Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (18 page)

I kept on, my words tumbling out. There were so many trees to talk to.

***

“Ready?” I asked.

Out of all the maples we’d selected the ones with thicker trunks and decided on one tap per tree, rather than the standard two. We couldn’t hide the fact we felt a certain level of guilt drilling into the majestic trunks. The trees we’d chosen were southward-facing, which meant they’d get the most daytime sun. Clay had asked me to study the books I’d got from Sarah and then grilled me endlessly about them.

“Ready,” Clay said, holding a drill a few inches from the tree, pausing and scrunching his eyes closed.

I patted his back. “Well, what are you waiting for? We have hundreds to do today.”

He narrowed his eyes, drill poised midair. “It…this is going to sound crazy, but I feel like it’ll hurt them.” A blush bloomed up his cheeks. I almost fell over in surprise. Clay was worried about the tree’s feelings? Mr. Cold Heart himself?

“I’ve ‘told’ them what’s coming,” I said unable to hide my grin, “as per your uncle’s stipulations. I’ve warned them, crooned to them, hugged them even. We’re tapping the day after a full moon… I think we’re all ready.” I too felt that same guilt, but I wanted to get it over and done with, fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

His mouth was a thin line, as he put the drill up against the trunk. “You warned them? When?”

I laughed, remembering the buoyancy I felt earlier that morning. That one snapshot of time where I was euphoric, and energized, lingered still. “Today, before I woke you up.”

He cocked his head. “I was awake,” he said, “I was waiting for you…”

“Well I was here, wasn’t I? You’ll thank me later when the syrup tastes sweeter.”

“I bet it will.” Something changed in his face; he didn’t clench his jaw so often. He probably thought I was a little screwy, and felt sorry for me. “You like it here, don’t you?” he asked.

Was he just dillydallying for time? I hadn’t expected to love it here as much as I did. The farm felt different to any place I’d been, like I belonged here, and I had finally found my way home. I’d traipsed over every corner of America with Mom and nowhere had felt like this. It would take an aeon to put my past into words for Clay, so I just I said, “Yes, I love it here.” He was a man of few words anyway.

A tendril of hair blew into my face, making me blink. Clay brushed it gently behind my ear, his lips parting like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. We stood mute, staring at one another for too long to be comfortable. Something had shifted. We both recognized it.

The trill of a bird overheard broke the moment. He shook his head as if dislodging a thought.

“Right,” he said, his voice thick. “Where were we?”

I stepped away from him, needing a minute to catch my breath, as my mind scrambled with confusion. Nothing had happened, and yet…I was on fire with the thought of him. The guy who said so much with just a look. I was almost liquid, as a lushness spread through me.

“The trees,” I mumbled, pointing, trying to stop the erratic beating of my heart. “It’s time to tap them.”

Clay turned away from me, and ran a hand slowly over the trunk. I’d never been so envious of a tree in all my life. The buzz of the drill rang out, as Clay pushed his weight against it. The shavings from the bark were a tan color, which meant the tree was healthy. If the shavings came away darker, like the color of chocolate, then we knew the tree wasn’t right for tapping.

“One down,” I said. There was no way I would have been able to drill into their beautiful trunks, marring them. On some trees you could see circular scars where they’d been tapped before, and had tried over time to heal.

“Put the spile in,” he said. The mood changed, when we weren’t staring directly at each other. It was easier to rally myself and pretend it was any other day.

I gave the tree a reassuring pat. “Sorry, Persephone.”

He arched a brow. “Persephone?”

I rolled my eyes, an attempt to go back to our usual banter. “If you’d get over yourself and read your uncle’s journals, you’d see they’re all named. According to his squiggly diagrams this beauty is Persephone.” I pointed to the next tree. “That’s Athena, then there’s Venus, and Artemis…”

“I get it,” he cut me off.

“He named them after goddesses, and wrote about how each is unique. Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Clay forced a smile. “Real sweet. Now can you put the spile in?”

That was as close to agreeing as I’d get from him. “Sure, let’s get these babies in.” The spile was the conduit that took the sap from the middle of the tree and dripped it into the galvanized bucket.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” I joked, and with a deep breath pushed the spile into the hole he’d drilled, all the while saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

I hooked the bucket handle over the spile, and made sure the lid was firmly closed so nothing could infect the liquid before we’d had a chance to collect it.

“Let’s take a photo,” I said. I took my cell phone from pocket and snapped a few pictures of the tree before taking a sneaky one of Clay so I could send another one to Mom. “Our first ever tap. I’m pretty impressed.”

I swear he smiled. “Impressed enough to do your happy dance?”

I blushed to the roots of my hair. I had performed a number of happy dances out of Clay’s sight when something compelled me to celebrate. Or so I’d thought. “You saw my happy dances?”

“Every one of them.”

I pictured myself under the trees, dancing like some kind of wood nymph wannabe. “Oh my God.”

“It was like…” he scratched his chin “…watching an interpretive dance.”

Maybe my dancing was a whole lot better than I gave myself credit for. “What was your interpretation? A contemporary dancer?”

He guffawed, and quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. Once composed he said, “Well…at first I thought you’d walked into a spider’s web, and that you were terrified, but then it kept happening, so I figured that maybe you intended to ah…move like that.”

I was mortified. There was nothing to do except backtrack. “Why were you spying on me anyway?” I swatted him on the arm.

“I thought maybe you were low on sugar or something at first. And since you’re an employee I felt it was my responsibility to watch over you.”

I moaned. “You think I’m unhinged!”

He laughed, a full-fledged, deep sound that made his chest rumble. “I think you’re
expressive
! It’s like your body reacts before your brain catches up.”

Well I’ll be, Clay laughed. And not just a little bit. The proper, blood-pumping, belly-hugging laugh. Not only had I changed since arriving in Ashford, but so had Clay. He was almost a joy to be around. The tranquil air here had helped heal us both, or maybe it was the maples and the fact we were excited and on edge with nerves that made us react so differently. “Let’s get these spiles in.”

***

I let out a yawn, completely bushed. We’d tapped three hundred trees at least. Each tap it was easier not to let the guilt get to us and we eventually got faster, and more productive as the day stretched on.

Clay yawned in response, as if it was contagious. “Enough for today?” he asked.

“Yes.” I nodded gratefully. Hopefully we’d tapped enough to make a big enough batch the first harvest. According to our calculations we’d have plenty of sap to boil. We estimated thirty liters of maple sap boiled down to one liter of maple syrup, so it was best we harvested extra, since the season was so short. He needed something to sell, after all.

I was itching to go back to the first lot of trees and see if the buckets had filled but fatigue won out. We made our way haltingly to the cottage. My hands ached from the work, and my back wasn’t faring much better. Clay looked as bright as always, as if he didn’t just work for almost twelve hours straight.

“You must be starving,” he said as I took my coat off and dropped it in a messy heap by the front door before flopping on the sofa.

I was always starving, a fact Clay had noticed. “Nope, too tired to eat. Wait. That was a lie. I could eat a horse and chase the jockey. Do you want to come into town? There’s this new pizza place, just opened—we could share a pizza? I promise I’ll only eat my half, unless you eat too slow, then all bets are off.”

“Not for me.” He folded his arms and leant against the side of the sofa.

“Why? Surely you need to get out once in a while?” He picked up my coat, and folded it. He was one of those people who liked everything orderly. “Clay, I’m about to wear that coat again, so there’s no point picking it up.”

He gave me a pointed stare. “There’s a coat hook for a very specific reason.”

I laughed, happily ignoring his jibe. “So pizza yes or no?”

“Nope. But I’ll drive you into town. You worked hard today.”

I clapped a hand over my mouth before saying, faux seriously, “Is that your version of a thank you?”

“Get in the truck.” And again he smiled, not widely, but enough that I saw the white of his teeth.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were happy, Clay.”

He lobbed my jacket at me. “Maybe.”

“See? What was the point in folding it?” Honestly, he had to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. The only thing I was pedantic about was art, and planning ahead. Things like clothes, and dishes, and general tidiness bored me silly. Clay was the opposite, everything had a place, and he couldn’t relax until it was in it.

The ride into town was mercifully quiet. Clay drove with one hand on the wheel and his other arm along the door frame. The radio played a country and western song, which I hummed, half to keep myself awake and half because I was unsure about how to make conversation.

Lights from town twinkled ahead. Store fronts lit up gray evening, like little beacons of wonder. The old truck rumbled down the main street.

CeeCee from the Gingerbread Café was on the sidewalk, closing the A-frame chalkboard to take it inside. I gave her a wave, as we drove past. She flashed me a smile.

As we neared the pizza place there were clusters of people lingering by outside, under big tables, or by benches set up along the sidewalk.

“OK here?” Clay said pointing to a car bay just further along.

“Perfect.” I jumped down from the cabin and stood on the curb.

“See you tomorrow,” Clay said. Before I could say anything, he inclined his head and rumbled away.

The scent of freshly baked pizza wafted over, making my mouth water in anticipation. I turned on my heel and went inside, shrugging away any thought of Clay. You couldn’t get blood out of a stone, and it was time I learned to give up on a lost cause.

I ordered and went back outside, finding an empty table. The owner, Maria, had given me a steaming cup of coffee to sip while I waited and I drank it greedily even though it burnt all the way down. My eyelids were set on closing, and I forced myself awake with the mantra: pizza, shower, bed.

My bones cracked as I folded my stiff body into a sitting position.

“Lucy!” I turned to the familiar voice.

“Hey, Becca!”

She sat at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. “I meant to get back to the farm earlier to catch you before you left, but I smelled pizza, and the restaurant being new, I couldn’t resist.”

I laughed. “It smells divine.” The scent of wood-fired pizza permeated the night air. It would be hard for anyone to resist. I did wonder, though, if it would take some of the Gingerbread Café customers away. Lil was always saying how tough it was to stay afloat. But the café was closed at night, so maybe it would add to the town, and not affect Lil. I hoped so, for her sake.

She pushed a stray curl back. “So how did the great big tapping marathon go?”

I let out a groan in response. “I’ve never been so tired in all my life. But it was great.”

She tutted. “Long day, though. Sheesh, that boy works you too hard.” She said it with a smile and I didn’t doubt she’d already been on the phone to Clay.

I nodded. “We were in the moment, really. It was only when we finished the fatigue caught up.”

“How was Clay? Not too grumpy, I hope.” Becca took a sip of coffee, and gazed quizzically at me.

“Grumpy?” I raised an eyebrow and Becca tittered. “He was good today, happy. I asked him along for pizza but he said flat-out no.”

Becca squirmed. “He’ll get there.”

Get where? Why wouldn’t he make friends? There was being shy, and then there was being outright hostile. Clay was somewhere in the middle. “Why does he avoid town?”

Becca’s name was yelled out. “Sorry, that’s my pizza. How about we meet up for a proper chat soon? If I don’t catch you at the farm we can meet back here for pizza and wine, or at my place?”

Again, his secrets stayed hidden. “Pizza and wine, a match made in heaven. Let me know when you’re free.” I waved goodbye as she tottered on high-heeled boots to grab her pizza.

My name was called shortly after Becca’s. I took the box and trundled home. The lights were out so I crept to my room, placing the pizza on the buffet. I tried Mom’s cell phone, and got her message bank. The pizza remained uneaten as a jolt of foreboding hit me. She’d expected my call, specifically asked for it. Maybe she was tired. Or not having a good day. Though usually she’d text at least to tell me. I opened the pizza box. And then closed it. I couldn’t shake off the feeling something was wrong. I tried Aunt Margot’s number, and it rang out. Dammit! Why did that woman even have a phone when she hardly answered it!

I sent Mom a long text and hoped by the morning I’d have a reply. I switched the light off, the thought of eating no longer appealing. What if something had happened to her? It was crazy—we’d had plenty of days we didn’t speak but I couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that settled heavy in my chest.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, I dashed past the café, and told Lil I’d take a baking rain check. She rushed out with a gingerbread man cookie, and a blueberry muffin. “For the road,” she said, winking. I gave her a warm smile, and promised I’d stop by later. I was ravenous after no dinner, and bit into the muffin. My phone buzzed.
Please be Mom
.

Pulling it out of my pocket, it lit up.