Vermont Valentine (Holiday Hearts #3)

by Kristin Hardy

  “Which you’d recoup over time.”

  “We talked about this before. Out of every five years you’ve got to figure you’ll have two great years, two that suck, and one that’s average. A sugar-maker who times the switch wrong can wind up going broke. That’s just being practical.”

  “Of course, you could switch over a piece at a time, like you were talking about with taps. Reduce the capital outlay.”

  He poured the coffee. “I like buckets, even if it is more work. It’s work I like.”

  “That’s being sentimental.”

  “So maybe I’m sentimental. The same as you with your truck and your gloves and your jacket. It’s important to stick with things.”

  “So when you find something you like, you stick with it?” she asked. The glance they exchanged lasted longer than it should have. Suddenly it was hard to breathe, impossible to look away.

  “When I find something I really like,” he said, “I’m sunk.”

  The late-afternoon sun shone through the windows of the sugarhouse. Jacob walked over to the wall by the holding tanks and opened the valve to let in the sap. Celie listened to the gurgle as it ran through the zigzagging partitions of the upper pan of the evaporator to a depth of just inches. The fire was already laid; it took only a match to start the flames leaping through the entire firebox.

  For long minutes, nothing happened. The first sign of progress was when the sap began to bubble in small patches here and there. Gradually, the bubbles spread until the whole pan was boiling. Jacob stoked the flames in the firebox. And the scent began to rise.

  Celie sniffed, trying to identify it. She’d expected a smell like a pancake house but there was no heavy maple odor. Instead, it smelled light, faintly sweet, almost woody. Jacob leaned over the pan and inhaled. “That’s what spring smells like,” he said, grinning. “I don’t care if it is February.”

  And Celie felt the euphoria like some sort of a contact high.

  The steam began to stream upward, flowing up through the plastic-shrouded flue to the high peak of the roof to escape into the evening sky. The boiling sap darkened like caramelizing sugar as it thickened, wending its way from the upper pan to the partitioned syrup pan that sat directly over the fire-box. At the end of the last partition lay the outflow spout where Jacob would eventually draw off the finished syrup.

  For now, it just flowed slowly, the bubbles forming on top growing larger and larger. Jacob picked up a short butter knife and plastic dish with half a cube of butter in it.

  “What are you doing?” Celie asked.

  “Watch.” He touched the end of the knife to the butter and dotted it among the bubbles. Instantly, they subsided. “It makes the syrup boil down faster.”

  “Clever.”

  “Oh, I’m a smart guy.”

  Steam swirled in the air. The door from the gift shop opened and Molly walked in, a beatific smile on her face. “Oh, I thought I smelled something.”

  “One batch of Vermont Fancy coming up,” Jacob said.

  The front door jingled and Molly looked around. “I should get back out there.” She took another deep breath and turned to walk out.

  Celie couldn’t stop marveling at the luscious scent of the sugarhouse. She’d worked side by side with sugar-makers for years and yet there was so much she’d never understood. She’d never understood this, the magic of watching hard work translate into something as tangible as a jug of syrup. There was a closed-circle completeness to it that was like nothing else she’d ever done. Her work was important, she knew that. But work of this kind made a person feel complete, connected, whole.

  She walked over to Jacob and crooked her finger to him. “Hmmm?”

  He bent down toward her and she gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, watching the steam billow up through the roof vent.

  “For what?”

  “For letting me be a part of this.”

  He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss on her mouth. “Thank you for wanting to.”

  And he walked away, leaving her dumbfounded.

  She was still riding the high into the next day as she put on her APHIS hat and inspected yet another stand of maples. Somehow it all had more purpose now. And it felt more crucial than ever.

  But she was tired and it was a relief to have the day over. Another day, another sugarbush, she thought as she headed toward her truck. After a while, they all blended together. She’d have had no sense of advancing at all except for the squares she marked off on the giant county map spread out over one wall of the conference room at the Institute. The reality was, she was making progress, if not a whole lot of friends.

  Celie glanced ahead at the edge of the access road and blinked. The passenger door of her truck stood open and someone leaned inside.

  She felt a flare of irritation as she walked up. “Want to tell me what you’re doing in my property?” she asked. The person straightened and turned.

  It was Paul Durkin.

  He squinted at her. “You’ve just been poking around my property. Turnabout’s fair play, right?” In his hands, he held her tree injector. He glanced down at it. “Nice piece of equipment.”

  It sent a chill through her. “I’m glad you think so. I’ll take that back now,” she added crisply.

  “It’s all yours,” he said, handing it to her and stepping aside.

  Celie leaned in the truck to put the injector back into its case, thanking her lucky stars that the bottles of Beetlejuice were safely locked up. When she turned around, Durkin was directly behind her.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. Take the offensive. “Can we go sit down somewhere? I want to bring you up to date with the results of the inspection.”

  He folded his arms. “We can talk here. Why? You think you found something?”

  “An infested tree, unfortunately. I’ll confirm with tests this afternoon. Right now we’ve only found one and we’re just about done. We’ll have to do some cutting, but not much.”

  “No way.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Bet me. You think I don’t have a choice, you can talk to my lawyer.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  He fished a card out of his pocket. “I phoned him last week. He’s in the process of putting through an injunction that’s going to block any tree-cutting until there’s been a court hearing.”

  “It won’t stand.”

  “Oh, I think it will.”

  “We’ve beaten them in three other states.”

  “Yeah, well, I bet they didn’t have a state forestry expert testifying on behalf of the plaintiffs, did they?”

  Dick Rumson, it had to be.

  Durkin’s tone was rich with enjoyment. “You try to take out any trees once I get that paperwork and I’ll have your ass in court so fast it’ll make your head spin. I’ll take you for everything you’ve got.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Durkin?”

  “I think you’ll need to talk to my lawyer about that. Let’s just call it a statement of intent. You want any further details, you can call him.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “I hope for your sake it doesn’t.”

  She gave him a bright, hard smile. “Not me, Mr. Durkin. The government.”

  “Not the state government. Dick Rumson’s all set to testify for me if I need.”

  She clamped down hard on her anger. “Those trees are going to come down by mid March, Mr. Durkin,” she said coolly. “If they don’t, we could have a county-wide infestation.”

  “Even if they do come down, you could still have one. Why don’t you admit that you people don’t know what you’re doing? You just make assumptions and cross your fingers.”

  “It’s working.”

  “That’s not what I heard. I heard you got another outbreak in Minnesota last year.”

  “And you’ll find it was because of some firewood that got transported from th
e infested area to another county.” She turned from him to walk around to the driver’s-side door.

  “Or one of your beetles flew farther than you thought it could.” He followed her.

  “I’ll mail you the paperwork. Those trees are going to come down.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Do you really understand what you’re taking on, here, Mr. Durkin?” she snapped, anger flaring for the first time. “I suggest you tell your lawyer to take a look at the case books and tell me if you still want to do this. I’ll give you a week before things start to get ugly.”

  “Now who’s threatening?”

  “It’s not a threat, Mr. Durkin, it’s a promise.”

  Durkin took hold of the door as she opened it and got in. “Funny thing about that injector,” he said conversationally. “It looks like it was used recently. I thought you told us you don’t have anything approved for the maple-borer program.”

  “We don’t.” Celie reached out to close the door.

  “You doing some kind of tests?” Durkin held on to it.

  Celie gave a hard tug. “Focus on your trees, Mr. Durkin, leave the rest to us.” She slammed the door and backed up.

  And Paul Durkin stood, watching her thoughtfully.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hey, there you are.”

  Celie emerged from the stall in the women’s room to see Marce washing her hands. “Hey.”

  “So do you think as much socializing goes on in the men’s room as the women’s room?” Marce asked as she dried her hands.

  “I don’t know. You tell me if you could have a serious conversation while holding on to your tallywhacker.”

  “Or an unserious conversation, for that matter.”

  “And you definitely wouldn’t want to make eye contact.” Celie laughed and squeezed out some soap.

  “God forbid. So what’s the plan for tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Celie echoed.

  “Valentine’s Day? Ever heard of it? I was thinking we could be each other’s valentine and go out for dinner and drinks in Montpelier. You know, get dressed up? Treat ourselves?”

  Celie rinsed her hands. “Sorry, I’ve got to go to Jacob’s as soon as I’m done here.”

  “Ooh, hot times with Sap Boy?”

  “Real hot. And sweaty.”

  “Oh yeah?” Marce’s eyes brightened.

  Celie grinned. “We’re running the evaporator, Marce.”

  “On Valentine’s Day? Oh come on. If he’s not going to take you out, he could at least give you the night off.”

  “Right now’s when he needs help the most,” Celie reminded her, reaching for a paper towel.

  Marce snorted. “Jacob Trask never needed anyone’s help in his life. Anyway, he owes you a night out with all you’ve been doing for him. He owes you something, anyway,” she said briskly.

  “And what exactly is he supposed to do with the sap in his holding tanks when he’s got more coming tomorrow?”

  “What am I supposed to do with the sap I’m talking to?” Marce muttered.

  “I heard that.” Celie turned for the door.

  “If I go out and get drunk and wind up flying to Vegas for a quickie wedding, it’ll be on your conscience,” Marce warned her as she walked opened the door.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Wood smoke from the evaporator streamed up into the darkening sky as Celie pulled up to the Trask sugarhouse. Her lips curved in an unconscious smile as she walked in. Here, she could leave the maple borer and Dick Rumson and the outside world behind. Here, life was simple: sap and fire, wood and syrup. It was a haven.

  It was Jacob.

  She inhaled the sweet, woody smell and relaxed. Even though it was about twenty-five degrees outside, the inside of the room felt like the tropics, thanks to the giant furnace of the evaporator. Hastily, she unzipped her parka and stripped it off. Her experience of the day before had taught her to expect warmth. She hadn’t figured on a sauna. Then again, that had been a run of a few hours; here, it had been fired up all day.

  Then, through the steam, Jacob appeared and her jaw dropped.

  She’d known men who worked out in gyms, sculpting their bodies obsessively. She’d bet money that Jacob Trask had never been near a weight machine, but he’d make every personal trainer at those fancy gyms weep. He wore only jeans and a sweat-damp Henley with the sleeves pushed up. And even through the thick waffled material, she was conscious only of the lines and masses of the body beneath. He’d shoved the cuffs of the shirt up to his elbows, unbuttoned the deep placket as far as it would go. For coolness, she imagined, trying to ignore the sight of the hard muscles of his chest and forearms. In the dim light and steam, his skin looked coppery.

  He studied her, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of one wrist. “Do you have anything on under that?”

  “Huh?” Celie blinked.

  “Do you have anything on under your sweatshirt? You stay dressed like that you’re going to die.”

  If she had to look at him standing there like that without touching him, she was going to die. “Can you open a window?” she asked faintly.

  “Sure, but it’s not going to help much with the heat.”

  “Boy, ain’t that the truth.”

  Jacob watched as she reached for the bottom of her sweatshirt. Just for a moment, he let himself imagine that she was truly undressing for him. And what would a woman like Celie wear against her skin? Black lace? Silk?

  When he saw, he smiled at himself. He should have expected the obvious: A flowered thermal undershirt, practical yet disarmingly sexy, and snug enough to show every curve. As to what she wore below that, well, it was a mystery.

  For now.

  “So how’d the day go?” She walked over to stare into the evaporator pan at the boil.

  And Jacob watched her. “Busy. How about yours?”

  “Long.” She yawned.

  “No reason you have to stick around, then.” Except that boiling sap on his own suddenly seemed like the makings of a long, dull night after the sight of her pretty little shirt with its tiny little ribbon flower gleaming at the neckline, just below the hollow of her throat.

  “I want to be here. So what did you do today?”

  “Made syrup, mostly. The sap flow’s slowed way down. We might get a few hundred gallons tomorrow, plus the couple thousand gallons we’ve got to get through tonight.”

  “Tonight?” she repeated.

  “Welcome to sugar-making. When it rains, it pours. So to speak.” He gave a brief smile. “I should finish up by two or three. Don’t worry, you don’t have to stay for all of it.”

  “I want to. It’s part of the bargain.”

  “You already look tired,” he objected.

  “I’ll drink coffee.”

  “All right.” He tried to ignore the quick flick of pleasure he felt at the prospect of her company.

  He walked to the far end of the evaporator and opened the doors of the firebox with a metal hook. Immediately behind him, the door in the wall opened out to the area where they’d stacked the firewood a couple of weeks before. The fire subdued any cold air that blew in.

  And with Celie there, it had gotten hotter than ever.

  Bubbles began to appear by the outflow spout. “Want me to take care of it?” Celie asked, lifting up the butter dish.

  “I’ll do it,” Jacob said. He was the first to admit, he was finicky about running the boils. Then again, so was every sugar-maker he knew. Making syrup was an art, learned over the course of years. It wasn’t something you could teach overnight.

  Besides, he could think of far better things to do overnight with Celie.

  She was disappointed, though, he saw. “I want to help.”

  “You will.” He picked up chunks of wood two at a time and stuffed them into the firebox, then closed the doors. “Tell you what. There’s a bag of sandwiches in the café refrigerator. If you can bring them in here along with some water, you’ll
definitely be helping.”

  “More sandwiches?”

  “This time of year, I live on them.”

  “Oh boy.” She disappeared out to the café, though, and reappeared, bag in hand. “I brought some napkins,” she said, handing him a bottle of water. “So let’s see what we’ve got here.” She dug through the bag and unwrapped one of the turkey sandwiches he’d slapped together that morning. “Who’s your caterer, Dagwood Bumstead?”

  “It’s not a beauty contest. I was in a hurry.” Jacob knocked down the bubbles and crossed to the table where she’d laid out the sandwiches on napkins. “What do we have here, a picnic?”

  “Enjoy it. It’s about as domestic as I get.”

  “Outside of breakfast?”

  “Outside of breakfast. The one meal I do well.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” he said. There was a quiet pleasure to sitting down to eat with her. It felt natural, as though they’d done it many times before.

  And then she raised a finger to mop a bit of mustard off her lip and it wasn’t a quiet pleasure at all. “You’re not stingy with the hot stuff, are you?”

  “More is more.”

  “I guess,” she said, licking her fingers. He lost long seconds as she sucked on the tips, flicked her tongue up to search out the rest of the mustard on her lip. Her eyes glimmered with fun. “Don’t you need to check your boil?” she asked him, and he realized she’d been playing him intentionally.

  “You’re bad,” he told her and rose to go to the evaporator.

  Her response was a laugh.

  And the hours slipped by. Gradually, they fell into a rhythm born of complete awareness of one another. Sometimes Jacob fed the fire, sometimes Celie. Jacob would be studying the bubbles and before he could reach for the butter cup and the knife, Celie would hand it to him. He’d be thinking the pile of firewood by the back door was getting low, and he’d discover that she’d already replenished it from the surrounding piles.

  And with each minute that passed, each hour, life became bounded more completely by the four walls of the sugarhouse, by the flow of the evaporator. Time was marked not by the clock but by Jacob’s periodic draws of finished syrup. And the sap flowed in until their world consisted of just the two of them in steam and heat, fire and the sweet, woody smell of boiling sap.