me the same old lines you use to convince yourself. I want to see your work. I want to know why you take such pains to keep it secret, and then volley a bunch of words to hide behind.”
“Fine,” I lifted my chin. “Be my guest,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry.
Clay knelt down, and leaned his face close to mine, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m not going to judge you, Lucy. I get that this is your secret. The thing you turn to when you need to make sense of the world. But I want to see it. It will be like looking through your eyes, seeing life the way you do.”
My heart hammered. He knew exactly what my art meant to me. “That’s the part I like to keep to myself, Clay. What if we look at the world differently?”
I’d painted us in the future, for crying out loud. Something a love-struck teenager would do. I wanted to kick myself for making it so obvious.
“So what if we do? I know you better than you think.” He gave me such a heart-wrenching look, like he missed me, like I was gone from here already.
His face was inches from mine, his breath on my lips, I could almost taste him. “You don’t know anything about me, Clay. And I don’t know much about you.”
“What do you want to know, Lucy?” For the first time, he looked open, interested, and not held so tight by his own past.
I wanted more. I wanted to know everything about him—what he liked, what he loathed, what made him unable to sleep, w
hat he’d lost that made him hide here.
“Have you ever been in love before?” I’d meant to ask about his past, but the words tumbled out before I had a chance to stop them.
“And that, I am not prepared to talk about,” he said.
“Of course not,” I sighed.
He sat on the shady patch of grass next to me and flicked open the sketchbook. My spine hardened.
Instead, I thought of us. I was leaving; none of this mattered. What I had here was nothing more substantial than the wind. Clay was all bluster, and when it came time to get to know him, he flicked the switch, and avoided it. And begrudgingly, I kind of understood. We both had parts of us we didn’t want to share. There was no point knocking down the invisible wall that stood between us.
“This is us?” He pointed.
I mumbled, “Yes it is.”
He didn’t say anything, just held it closer and surveyed it like he was looking for clues. “When we’re old.” He said it so wistfully, with so much hope, I turned to him. A smile lit up his face. “I love it, Lucy. I really, really love it. Sometimes, you know love when you see it.”
“And you see it there?”
“I see it on their faces, in the way they hold each other.”
We fell against each other, and I heard his breathing quicken. His gaze burned into me, and I thought if I never felt like this again my life would pale.
***
Our legs were tangled in sheets, as Clay ran a finger along my back. “So the institute, it’s a six-month course?”
“Mhmm,” I mumbled sleepily.
The fan spun overhead, making shadows dance around the room. “You should apply. They’d accept you, I’d bet on it.”
I stiffened in his arms. Did he want me to leave? I tried to mask the hurt I felt. “Whether I apply or not, I’m leaving here after the festival. You’ll get all the time in the world to be alone.”
“I didn’t mean that, Lucy.” He clenched his jaw.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I said, trying to make my voice light. I rolled from bed, dragging the sheet with me. He’d said the very first time we’d met he didn’t want a girlfriend, said it on a number of occasions, that he wasn’t ready for that after whatever the hell had happened to him. It stung though, that feeling of rejection. I hadn’t been searching for love either, but had stumbled on it, and I couldn’t tell anyone. Again, another goodbye was going to darken my days.
Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm Page 17
