Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (11 page)

I trudged up the driveway, ready to face another day with Mr. Gruff. My hands ached from the damage, but the pain in my back and my legs was a touch better after the long walk from town. It would take some getting used to, the sheer amount of physical work, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

I stumbled up the porch, and rapped on the front door loud enough to wake the dead so we didn’t have any more misunderstandings. Clay appeared, dressed, and firmly in place was his granite-faced expression. That attitude. Honestly, he’d definitely never get crow’s feet; he didn’t smile enough to wrinkle.

“And good morning to you too,” I said, sarcasm evident. “You do a nice imitation of resting bitch face, Clay. Takes some practice, so you’ve gone and managed to nail it. Well done.”

With an eye roll, he moved to the side, so I pushed past him, and went into the living room to warm up by the fire. Problem was, being covered from head to toe in plastic did have its disadvantages at times like this. I wanted to be warm, but I didn’t want to melt—it was a very fine line.

“Do you always insult people like that?” he finally managed.

I put a hand to my chest, and feigned surprise. “Me?”

“You.”

“I was merely stating a fact.” I smiled sweetly. “So what’s the plan today?” I was all for following Clay’s lead but I liked to be organized, and when you worked with someone who spoke in monosyllabic bursts, it was hard to know what the day would bring.

“The plan is work. That’s all you need to know.” He ran a hand through the dirty blonde of his hair. And managed to do the hot guy scowl that he’d probably perfected since he was a teen. I could see girls falling for that damn bad attitude, wanting to get the cold steel of his heart, but not me. He was so gruff he was almost a billy goat.

My plastic garb was becoming uncomfortably warm, and shrinking against the back of my legs. I took a step forward just as Clay did and we bumped into each other with an
oomph
.

“That old trick, Lucy?” He cocked his cocky head. “How many times can one girl
accidentally
—” he made air quotes “—bump into me before it becomes obvious?”

I gasped. “I think you’re the one with spatial issues, Clay.” I glared at him. “I haven’t forgotten the old creep up behind me like a serial killer thing! Are you
trying
to intimidate me? Because it isn’t working.” How did we get to this point so quickly? He had a way of making me speak up and say things I normally wouldn’t. I’d given myself a stern talking-to about swallowing back retorts. I had to keep this job, but sometimes it seemed impossible.
He
was impossible.

He blew out a minty breath. “Can we actually work? Or are you going to spend the day crashing into me to get out of doing anything?” With his hands on his hips, he wrinkled his brow, as if I was the one holding up the day’s progress, when it was in actual fact him.

“You’re such a jerk,” I said under my breath, though he was standing close enough to hear it.

“It’s been said before.” He turned and picked up some kind of ginormous hammer. “Time to rip up the floor in my bedroom.”

I followed his muscled frame to the back of the cottage, wishing my heartbeat hadn’t sped up on account of watching the way he strode, the denim of his jeans fighting against his body. If he wasn’t so unlikeable I’d probably have appreciated the fine sight in front of me but I had a certain standard when it came to men, and bad-attitude, bad boys were not on the list. That kind of guy could only spell trouble, and I didn’t need drama.

“What are you doing?” He turned, giving me a hard stare.

Bewildered, I said, “Umm, helping you?”

“Is the fence line finished?” The ivy. I’d been going back and forth between jobs, and still the ivy clung to the posts in places. The thought of heading outside in the icy winds was enough to make my stomach drop. But I’d said I’d work as hard as anyone else.

“Right,” I said with forced cheer. “I’ll be back.”

I zipped up my jacket, and spun to leave. As I stepped from the porch, snow drifted down like confetti, and despite the cold, the vista ahead was truly breathtaking. I sized up squares of the view, committing each nuance to memory so I could paint it later. The way the maples in the distance stood earnestly, dappled with white flakes, the wind blowing through them, like a whisper. I’d never felt so attuned to any place before…almost like I’d been here in another life. My mom would have a field day with that line of thought.

When I reached the fence posts that were still ivy-covered, much to my surprise, there was a pair of thick gloves, and a thermos that was hot to the touch. Glancing over my shoulder, I half expected Clay to be watching me from the cottage. He wasn’t. But a small part of me softened toward him a little. He must’ve seen the damage to my hands that I’d taken pains to hide. Perhaps that stone-cold heart of his had a little warmth to it after all?

Pulling on the gloves, I bent and set to work, determined to get the posts free of ivy as quickly as possible—though, the ivy was beautiful to me. The green foliage, with its white maze-like veins, each leaf a small miracle, a thing of beauty. Maybe Clay wanted to fireproof the edge of the property by removing anything that when dry was combustible come summertime, but to me, ripping out these leaves hurt. I was killing something of value, no matter whether he thought of it as a weed or not. My mother had ingrained into me the mantra to live and let live, so destroying something as pretty as ivy hurt a little.

***

After hours outside, the cold settled into my fingers, despite the gloves, and my stiff hands seized. With great difficulty, I twisted the thermos open and took a swig of sweet milky coffee. I teetered, wondering whether to go inside, or continue on. My nose was numb, and my ears not faring much better.

Surely Clay wouldn’t expect me to stay outdoors all day in a blizzard. I trudged back to the cottage, taking the handful of tools with me.

Clay was in a bedroom, which was clear of any furniture. He was swinging an oversized hammer bringing it back to the floor with a momentous
thwoar
, the boards breaking and flying into the air, like a shriek.

I stood back and watched him heft the weight of the hammer, beads of perspiration edging his brow line.

After a few minutes, and a huge stack of broken floorboards, he stopped and noticed me hovering. “You get it done?”

He took his sweater off, and wiped his face with it, that body of his, encased in a tight tank top again. “There’s still more, it’s just…I needed to warm up for a bit. Thanks for the gloves, and the coffee.”

He ignored me, and held out the hammer. I looked at it, and then him.

“Well?” he said.

I blinked. “You want me to try?”

“Be careful. The sledgehammer might be too big for you.”

I scoffed. “Why, because I’m a girl?”

He tutted and went to the window, wrenching it open. Dust from the floorboards swirled, making the room cloudy. “Because it’s
heavy
.”

I tried to heft it over my shoulder like Clay had done but I only got as far as my waist. I tried once more, determined to get it into the air and back to the floor with a force that would shake his insides, but it was impossible. “It’s too heavy,” I conceded. With the stiffness of my hands, and the blisters, I couldn’t get a strong enough grip on it.

“Go grab the broom and start picking up the debris.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” I gave him a mock salute, trying to get him to at least smile, and went to find the broom and a bag big enough for rubbish.

When I returned Clay was swinging the hammer like a man possessed. His hair flew up from his face with each heave, and every single muscle in his arms flexed and rippled. Muscles like that had never appealed to me before, but with Clay, it was all hard-working, well-earned brawn and if I forgot about his personality, I had admit to feeling a trifle electrified watching him.

“Clean by the window,” he said. “And then I’ll smash out the section by the door, and we’re done.”

I swept the broken shards of wood into a corner before bagging it all up. Once again, I was covered in a thick layer of dust that had probably been living under the floorboards for a century or so.

Clay balanced on wooden beams that had held the floorboards in place. Underneath you could see earth. The house was so old there’d been no slab, just thick floorboards to protect it from the elements. He gave me a lopsided grin as he wobbled and then regained his balance.

I picked up the rubbish bag, and stood in the hallway as Clay tackled the last bit of flooring by the doorway. A few more sexual-sounding moans escaped his mouth as he worked, so I forced myself to look at the patch he was smashing to oblivion rather than directly at him.

“Clay, wait!” I yelled, pointing. There was a metal chest just visible under the last of the flooring he was about to hit. “It looks like a treasure chest! What do you think’s inside?”

Annoyance at my interruption flashed in his eyes. “No idea.”

“Well pick it up.”

“Who cares, let’s keep going.”

“What? You’re not going to leave it there, are you?”

He shrugged. Not even an ounce of curiosity in him.

“I’ll pick it up.” I jumped down to the hard ground, and bent to inspect the chest.

Whoever had buried it had obviously done so for a very good reason. It could be Clay’s uncle’s, or someone from even further back. My fingers tingled to open it and see what secrets we’d find.

“It’s light.” With one quick movement I lifted it, and placed it by the door, the only space that still had enough flooring to rest it on. With as much grace as I could muster, I swung a knee up and groveled on the floor, until I was teetering. Clay grabbed my elbow, and helped me stand. “Thanks,” I said.

I pulled my coat tighter, cold from the air melding through the open window and the chill from the exposed ground. “Well, are you going to open it?” The chest was tarnished with age, and I wondered what kind of mystery it contained.

“Why? It’s probably just full of junk like everything that’s scattered around the farm.”

“What if it’s not? I can’t see someone hiding a chest here if it was only junk.” Secreting a box under floorboards screamed desperation to me. Whoever hid it there didn’t want anyone to find it. Clay turned his back to me and threw the hammer down on the rotted floorboards once more. I waited for him to swing it safely back up before I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Clay, aren’t you intrigued?” What if it contained something pertaining to the farm? The inner child in me thought of myths from fairy tales: a magic lamp, rubies and emeralds, a map. But really, I thought it might be something sentimental, something secret.

He spun to face me, frowning. “Not really.”

“Can you just open it? Then we’ll know whether to keep it or put it outside with the other trash.” I wondered if Clay was being obtuse just to rile me.

He huffed, “Fine, if it’ll stop you harping on about it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just open it.”

He made a show of dropping the sledgehammer on the floor with a thud, wiping his face, stepping around me exaggeratedly so we didn’t touch, before finally bending down and creaking the box open.

I held my breath. Inside piled somberly were a stack of red leather-bound journals wrapped tightly with twine, as if it would stop their secrets from spilling out.

It was all I could do not to gather them up and flick through them. “Whose were they, do you think? Your uncle’s?” The red leather had faded, but you could see they’d been loved, the way they were tied, each loop exact and bound together, like they mattered to someone.

Clay shrugged. “No idea, I never met the man.”

“You never met him?” Surprise made my voice rise.

“No, why? Does that bother you for some reason?” Again, he pulled the hem of his tank top upward, and wiped his face with it. When he exposed his body like that, it was hard to focus.

Instead, I stared down at the journals, wondering why someone would choose to hide them there. “No, it doesn’t bother me, but you inheriting the farm, I just presumed…”

“You presumed wrong.”

I ignored his steely eyed gaze. “Are you going to read them?” I asked. Honestly, it was like talking to a rock. A very subdued rock.

“What for?”

“You’re not the least bit curious?” His eyes were bright, and even though he was feigning disinterest, his expression told a different story. I continued: “What if it’s a brilliant manuscript? Or someone’s memoir? Wouldn’t you want to read it?”

“No.” And just like that, his granite face returned. “Now can we work?” He motioned to the remaining piece of flooring.

“Can I borrow them? I’ll read them and report back.”

He waved me away. “You ever think they might be blank?”

“Doubt it. Don’t see anyone hiding a box of old journals under the floor if they weren’t full of secrets.”

“Fine, take them. But bring them back, once you’re done.”

“Fine, I will.”

“Work?” He motioned to the hammer.

“Right.” I shifted the box so it was out of the way and continued picking up shards of wood, feeling a tad victorious.

***

Back at the bed and breakfast, half delirious with fatigue, I called Mom, eager to see how she was doing and fill her in on everything. First I tried the home phone, and was rewarded with a robotic voice telling me the phone was no longer connected. Shoot. Had I forgotten to pay the bill? Next, I tried Mom’s cell phone.

She answered after the second ring. “Precious! How are you?” A TV sounded in the background, a news anchor’s voice, deep and serious.

“Oh my goodness, Mom. I’m beat! How are you?”

She laughed, which came out like a croak. “Peachy, honey. So what’s the love god like now? Has his attitude improved?”

It was so good to hear her voice. “The love god? He wishes. He’s so frosty, he’s almost a snowman. But it’s still fun in some weird way, to tease him. He really doesn’t understand humor. It’s all work, work, work, and a few grunts, and moans about well, work. Suits me fine, I’m only there to make a buck anyway.”

“Young love.” She giggled. “Have you painted?”