Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

by Rebecca Raisin

  To Mom, I said, “Not yet. Can you imagine how many people submit? I don’t think I stand much of a chance against people who’ve had years studying art at college.”

  She scoffed. “You had the best, darling. You had Adele all those years, teaching you one on one. Besides you’ve got a natural talent for it. I know they’ll choose you. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Well, how can I argue with that?” I laughed.

  “What have you decided about Clay?”

  I sighed. “Nothing. It is what it is, a vacation romance, complete with fireworks that will end as soon as I leave here.”

  “You never know,” she said, “what life has in store.”

  “Go on, tell me what the tarots say about us then…”

  The next afternoon, we took a break and headed into the cottage to escape the heat. After much pestering, Clay had finally agreed to listen to his uncle’s musings. “Get comfortable,” I said to Clay, flipping open the journal.

  Clay sat at the dining room table with an exasperated sigh.

  “Let’s hear what the crazy old man has to say,” he said and folded his arms.

  I glared at him.

  “What?” he said. “I mean it, let’s hear it.”

  “Clamp that mouth of yours closed then.” He mock saluted.

  I read aloud:

  All these years later I still think of her when I wake, and when I sleep. She haunts my dreams, my days, as though she’s waiting for me. Love doesn’t end when a person dies. I don’t know what happens when you leave this world, but I know we’ll meet again. Maybe we are reborn, and our paths will cross in the next life and our love story will continue. It has to. I hold on to that when the pain of losing her comes for me.

  I put a hand to my chest. “See? Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Yeah, so he missed her, I get it.” He shrugged.

  I tilted my head. “I think, between these pages, there’s a message here. Like there’s answers about love, or life, and the key to happiness. Maybe this is one of the greatest love stories of all time.”

  “I don’t think so, Lucy. The greatest love stories don’t end in tragedy.” He folded his arms, and rocked back on the chair, his face void of expression as if he wasn’t touched by his uncle’s words at all.

  “Yes they do! The best love stories are tragedies. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Stories like that teach us to love whole-heartedly, no matter what it costs, because what if it’s fleeting? Would you rather not love than to love for a little while? Real love that overshadows everything else and makes time stop, and nothing else matter?” I didn’t say it out loud, but I was clinging to the idea, because that’s how I felt about Clay, and maybe the brief time we had together would be enough to last me forever.

  “Love is too hard. And this journal proves it. Besides Romeo and Juliet, and Tristan and Isolde are fictional stories, right? This is real.”

  “Fiction comes from somewhere.” I closed the journal, running a hand along its cover. “Most people would die to find a love like he describes.”

  “Was it worth it, though? He spent the rest of his life, missing her.” How could he not get it? Clay obviously didn’t feel love as deeply.

  “Of course it was! Because he loved her with everything: his soul, his heart, his mind, his body. She was his world, so the real world faded to black. Don’t you see? He found another kind of beauty here. And he could see her here, feel her here. He wasn’t hiding, he was seeking salvation the only way he knew how.”

  “Maybe,” he conceded.

  “He loved a girl so fiercely he couldn’t function without her. He’s a hero, really. A proper real-life hero, who worshipped a woman above all else.” My tone was clipped as I tried to convince him. “And there’s more—look at these sketches.”

  The thin pencil lines were smudged, you could just made out the whorls of his fingerprints. Even gone, his mark was still here, the very essence of the man. The picture was of the lake, flowing freely, the sun shining, like it was now. The tapping over, another season upon us. As always, she was there, this time lying on a rug, hand shading her eyes. The length of her long hair fanning out behind her.

  “Do you know anything about your uncle?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re not going to be much help when it comes to solving this riddle.”

  He sighed. “Lucy, sometimes I want to strangle you. He’d dead. What does it matter?”

  “And sometimes I want to beat you over the head with a baseball bat, so we’re even. It matters because…because…” I faltered. “It’s walking in his footsteps here, making maple syrup, talking to his trees. He was someone special, and for some reason I want to find out what happened to him. I want to know he was OK in the end. He sketched so beautifully…” My voice petered out. Like me, he chronicled his days with artwork, with his sketches in the journals. His heart was right there on the page for all to see.

  Somehow it shaped my confidence as a painter; he didn’t hide from his feelings. Some of the sketches were raw, and angry, scenes—a crumpled, mangled car, a scream so loud it was like I could hear it. We were the same, kindred souls, who used our medium as a coping mechanism. Why couldn’t I share my art with the world? Those who needed it, those who recognized something in it and related, would understand, and those who didn’t, did it matter?

  It was an epiphany. The time I’d spent here had made me stronger physically but also emotionally. I’d learned so much about myself, and what I wanted and needed in order to be happy, and to fulfill my mom’s wishes for me. And to fulfill my own.

  Jessup had shown his very soul to me with his work, his musings, and there was a desperate beauty in it. It was timeless, and forever. He and the girl were gone from this world, but part of them would always remain because of his art.

  “He died here, alone. That’s what happened to him,” Clay said, flippantly.

  “I don’t understand why it means nothing to you?” Clay was so caring in one way, and so narrow-minded in another. Surely, his uncle’s life meant something? Just because he didn’t know him, did that mean he didn’t matter? It hurt to think one day Mom would be gone, and it would be like she never existed, except to me, and the space she left in my heart would be a gaping wound that no one could replace. Would I be the only one to miss her?

  ***

  We were clearing the last spot of land, ready for the Sugaring-Off Festival. To the left of the lake was a grassy patch that would be perfect for the guests.

  “Let’s start there.” Clay pointed to a clump of logs that were overgrown with weeds. “I’ll go and get the truck,” he said. “We can hoist the logs into the bed, and use the chipper later.”

  I was already using a scythe on the tall growth as he walked away. With the sun on my back, it was tempting to roll over and lie there squinting up at the bright blue sky. Instead, I moved to another section, where the weeds were taller than me. I stepped forward ready to launch the scythe and tripped over something. I brushed the long grass aside. It was a rusted-out chainsaw. Why would there be one all the way back here? I parted the weeds and came to a copse of trees.

  My breath hitched. It was like something out of a fairy tale. A tiny little cottage stood there like something out of Hansel and Gretel. How could we have missed this? I suppose these trees weren’t maples so we’d never bothered to walk this far over before.

  When Clay returned I waved him over excitedly. He jumped out of the truck and jogged over to see what I’d found.

  “What?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, Clay. There’s another cottage.” I gestured into the distance.

  “Where?” From where we stood all that was visible was the long grass, and the leafy trees. Maybe the snow had a part in shielding it from view when we’d edged close before.

  I pointed. “Behind here, follow me.”

  I pushed the grass back, and stepped into a dark clearing. And there it was. The windows were covered in a d
usty film, so I brushed it away and peered in. Pitch black inside.

  I wandered around to the front door and nudged it open.

  It was too dim to see much.

  “I’ll get the torch from the truck,” Clay said jogging away.

  Too excited to wait, I stepped into the cottage, groping the wall for a light switch but finding none. The floors creaked underfoot, as I strode around.

  Clay raced inside, the torchlight trained directly on my face, blinding me before he realized. “Oops,” he said and directed the light away, so it landed on one of the walls.

  “Shine the torch over here,” I said. With the light trained on the wall, shadows danced around the room. “Clay…look at these.”

  Paintings. Two of them. They must have been Jessup’s. Though I remembered in the journals, he said he hadn’t lifted a brush since he arrived here. The woman’s eyes were a deep dark brown, with swirls, minuscule flecks, in so many different hues, it was like reading her past…almost like a code, if only I knew the symbols.

  My heart stopped, sure I was staring at the work of a master. To see the woman brought to life in color was awe-inspiring. It was as though I knew her, knew him, from the journals, and now they were brought to life by oil paint. At that moment I so desperately hoped the Van Gogh Institute would accept me. I wanted to learn, to absorb as much as I could so I could paint like this one day. My skin prickled as I stepped closer. I knew this work from somewhere. I’d seen it before; I was sure of it.

  “Why would he hang paintings here? And not inside the cottage where he actually lived?” The space was empty, other than one lonely chair.

  “I don’t know,” Clay said. “But we can use this cottage.” His eyes lit up. “We could sell the maple syrup from here. It won’t take long for me to fit out. And I can install some lights.” He flicked the torch to the bare ceiling. “What do you think?”

  “I think these are magical.” I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the paintings.

  “They’re creepy.” Clay dismissed their exquisiteness just like that.

  My eyes went wide with surprise. “How can you say that? Look at the detail… Somehow he’s captured what they feel for each other. Can’t you see it?” It was like I could read their minds, their love poured from the canvas. This timelessness was why I painted. These two people were gone—maybe joined again in the next place, but a part of them would always be here, trapped, frozen in time on the canvas.

  “I’ll sheet those walls, and install shelves for the bottles of syrup.” He paced around, face eager with the prospect of more work.

  “What about the paintings?”

  “They’re not really my thing,” he said. “Let’s call it my gift to you.”

  All I could do was shake my head. How could he not see what I was seeing? “Are you sure you want to give them away? I don’t know, I get the feeling they’re priceless, somehow.”

  He scoffed. “Yeah, Jessup, a maple syrup farmer… I don’t think so. They’re all yours.”

  I turned back to them, wanting to take in every tiny detail. “Thanks, I might ship them home to Mom for safekeeping.” But could I part with them, even just until I got home? They were beauty personified.

  “I’m going to grab a measuring tape, and size up what I need,” he said the paintings forgotten as easily as that.

  “I’m have to catch up with the girls at Missy’s, so I might head back to the B and B early…”

  He kissed the top of my head. “I’ll drive you, and that way you can take these with you now.”

  When the paintings were safely in my room, I couldn’t help stand there agog, and stare. While Jessup’s sketches had been extraordinary, the paintings were on another level. I tried to call Adele in Paris, but got her answering machine. I left a quick message, and hoped she’d call me back soon. The room was silent, bar the beat of my heart, which hadn’t slowed to its normal pace since I’d laid eyes on the paintings. I had an overwhelming feeling my life was set to change, and I didn’t know if it was for the better or not. Was it because of the artwork in front of me?

  Chapter Nineteen

  “She’s adorable!” I softened my voice so as not to scare baby Angel, as Missy passed her swaddled daughter to me. Angel’s tiny face peeped from the white blanket. She had a small tuft of auburn hair the same color as Missy’s.

  “Why thank you, Lucy!” Missy said. “She melts my heart, but golly, she seems to be a night owl. Sleep doesn’t come easily for any of us.”

  Missy slumped back on the couch, and yawned. Not even make-up could disguise the dark circles under her eyes. I glanced back at Angel. She blinked up at me, openly curious for such a small thing.

  “She’ll get there,” CeeCee said. “Babies ain’t all the same. Some take a little longer to get themselves ‘climatized, that’s all.”

  “I hope I’m doing it right, Cee. It’s easy to sit here and worry over every little thing, sometimes. You know, at mothers’ group, all those babies sleep through the night already… The moms all rave about how easy it is, and I’m the only one who says differently. I get to wondering what I’m doing wrong.” She squeezed her eyes closed as if she was fighting off tears. I wanted to give her a great big hug, and the kind of advice CeeCee would, but I had no idea what to say to make her feel better. I’d never even cuddled a baby before today.

  “You pay no mind, to those other mothers,” CeeCee said, her voice rising. “I got half a mind to go down there and ask them why they don’t support you more! Seems to me, it’s one big competition, and that ain’t right. No baby is perfect, they just babies, so I think they’re stretching the truth sayin’ otherwise.”

  Missy gave Cee a shaky smile. “I know, Cee. But they’re all energetic, and happy. I drag myself there for Angel’s sake so she can meet other babies, and socialize like the books say you should, but I could easily stay home and sleep for a week. Maybe it’s because I’m so much older than them? Right now I feel ancient.” Missy’s eyes shone with tears. It was so hard sitting there not knowing what to do. At least we’d stock up her fridge, and freezer, and she’d be able to have an early night while we crooned to the baby.

  CeeCee waved her away. “Don’t you even think such a thing. You’re doing a great job, Missy. She’s got the colic. There ain’t much you can do but ride it out. Sleep deprivation is tougher than almost anythin’ so you doin’ just fine.”

  Missy sighed. “It’s so hard to see sometimes when my brain is foggy. I’m just so thankful I’ve got you at the salon, Becca. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise.”

  “I’ll stay as long as you need me to,” Becca said. “I’m absolutely loving it here.” I’d forgotten Becca was only staying in town while Missy was away. Ashford would be a tiny bit duller without her sunny nature.

  “At this rate,” Missy said, “I don’t think I’ll be coming back. Not for a while.”

  There was a knock at the door. “It’s only me!” Lil walked in, her tiny little belly poking from under her shirt.

  Everyone chorused hello, and Lil sat beside me on the couch and peered down at Angel. “Hello, beautiful girl, it’s your Aunt Lil.” She spoke baby language to her and pulled some hilarious faces. I found it almost impossible not to laugh. “What?” she said searching my face. “Too much?”

  “Ah…” I said, “Angel seems to like it.” The baby was gummy-smiling back at Lil.

  “Where’s Sarah?” Becca asked.

  “She’s on her way,” Missy said. “Got held up with that delectable man of hers, I’d say.”

  There were murmurs all around. Ridge apparently was quite the hunk. Sarah called him her book boyfriend come to life, but I hadn’t met him yet. He worked away, his visits to town infrequent. It gave me hope about long-distance relationships, the way Sarah raved about him.

  “Until then, how about we make a mess of Missy’s kitchen? I’m going to make some of the recipes we’ll have at the festival, so you can all tell me what you think.” Lil patted my knee.<
br />
  “Pass me my little bundle o’ joy,” CeeCee said, beaming. I handed Angel over as delicately as if she was made of glass.

  Missy piped up. “I gotta say it, I can hardly wait to taste the food you all make with maple syrup. I reckon I gained ten pounds at the Chocolate Festival, and now there’s maple syrup—a girl’s got no chance living in this town!” She guffawed, and her whole body relaxed.

  CeeCee said, “Those infamous curves of yours Missy are a touch on the skinny side. You need plenty of maple syrup to put Vol-into-Uptuous, you hear? Can’t have you sashaying around town skinny! People’ll think we ain’t feeding you right! They know we your best friends. And what’s that say about our cookin’ if you done lose too much weight?” Her body shook with her deep rumble of laughter.

  Missy slapped her leg, and hooted. “So, if I’m too skinny it will look bad for you? Well why didn’t you say? I would have eaten a helluva lot more these last few years!”

  I grinned at them. “Does that apply to me to?”

  “Well, sure!” CeeCee said. “You part of the gang now!”

  My heart was fit to burst. I’d never had friends like these.

  Lil grabbed my hand and pulled me into Missy’s kitchen. It was all pine-covered, but sassy like Missy herself, with touches of red, from vases, to sparkly chandeliers, and picture frames.

  She took two aprons out of her bag, and threw one to me. “OK, so I thought we could start off real simple, and stuff that Clay might be able to sell all year round too. So some maple sugar pecans—how does that sound?”

  “Perfect! You know, he only really has to work four months a year. Unless he makes enough maple syrup to sell all year round. I have no idea what he’ll do the rest of the time. He can’t sit still, that guy.”

  “He’ll find something to do. There’s always someone who needs a hand.” Lil smiled as she tied her apron. She reached for a cookie sheet under the bench. She knew her way around Missy’s kitchen. “Take that parchment paper and line the sheet.”

  She switched on the oven while I did as instructed. “Now spread out the pecans.”