Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (3 page)

Commuters nodded. I rubbed my neck, and mumbled, “Yes.”

The plump, brown-skinned woman beside me gave my knee a reassuring pat. “You’ll be OK,” she said, gazing at me with kind eyes. “Jimmy here’s the best driver round. Deer be bad on this patch of road come night-time.” She spoke with a rich southern accent.

“Thanks,” I said speaking on autopilot as fear collected me. “He did well to keep it from rolling over.” A seasick sensation sat heavy in my belly and I shook my head in a kind of astonishment—wouldn’t that be the worst kind of irony, promising Mom I’d leave on this impromptu adventure and not making it there because of a bus crash? The thought alone was enough to make me stiffen. I’d never considered something bad happening to me—Mom was always at the forefront of my mind—but what if it did? Then who would look after her? Aunt Margot wouldn’t stay forever. I’d have to be careful, and not take risks if I could avoid them.

“Sure as God made little green apples Jimmy’ll have a few more gray hairs by the time we reach Ashford.”

The woman brought a sense of peace with her no-nonsense attitude.

“He just might,” I said, my mouth dry. “I think my first gray might sprout up of its own accord too.”

She tutted, giving my hair a cursory glance. “Nothing gonna dim that blonde mane o’ yours.”

The young woman in front of me rested her head on her friend’s shoulder. Across the aisle a spotty-faced teenage boy wiggled in his seat, balled up his sweater, pushed it hard up against the window as a pillow. Everyone was settling back down, but I was too keyed up to do anything other than sit there, mildly panicked at how close we’d come to crashing.

Was it a sign that I was choosing the wrong path? It felt like a warning somehow. Even though I’d promised Mom I’d explore for twelve long months, a half-day into the journey, I was regretting the decision with every ounce of me. The excitement of not having to pull double shifts at the shabby diner had dimmed the further away from Mom I got. When I’d quit work, the manager had barely raised an eyebrow. The other waitresses gave me small smiles, some heavy with envy, some full of hope that maybe one day they’d get out of there too. Right this instant, I’d swap with them in a heartbeat, and pretend this journey never happened.

It was hard to forget Mom’s dazzling smile when I went to say my goodbyes. She’d radiated happiness. It was almost palpable, like she’d been cured, or something miraculous, but it was all because of me. She was overjoyed my travels were beginning in earnest, though in actuality, I’d have to stay in one place half the year to save for the rest of the trip, if I found a decent job. When it was almost time to leave it took all my might not to clutch her and sob, telling her I didn’t want to. Instead, I’d held myself tight like a coil, and said I’d do my very best to enjoy myself. In an effort to lighten up a somber situation we played the “Remember When” game.

Remember when we slept in the lighthouse that night? Remember when we swapped our homemade dream catchers for a crate of apples? Remember when…

After that the Van Gogh Institute Scholarship came up about a hundred times, but I shrugged her off. I needed time. At this stage I didn’t know if I’d make it without her.

“Where you from?” the woman asked, bringing me back to the present. She crossed her arms over her midsection, as we bounced softly along.

With a smile, I said, “Detroit.” I pivoted a fraction to face her. She looked like the type who would chatter on regardless.

“Ah,” she said, “the birthplace of Motown? Ain’t that something?”

“It is.” I missed it already. It was home. Where my heart was.

She studied my face intently. “Why the long face?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t about to share my story with a stranger. Besides, there was no way I could say Mom’s name. I held on to the promise I made as though it was something tangible, my secret. “Just saying goodbye.” I tried hard to make it sound breezy and bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself to stay focused and not well up. Honestly, I was like a child going off to camp the first time. I knew Mom wanted me to “find myself” but I didn’t think I was lost. She did.

With a raise of her eyebrows she said, “Goodbyes…surely are difficult. But sometimes, you gotta take the plunge. Life is for living.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. My mom had said something eerily similar when I’d visited the hospital to say my goodbyes.

Snatching her purse from under the seat, she rifled around in it, before brandishing a brown paper bag full of something spicy-scented. “Here, eat. You as skinny as a rake.” She handed me a chocolate-dipped gingerbread man. “Ashford—where we goin’—is about the nicest place on earth. Problem is, once you visit it’s kinda hard to leave.”

“That so?” I took a bite of the cookie, ravenous now I’d awoken. “I’m not staying for good,” I said. “Just stopping by for a while.”

She hemmed and hawed. “That’s what they all say.”

I smiled at the woman in thanks, all the while thinking maybe the bus simply slipped off the road because of a deer, and not because I’d made a bad decision walking away from my mom, when she needed me so badly.

“Did you make this?” I asked, holding the remnants of the gingerbread man, just his little chocolate-dipped legs.

“Why I most certainly did. I work at the Gingerbread Café. I’m CeeCee.” She held out her hand.

“It’s delicious.” I shook her hand. “Lucy. Nice to meet you.” It wasn’t like me to chitchat so easily. Mom was the extrovert, the babbler; I took a while to warm up. Instead I people-watched, always lost inside my mind with how I’d paint the planes of their faces, or whether I could catch the question in their eyes, their own unique gaze.

I guess it was a safety mechanism of sorts, my lack of involvement with people. We’d moved so often, it was easier not to make friends than risk losing them. But alone, maybe I’d have to change that.

“We be seeing a lot more of each other, mark my words.” There was something comforting about the woman, the way she spoke, the warmth in her.

***

After snatching some nap time, I awoke, squinting. The sky had lightened. The bus burbled along, making its way to Ashford. My sketchy plan was to find a job,
anything
. The money Mom had borrowed from Aunt Margot, I stubbornly refused to take. I used it to pay her rent a paltry few more weeks, and restocked her fridge and freezer—a surprise, for when she got home. All I had was the wages from the last few shifts at the diner to see me through, but I knew how to be frugal, and how to work hard.

I had to find a job quickly, and hoped at the end of each week, there’d be enough left over that I could save and send some home. I’d sleep better knowing my mom had a back-up plan and some independence when it came to money.

Resting my head against the cool glass, I watched as meadows dotted with the odd home or two flashed past.

The driver hollered out, “Ashford’s ten minutes away, folks.”

I nodded to him as we made eye contact in the rearview mirror. His face was lined with fatigue. He was probably dreaming of bed, while commuters snoozed fitfully behind him.

In the distance a property appeared. It was flanked by lots of trees, bare of leaves, and stood out beside the rolling snow-drizzled meadows.

As the bus lumbered closer, I pushed my face up against the glass again. My breath fogged up the window; I hastily wiped it with my hand. As we neared, I could make out an old cottage, decayed with age. Twisted vines snaked around porch poles like skeletons.

I pulled at CeeCee’s sleeve. “Would you look at that place!” It was mesmerizing.

She sat up straighter, popping specs on the bridge of her nose. “That there’s the Maple Syrup Farm. It’s gone and got itself a new owner too. A real handsome guy but he tend to keep to his self.”

“Why’s that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Folk say he’s just one o’ them lonesome types.” She clucked her tongue. “Whatever that’s ‘sposed to mean. He ain’t been there long, a month or two maybe. Still trying to make sense o’ the place. As you can see, it needs a lot o’ work. The cottage itself is over a hundred years old.”

The driver slowed for a bend in the road. “It’s eerie, like something out of a ghost story.” The property was bathed in a filmy light almost like that one patch of land was a different color to the rest of the world. Sepia, faded somehow. All I could imagine was trying to capture it on canvas, painting daubs of russet and taupe, lashings of cloud white. Hoping my brushstrokes would reflect its bygone charm.

“Town folk believe there’s a ghost there, but it ain’t true. Old Jessup passed on not long back, and he left the farm to his nephew, Clay. Don’t stop people talkin’ out o’ turn saying they seen Jessup wandering around those trees. He used to love them, talk to them as if they was real.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.” When I painted a landscape like the one in front of me, it was easy to get lost in pondering what had gone on over so many decades—the history of the place, and not just the facts, but the heart and soul of it, the
real
story. Who slept under that cottage roof a century ago? Did they dream of other places, or were they happy there? Did kids frolic by the lake, swim, climb trees, tumble down hills? Was there a woman at the hearth, stoking up fires and baking? Imagining lives long forgotten piqued my curiosity and made my fingers itch to pick up a paintbrush.

She yawned, and stretched her arms above her head. “Sure is. And Clay’s only addin’ to it by being reclusive.”

I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “Ashford’s own little mystery.”

She guffawed. “Sometimes there ain’t much more to do than speculate about folk.”

I laughed. The town must be a hotbed of gossip because of its size. “I guess so. What’s he doing with the place? Is he going to stay?”

“Word is, he wants to tap the trees for maple syrup, like his uncle used to do before the arthritis got the better of him. Can’t seem to find anyone who wants to work there though. It’ll be a tough job, getting it all done without any help.”

My ears pricked up. “Really?”

How hard could farmwork be? Physical, sure, but I was fit and capable. It’d be something new, rather than pouring endless cups of coffee for weary truck drivers. Or serving plates of greasy bacon and eggs to night-shift workers. Each day bleeding into the next with the monotony of it all.

How was maple syrup made? All I pictured was their beautiful red, almost carmine, colored leaves, ones I used to take from parks when I was a child and press between the pages of my diary, until they dried, holding their shape, like an exotic fan.

Farmwork would surely be a damn sight better than being cooped up in an old diner.

“Do you think he’d consider me for the job?” I couldn’t contain my eagerness. A job on day one would surely be a good sign.

“I don’t rightly know,” she said thoughtfully. “You see, I don’t know him like I know most folk, but there ain’t no harm in tryin’.”

Knowing Ashford was a small town, I seized on the idea of working at the farm. I doubted there’d be many other opportunities, and if I didn’t snag something quick I’d have to move on and try my luck elsewhere. “I really need a job, CeeCee. Keep your fingers crossed for me.”

Her big brown eyes softened. “You go on and see if he’ll hire you, and then if he does, get yourself some wet-weather clothes. Being outdoors all day, that cold will surely sink into your bones.”

“Thanks, Cee.” Out of all the buses in the world, all the ways I could have traveled, I ended up next to CeeCee, and I thanked my lucky stars. With her help, I might have found a job, and at least I’d know one friendly face in town.

As we neared Ashford, the houses bunched closer together. In a driveway a group of kids were riding bicycles side by side in a languid, just-woke-up kind of way. Siblings, or next-door neighbors? I thought back to my childhood, moving from place to place, making friends, and then having to leave them. Mom’s itchy feet, her gypsy-like wandering, kept us on the road right up until my teenage years. I turned to look back at the kids. It must have been nice, settling in one place as a kid, knowing nothing would change except that their bandy little legs would fill out, and they’d eventually ditch their bikes for cars. A lifetime of friendship built right next door to one another.

Just as the driver promised, ten minutes later the small town came rolling into view. Snow drifted down, making the place look as pretty as a picture on a postcard. Neat store fronts lined the road, and for a small town, they had quite a variety. Jimmy pulled the bus into a park, and turned off the engine.

I gathered my belongings, and inched my way down the rubber-floored aisle to the front. “Sorry for the scare,” he said, his face brighter now we’d stopped. “Enjoy your day.”

“You too. Thanks, Jimmy.” I gave him a wave as I stepped off the warm bus and onto the curb.

Behind me, CeeCee marched from the bus and gave me a great big launch hug that almost bowled me over. “Begonia Bed and Breakfast is thatta way,” she said pointing to the far end of town. “The only accommodation Ashford has.”

“It’s like you can read my mind!” Though I suppose it was obvious, a girl heading into a small town would need a place to stay.

She tapped her nose. “I always know. You go on and get settled then come back here for some breakfast. On the house,” she added as I went to protest. “You need a decent meal ‘fore you head off to the farm, if you sure that’s the kinda job you want.”

***

Meeting the exuberant CeeCee put a smile on my face and took some of the ache away. I wasn’t used to being alone. Mom was always on my mind in Detroit, whether I was working or not. But the invisible cord that bound us was still there. Being so far away, the cord seemed infinite, and tugged, making me think she needed me.

Soft winter sun warmed my back as I walked, my steps heavy. I was so far from home I was almost under a different sky. I took in the charming streetscape, mentally framing up every view as a potential sketch, one that I could post home, show Mom where I was.

Cheery store owners nodded hello to me. I gave them a shy smile and averted my eyes. I headed toward the bed and breakfast, hoping the owner would have a room, something affordable too. When I passed a hardware store, I turned left at a sign advertising the lodgings, and meandered along until I found the B and B. Flowers spilled from pots in a riot of red, their sweet perfume wafting up.