Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (16 page)

“Your weakness?” I asked surprised, and hoped he’d confide in me. Clay, all six foot, tough-muscled, intensely gorgeous, didn’t appear to have any weaknesses, unless you counted his attitude.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Forget it. It’s in the past, and the past can stay buried.” His voice lost the steely edge.

Breezily, I said, “OK, it’s forgotten.” I flipped the book closed. “But there’s no need to shut out the rest of the world. I’m telling you, you’ll need the town behind you if you want to succeed here.”

“Would you stop with trying to buddy me up with people? I’m not interested. I can’t see how having people know my business can help me. And that’s all they want, to know every little thing about a person, so they’ve got something to talk about other than the weather.”

“That’s not true!” My voice rose, hearing him talk about the town so blithely when he’d never given them a chance. It rankled me.

“You’ve been here six weeks, Lucy. How can you know them well enough to say?”

I stammered, trying to think of a way to convince him. “When one of their friend’s got sick they all took turns running his store. And they all had their own businesses to tend to. They did so well, they went and sold every stick of furniture he had! But they haven’t quit there, the poor man lost his wife, and is grieving, so they’re trying to work out how to produce an income for him when there’s no furniture left to sell. That’s just what they’re like.”

“I bet they’re not all like that.” He sighed. “What are they going to do to help him?”

I shrugged. “No idea. They’re still trying to formulate a plan. He made furniture out of the wood of old boats. Everything handcrafted in his workshop at home.”

And just like that he turned away. “Right.” I swallowed a sigh. “When do you think the season starts?”

“Monday.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I surely hope I’m right. I know it’s all about the timing.” His eyes went wide and for the first time I realized Clay cared. His ambiguity about the trees and how to go about tapping them stemmed from the fact he was worried he’d do it wrong. I was giddy with the thought of being part of a process, a natural wonder, and something I’d never done before. It was only Thursday; the next few days would lag until we could attempt the very first batch of maple syrup!

***

“Monday? You have to tell me in detail how the heck it works, getting the fluid from those lovely trees and somehow turning it into syrup… I mean, I can’t even think how that works.”

I wandered around the small bedroom, phone cradled against my shoulder. “It’s all about the way you boil it down. I hope it works. What if we burn it? Clay won’t show it but he’ll be devastated, Mom.”

“You just take your time, when it comes to the important part. From what you’ve said about Clay he’s not one to rush, anyway. Do I detect a little softening of your heart when it comes to the love god?” she teased.

I went into the bathroom, put the plug in the bath, and turned the hot water on full. “As if,” I said. “Well, actually, there’s something about him, I must admit. A hot guy is no big deal to me, but I’m getting to know him, and he’s a lot sweeter than he makes out to be, but he takes great pains to hide it.”

“Honey, he sounds like a great guy. I’ve got a feeling about him, I don’t know why.” Her voice trailed off, no doubt she was planning the wedding or something.

I threw a handful of Epsom salts into the steamy water, and laughed. “Oh, please, you sound like CeeCee! She can ‘see’ everything too.”

Mom cackled, loud and high. When she composed herself she said, “You know what? I am going to meet these people one day. I need to give them all great big hugs, for looking after you so great. I haven’t heard you this sparkly in a long time. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me, honey. I’m grinning like a fool.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, smiling, as it struck me how animated I was here, how different I’d become, learning about me, by myself, in a new place. “You will have to visit here, Mom. We’ll work out a way to make it happen.”

“We sure will,” she said, as if she’d already planned it. “I can hear that bath running— you go jump in the tub, and we’ll talk soon.”

***

I know I was one of the lucky ones. Not everyone has a love affair like we did. Real, heart-stopping, once-in-a-lifetime love. I’ll never forgot the moment I saw her. I wanted to paint her, so I’d have her forever. My mouth must’ve hung open, like a guppy; it was like I was drinking her in. My fingers pulsed, wanting to rush home and pick up a brush, so no detail would be lost, but I couldn’t leave, not while she was there. In case I never saw her again. My heart skipped a beat, at the very thought, so I approached her, and told her I loved her, and I couldn’t live without her, not caring about the consequences of such an action.

She laughed, and her eyes, those eyes, twinkled and glittered like there was a whole constellation in them. And she said, “Well, why didn’t you say so? Shall we dance?” And we never parted again after that night, until she was summoned by God.

Whoever this man had lost, he had her in his heart always. It was a real-life love story; I was blessed to read it. The next sketch was of the couple dancing, the way they held each other tugged at my heart. I almost wanted to look away, as it was so private the way he stared at her, almost like I was intruding. Curiosity won out, and I scrutinized the sketch up close, trying to garner if Jessup shared any facial traits with Clay. They had the same jawline, the same mouth, but aside from that, the rest of their faces were unique to them.

I took my sketch pad out and picked up a pencil. I smudged the thin lines, and attempted to draw the man, but when I appraised the picture, the face staring back was Clay’s, with his unfathomable eyes, and complex features. His strong hands, and tense shoulders. I’d seen him smile, and laugh, when he was caught unawares, so I flipped the page and drew him like that instead. It was a revelation—my heart flipped, and I was glad that no one could see me.

There was something about him, some pull he had, and I could admit to myself in the privacy of my room, that I wanted to know him, all of him. Despite the façade, the tough, surly Clay wasn’t real. I’d seen enough people pretending in my life to know that for sure. Hanging around hospitals will do that to a person.

Something had happened to Clay that made him fold in on himself, to become the person he thought would keep people away. To hide his so-called weakness. What that was though, was anyone’s guess.

Chapter Eleven

Friday appeared, like any other day, under the cover of darkness. Early March and it was still cold out, snowing and foggy most dawns, but the drift wasn’t as heavy. It wouldn’t be long, until sunshine poked through gray clouds, and spring woke the flower beds up. I longed for April, when the landscape would change, and I could paint bright yellow tulip bulbs or the delicate mauve of the cherry blossom flowers.

I dressed in the small room, and made my way straight to the farm.

When I got the cottage Clay was sitting on the back porch, swinging idly on the love seat.

“Good morning,” I said, and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

He gave me a half smile. “Hey.”

“What’s on the cards for today?” I tilted my head.

“Sit, take it easy.” He gestured to the spot next to him.

Take it easy? This coming from Mr. Work Work Work? I sat gingerly next to him, making sure our arms didn’t brush.

“I love it here,” he said, quietly. “Sometimes I forget to stop and admire the view.”

I flicked a sidelong glance at him. It didn’t sound like the type of thing Clay would say. His tone was mellow, almost mellifluous.

I glanced at the trees. “It’s even prettier the way the morning mist slips around each tree in the early light. Almost like it’s shielding them.”

“Yes…” He crossed his arms, his gaze into the distance. “Today, we’ll clean the spiles for the trees. Some of them are rusty from sitting so long. We’ll go through our checklist and make sure we’re ready to go for Monday.”

With a booted foot, he kicked the deck of the porch, the swing swayed softly.

“The journals say the best time to tap is after a full moon, and that you have to talk to the trees and warn them about what’s coming so they loosen up, and…” I broke off, thinking how much Mom would get a tickle out of talking to the trees, and planning things around a full moon.

He put a boot down to stop the swing and faced me. “What?” He was incredulous but there was still a peaceful glimmer reflected in his eyes. Like he’d slept well, or something had changed in the hours I was away.

“That’s what it says.” I threw my hands up. “And it makes sense to me. If someone was going to poke a piece of steel into my trunk, I’d want some warning too. I was going to trek through and have a good old chat with them and see if it helps.”

“OK, well fell free to talk to them once you’re done for the day. I guess we can check when the full moon is. It can’t hurt.”

I resisted the urge to jump up and down. I’d expected Clay to clench his jaw and say I was sprouting nonsense. I knew he
really
wanted to get this right.

“I already checked. It’s on Sunday.”

“Well we said Monday, anyway. So it’s perfect.”

“I can’t believe I’m a fully qualified farmer’s assistant and we’re about to make maple syrup. Can you imagine what it’ll taste like?”

“Sweet, I hope.”

“I bet it tastes like love feels…” I broke off, embarrassed I said something so weird out loud.

He laughed. “Lucy, I can always tell what you’re thinking. Did you know that? Everything you’re feeling is written on your face, for all to see.”

I blushed. “You cannot!” This was as personal as he’d ever been, but I was horrified. Was my face so open? I’d changed here, relaxed into this new life. My constant frown had disappeared when I wasn’t pushing a finger in a doctor’s face for some answers. I’d been run ragged at the diner; here was just as hard, yet I felt better than I ever had.

The fresh air, the deep sleep, it was…different. I missed Mom so bad my soul hurt—but each day got that little bit easier. I found myself enjoying it: the trip, the work, and what the future would bring. Sketching again—the way the pencil almost had a mind of its own—boosted me.

While Clay studied me, I thought about the sketch I’d done of him the night before. Had I managed to catch the right curve of his mouth? Without thinking I raised my hand, wanting to brush a finger along his bottom lip, to see what it felt like, to memorize it, before I caught myself and snatched my hand back.
What was I thinking!

“See?” he said, smiling. “You just
have
to touch me.”

“I do not! I was…I was…”

“What?” Humor reflected in his eyes.

Awkwardness shocked me silent, while I desperately tried to think of an excuse.

“Well?” he said.

“I paint, and sketch, and I was…” My throat closed. Now I’d gone too far and I’d have to tell him I’d drawn him last night. What if he laughed at me? He would think I was obsessed with him. Or even worse, what if he wanted to see it? “It ended up being a likeness of you…”

“You sketched me?” He raised his eyebrows, but the mocking tone was gone from his voice.

I blushed. “Yes, but I was trying to draw your uncle. And without much thought, I’d actually sketched you.” Urgh. “Probably, because I was picturing the farm in my mind’s eye,” I added hurriedly.

“You’re an artist?” He sounded impressed by the notion. It was the first meaningful conversation we’d had that hadn’t dissolved into bickering.

“No, well, I mean…” I blew out my cheeks. Why did I find it so hard to admit that’s what I wanted to be? Like I’d jinx myself if I told everyone, and it wouldn’t come true. Instead, I’d be working in a dingy diner for the rest of my life. “Yes. I’m an artist, of sorts. I’m still learning.”

“You know, I can see that about you now.” He gazed at me, like
I
was a piece of art, like he was trying to appreciate it, see something in it.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re different, Lucy. The things you say, the way you talk is like art. You just said, ‘
It’s even prettier the way the morning mist slips around each tree in the early light. Almost like it’s shielding them.
’ I haven’t known anyone who speaks like that before.”

My jaw fell open. “How can you remember exactly what I said?”

He colored. “I have a good memory, that’s all.”

“What…like a photographic memory?” There was no way he could have remembered the exact wording, especially something I’d just thrown into conversation.

“No, nothing like that. I just find it easier to remember things, because I’ve needed to rely on it.” His voice tensed up so I let it drop, still amazed at his recall.

“Your uncle’s journals are spectacular, Clay. You should see
his
sketches.”

He spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “I want to see yours.”

“It’s not finished,” I lied, chastising myself for opening my big mouth. What would he see in the sketch? My heart wide open…

He gave my knee a pat. “Forget it. Work calls.”

I flushed at his touch. Seeing him languidly looking at the trees, his expression soft with a type of love he had for the place, it was hard to remember the other Clay. The Clay who’d sat next to me for the last ten minutes was the one I wanted to know.

***

Later that night I burst through the doors of the café. “We’re tapping Monday!” I screeched, scaring a small child, who dropped his cupcake, eyes wide in fright.

“Sorry,” I mouthed to his mother who smiled back. “I’ll buy him another one.” Lil waved me away, and went to the display cabinet and pulled out another chocolate cupcake for the child.

Becca was at a table and motioned me over. “You look as if you’ve gone and won the lottery!”

If anyone knew what Clay’s story was, it was his cousin. But from what CeeCee had said, they were as thick as thieves, and it was unlikely Becca would spill the beans about him. The fact he said he had a weakness though, made him more real and I wanted to know what he was implying. We all had a weakness, some more than others, so I wasn’t sure why he held on to it.