I didn’t think it would end like this. My stay in Ashford. I mustered a fake smile, and said, “I’m going for a quick walk, and then I better get things packed up.”
“Want some company? Lil asked.
“It’s OK,” I said, pointing to her glass. “You enjoy your drink, I won’t be long.”
The partygoers had left with full bellies, and big smiles after the festivities. The laughter and music had been replaced with quiet—the sudden halt of music and chatter—that somehow gave me a headache.
I wanted one last wander through the maples, while the light was still good.
Once I got to the clearing between the trees, I craned my neck up to the bright blue above. The sky was awash with maple leaves. Shades of red and orange, daubs of yellow. The leaves fluttered in the wind, like they were waving. I slowly inched around the maples, touching each trunk like I’d done before when I warned them about the tapping season. Now though, I said their names and whispered goodbye. The marks from the spiles were healing. It would take time, but they’d be forever changed. Like childbirth, the indelible scars, the wounds, amounting to something special, a marker that you were now greater than yourself. That’s what the maples had.
I thought of Jessup. And the two lives he led, beautiful in its own poignant way. He’d had the kind of love that some people only dream about. And while it ended too soon, she remained in his heart for the rest of his days. He felt her presence, her soul close by, helping him heal, urging him to live on without her.
I’d come so far in the time I’d been here. I’d learned to relax, and laugh. I’d learned what a mother’s love is capable of. And I had also learned what true, once-in-a-lifetime love felt like, even though I’d lost it. It wouldn’t fade—I was now certain—that grip he had on my heart.
The lake glistened under the sunlight, making me squint. I crouched down and ran my fingers through the cool water, as though it was holy, and would heal me.
The sound of a car rumbled in the distance. The front gate creaked open. It didn’t sound like Clay’s truck crunching down the graveled driveway but I stood quickly, drying my hands, on the swell of my skirt.
A cloud of dust rose up around the car as it made its way to us. A small silver sedan, with an unfamiliar license plate. The car crawled to a stop, and out jumped Clay, dwarfing the car with his big solid frame.
He walked straight to Walt and shook his hand, mumbling a few words. I stood frozen to the spot, not knowing what to do.
The girls exchanged glances, and then made a show of looking the other way, as Clay made his way to me.
We stood inches apart. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I couldn’t gauge his mood. “I’m so sorry, Lucy,” he said, causing my heart to skip a beat. “I had to go.”
I gave him the ghost of a smile. “I know.”
He nodded. “I should’ve let you explain properly. It was almost like déjà vu - I thought it was happening all over again.”
Reaching for my hands, he entwined his fingers through mine. “But that didn’t give me the right to leave you like that. Especially with the festival. I went to my mom’s house, in a fit of pique, to find out the truth. And then my return flight was delayed, so I had to hire a car to get back. A disaster, really. I’ve been trying to call your cell phone all day.”
I’d forgotten about my cell! It lay on the porch, cast aside. “What did your mom say?”
He took a deep steadying breath. “That Jessup never got over losing his wife, Claire. Nothing mattered to him after that. And I can understand him in a way I couldn’t before.”
“Why now? Because of the paintings?” I asked.
“No, Lucy. Not because of them. Because of you. The thought of you leaving rips me up inside, and even more now that I know you’ve struggled with your life, that things haven’t been easy for you. How am I supposed to live without you? You’ve changed my whole life, Lucy, and without you, I’ll be lost.”
I closed my eyes, and let his words sink in.
“I love you, Lucy.”
My eyes flicked open. It was everything and more than I’d hoped for. “I love you too,” I said quietly. He turned and led me back to the maples only stopping when we got to our usual spot. “Do you have to leave?” he asked. “I want you to stay.”
I ran a finger along his jawline, over the soft flesh of his lips. Thinking how lucky I was to have someone like Clay love me. “I have to go… I found out this morning I was accepted into the institute.” In the hubbub, I’d merely tossed the letter aside, and planned to obsess over it later.
“So you’re really leaving?” He cast his eyes downward.
I swallowed a lump in my throat, at the thought of being away from him even for just one day. Not being able to caress his bare chest when we lay in bed, the warmth of his body pressed up against mine. The flush of pleasure as he called out my name, gripping my hands above my head. And the long nights, under the stars, where we just held each other. How could I go on without that?
“I’m really leaving,” I said, while my mind screamed no.
He let out a guttural moan, and bent to kiss me, desire flooding me. When we broke apart, his eyes glittered.
“Why don’t you come with me, Clay? We’ve just about sold out of syrup, and the next tapping season is six months away. Come away with me.” My voice had a pleading note to it I couldn’t disguise.
“Leave the farm?” Clay’s face broke into a wide, sexy grin. “I thought you’d never ask. Meet me under the Eiffel Tower on Tuesday?”
I laughed. “Why Tuesday?”
“I’ve got to go pick up my truck, and work out what to do with the paintings.”
I looped my hands around his waist. “Hide them,” I said, solemnly. “Jessup didn’t want the world to have those pictures. They were private. His secret. They were an old man’s love story. One of the greatest loves stories of all time.”
“Hide them?” Clay repeated. “But the money, I was going to…”
“Shh,” I said, putting a finger to his lips. “I don’t want the money, and I don’t need it.”
“I never thought I’d find real love, Lucy. I was so opposed to letting anyone in ever again, and then you walked up that driveway in the middle of winter, that determined glint in your eye, and I knew it, the moment I laid eyes on you, that my life was going to change.” He smiled almost shyly. “I didn’t know love could feel like this.”
I blushed hearing the words. “My whole life has been one big race against time, Clay. And I want it to slow right down, so we can enjoy every moment we have together. I can’t wait to explore Paris with you by my side.” I wouldn’t lose Clay—another person wouldn’t walk out of my life. Instead this time they’d walk right beside to me. “I wasn’t expecting to find love under the maples.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Me too.”
He bit down on his lip, a gesture that made me want to ravish him. “Me and you, in Paris for Christmas?” he asked.
“Me and you forever,” I said, and stood up on tiptoes to kiss him properly.
If you loved Secrets at Maple Syrup Farm then turn the page for an EXCLUSIVE extract from Rebecca Raisin’s brand new romance:
The Little Bookshop on the Seine
Coming October 2015
Chapter One
With a heavy heart I placed the sign in the display window.
All books 50% off.
If things didn’t pick up soon, it would read Closing down sale. The thought alone was enough to make me shiver. The fall sky was awash with purples and smudges of orange, as I stepped outside to survey the window from the sidewalk.
Star-shaped leaves crunched underfoot. I forced myself to smile. A sale wouldn’t hurt, and maybe it’d take the bookshop figures from the red, into the black, which I so desperately needed. My rent had been raised. The owner of the building, a sharp-featured, silver-tongued, forty-something man, had put the pressure on me lately to pay more, to declutter the shop,
claiming the haphazard stacks of books were a fire risk. His sudden hostility was a mystery to me. I’d been renting his property for years without any fuss and the additional rent stretched the budget to breaking point.
The phone shrilled, and a grin split my face. It could only be Ridge at this time of the morning. The hero in my own real-life love story, who was due back from Canada the next day. It had been three weeks since I’d seen him, and I ached for him in a way that made me blush.
Dashing inside, I answered the phone, breathlessly. “The Bookshop on the Corner.”
“That’s the voice I know and love,” he said in his rich, husky tone. My heart fluttered, picturing him at the end of the line, his jet-black hair, and flirty blue eyes. He simply had to flick me a look loaded with suggestion, and I’d be jelly-legged, and lovestuck.
“What are you wearing?” he said.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I held back a laugh, eager to drag it out. So far our relationship had been more long distance than anticipated, as he flew around the world reporting on location. I hadn’t expected our stints apart would leave such an ache in my heart, a numbness to my days. Luckily I had my books, and a sweeping romance or two helped keep the loneliness at bay.
“Tell me or I’ll be forced to Skype you and see for myself.”
Glancing down at my outfit, I grimaced: black tights, a black pencil skirt, and a pilled blue knit sweater, all as old as the hills of Ashford. Not exactly the type of answer Ridge was waiting for, or the way I wanted him to picture me, after so many weeks apart. “Those stockings you like, and…”
His voice returned with a growl. “Those stockings? With the little suspenders?”
I sat back into the chair behind the counter, fussing with my bangs. “The very same.”
He groaned. “You’re killing me. Take a photo…”
“There’s no need. If you’re good, I’ll wear the red ones tomorrow night.” I grinned wickedly. Our reunions were always passionate affairs; he was a very hands-on type of guy. When he was home we didn’t surface until one of us had to go to work. Loving Ridge had been a revelation for me, especially in the bedroom, where he took things achingly slow, drawing out every second. I was flush with desire for him.
There was a muffled voice and the sound of phones ringing. Ridge mumbled to someone before saying, “About tomorrow…” He petered out, regret in each word.
I closed my eyes. “You’re not coming, are you?” I tried not to sigh, but it spilled out regardless. The lure of a bigger, better story was too much for him to resist, and lately, the gaps between our visits grew wider. I understood his work was important, but selfishly, I wanted him all to myself. A permanent fixture in the small town I lived in.
He tutted. “I’m sorry, baby. There’s a story breaking in Indonesia, and I have to go. It’ll only be for a week or two, and then I’ll take some time off.”
Outside, leaves fluttered slowly from the oak tree, swaying softly, until they fell to the ground. I didn’t want to be the nagging girlfriend, but Ridge had said the very same thing the last three times he’d canceled a visit. But inevitably someone would call, and ask Ridge to head to the next location, and his time off would be cut short.
“I understand,” I said, trying to keep my voice bright. Sometimes I felt like I played a never-ending waiting game. Would it always be like this? “Just so you know, I have a very hot date this afternoon.”
He gasped. “You better be talking about a fictional date.” His tone was playful, but underneath there was a touch of jealousy to it. Maybe it was just as hard on him, being apart.
“One very hot book boyfriend…though, not as delectable as my real boyfriend—but a stand-in, until he returns.”
“Well, he better not keep you up half the night, or he’ll have me to answer to,” he faux threatened, and then said more seriously, “Things will slow down, Sarah. I want to be with you so much my soul hurts. But right now, while I’m freelance, I have to take whatever comes my way.”
“I know. I just feel so despondent sometimes. Like someone’s hit pause, and I’m frozen on the spot.” I bit my lip, trying to work out how to explain it. “It’s not just missing you—I do understand about your job—it’s…everything. The bookshop sales dwindling, the rent jacked up, everyone going on about their business, while I’m still the same old Sarah.” I’d been at this very crossroad when I’d met Ridge, and he’d swept me off my feet, like the ultimate romance hero. For a while that had been enough. After all, wasn’t love always the answer?
“You’ve had a rough few weeks. That’s all. I’ll be back soon, and I’m sure there’s something I can do to make you forget everything…”
My belly flip-flopped at the thought. He would make me forget everything that was outside that bedroom door, but then he’d leave and it would all tumble back.
What exactly was I searching for? My friends were getting married and having babies. Buying houses and redecorating. My life had stalled. I was an introvert, happiest hiding behind the covers of my books, reading romances to while the day away, between serving the odd customer or two, yet, lately it hadn’t been enough. I’d tried to pretend that everything was normal, and I was just in a rut…but it wasn’t working.
It was too hazy a notion of what I was trying to say, even to me. Instead of lumping Ridge with it, I changed tack. “I hope you know, you’re not leaving the house when you get home. Phones will be switched to silent, computers forgotten, and the only time we’re getting out of bed is when I need sustenance.”
“How about I sort out the sustenance?” he said, his voice heavy with desire. “And then we’ll never have to leave.”
“Promises, promises,” I said, my breath hitching. I hoped this flash of longing, this heady desire, would never wane.
“I have to go, baby. I’ll call you tonight…or tomorrow.”
“Tonight! Otherwise, I can’t guarantee the book boyfriend won’t steal your girlfriend. He’s pretty hot, I’ll have you know.”
“Why am I jealous of a fictional character?” He laughed, a low, sexy sound. “OK, tonight, but it’ll be late. Love you.” He rang off, leaving me dazed and sad that I wouldn’t see him the next day as planned.
I tried to shake the image of Ridge from my mind. If anyone walked in, they’d see my flushed face, and know exactly what I was thinking. Damn the man for being so attractive, and so effortlessly sexy. Ridge was like a model, and I was more of a shy wallflower type. How we’d ended up together was a mystery I still mulled over, every now and then.
Shortly, the sleepy town of Ashford would wake. Roller shutters would retreat upward, locals would amble down the road, some would step into the bookshop and out of the cold, and while some time away cupping a mug of steaming hot tea, and reading in any one of the cozy nooks around the labyrinth-like shop.
I loved having a place for customers to languish. Comfort was key, and if you had a good book and a hot drink, what else could you possibly need to make your day any brighter?
Wandering around the shop, feather duster in hand, I tickled it over covers, waking them from slumber. I’m sure as soon as my back was turned, the books stretched, and winked at one another.
Imagine if I had to close up for good, like so many others had in recent times. It pained me to think people were missing out on the real-life bookshop experience. Wasn’t it infinitely better when you could step into a dimly lit space, and eke your way around searching for the right novel? You could run a fingertip along the spines, smell that glorious old book scent, flick them open, and unbend a dog-eared page. Read someone else’s notes in the margin, or a highlighted passage, and see why that sentence or metaphor had dazzled the previous owner.
Second-hand books had so much life in them. They’d lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. They’d been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack, and taken high up a mountain where the air thinned.
Some had been held aloft tepid rose-scented baths,
and thickened and warped with moisture. Others had child-like scrawls on the acknowledgement page, little fingers looking for a blank space to leave their mark.
I loved them all.
And I found it hard to part with them. Though years of book selling had steeled me. I had to let them go, and each time made a fervent wish they’d be read well, and often.
Missy, my best friend, said I was completely cuckoo, and that I spent too much time alone in my shadowy shop, because I believed my books communicated with me. A soft sigh here, as they stretched their bindings when dawn broke, or a hum, as they anticipated a customer hovering close who might run a hand along their cover, tempting them to flutter their pages hello. Books were fussy when it came to their owners, and gave off a type of sound, an almost imperceptible whirr, when the right person was near. Most people weren’t aware that books chose us, at the time when we needed them most.
Outside the breeze picked up, gathering the leaves in a swirl and blowing them down the street like waves. Rubbing my hands for warmth, I trundled into the reading room, and added some wood to the fire, barely managing to resist the urge to flop into a high-back chair, and pull one of the books from the shelves in the small, warm room.
The double-stacked books in the reading room weren’t for sale, but could be thumbed and enjoyed by anyone who wished. They were my favorites, the ones I couldn’t part with. I’d been gifted a huge range from a man whose wife had passed on, a woman who was so like me with her bookish foibles, that it was almost like she was still here. Her collection—an essential part of her life—lived on, long after she’d gone. I’d treasure them always.
Wandering back to the front of the shop, the street was coming alive. Owners milled in front of shops, chatting to early-bird customers, or lugging out A-frame signs, advertising their wares. Lil, my friend from the Gingerbread Café, waved over at me. Her heavily pregnant belly made me smile. I pulled open the front door, a gust of wind blowing my hair back, and fluttering the pages of the books.
“You take it easy!” I shouted. Lil was due any day now, but insisted on working. Times were tough for all of us, so Lil had to work, but claimed instead she wanted to spruce things up before she left. Nesting, her best friend and only employee CeeCee called it.
Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm Page 25
