Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (6 page)

He gave me a wide smile. “If everyone had the means, I’m sure it’d be more prevalent. That’s all they’re missing, that first big trip…the weight of the world someone else’s problem. What about you—where are you staying?”

He wanted to know which type I was. “At Rose’s B and B.” I shrugged. “Everything depends on a job.”

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said with a genuine smile.

“Me too. And I hope you get to visit more places soon, Henry.”

His smile waned. “Sometimes, life gets in the way of our dreams. But I have the memories.” He tapped his heart.

I don’t know what his story was, but his wanderings had been cut short, just like Mom’s. He couldn’t know that I understood—it was almost like caging a bird. Instead, I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Memories last forever,” I said, hoping it was true.

He nodded. “So, what about you, Lucy? Is Paris on the cards? Or are you still in the planning stage?”

I grappled with the same inner turmoil. Would I apply to the institute? Was I even good enough to try? But Adele was in Paris, so either way, if I continued to travel, Paris would be my first port of call. It wouldn’t hurt, to keep an eye on flight prices, while I saved up the money.

“I don’t know for sure yet,” I said, “but if any cheap flights become available will you let me know?” I knew, deep down, if I went to Paris, I would regret not applying for the institute if I had to walk past it every day. Even though I still felt like a novice.

“Sure! And if I can be of any assistance just let me know. I’ve got a bunch of maps, and well-thumbed travel guides, feel free to stop in and peruse whenever you like.”

“Thank you,” I said with a smile. I folded the Paris brochure and tucked it into my backpack. “I’d love to. I’ll get myself sorted with a job and I’ll be back.”

We said our goodbyes, and I walked outside. Across the road a second-hand bookstore had a display window of travel books. It was like the universe was showing me the way. Instead of stepping inside, I kept on, heading to the Maple Syrup Farm. There was no point dreaming of foreign locales until I’d secured a job. And in a town as small as Ashford, there was likely to be minimal work available. I’d have to prove to Clay I was more than capable of farming, whatever the heck that entailed.

And heeding Becca’s advice, I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Glancing down at my outfit, I grimaced. Really, I should have worn something more practical. It was icy cold, and I was layered in a pink knit sweater, with bling-y beading across the bust, topped with a faux fur coat. I was a little on the bohemian side for Ashford, with my feather earrings, and bangles, which clinked together as I strode. If Clay said yes, I’d have to spend some money on more suitable work clothes.

Alone with my thoughts for the long walk to the farm, I couldn’t stop thinking of all the things Aunt Margot needed to know. Mom needed help with even the simplest tasks like showering, and I wanted to make sure Aunt Margot did it in such a way that Mom’s dignity was protected. I decided to call her myself, even though Mom had expressly asked me not to. Reaching into my bag I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. It had been years since we talked, and I wondered how she’d act.

“Lucy, how lovely to hear from you after all this time.” Her words were soft, measured.

“Yeah…it’s been a while.” I was a touch frosty, remembering the way she erased us from her life. I knew she would be footing the bill now, for Mom’s medical needs, but that didn’t make me any less wary.

“Your mother says you’re off gallivanting, just like she used to,” she said with an air of distaste.

I rolled my eyes, safe she couldn’t see me. “Yeah, something like that. Only for a year.”

“You should think of college. It’s not too late you know.”

“Yeah.”
No
, college wasn’t for people like me. “So, I wanted to touch base about Mom, and a few things—”

A guttural laugh came down the line. “There’s no need,” she said. “Everything is organized.”

I frowned. “That may be, but there’s a plastic chair in the bathroom you just need to—”

She cut me off again. “As I said, your mother will be fine, Lucy. Don’t worry about chairs or bathrooms for goodness’ sake. Do think about what I said about college. We can probably help you too. It’s becoming a pattern.”

I stiffened. We didn’t want her help, and if I was home we wouldn’t need it now. She was infuriating. “I can get by just fine, Aunt Margot. But with Mom, I want to make sure she’s looked after right.” It was all I could do to keep my tone even.

“Darling, don’t be mad. I can hear it in your voice. You’re so much like her, you know. Stubborn, and silly, at times. She threw her life away; you don’t need to as well.”

I’d always felt Aunt Margot was jealous that Mom was so carefree, and that the American dream—a house, two point five kids, and a nine-to-five job—didn’t appeal to Mom at all. Did it really matter how you chose to live your life as long as you were a good person?

I breathed in deeply, letting her toxic words float away before responding. “She hasn’t thrown her life away, in fact she’s lived more than most people double her age have!”

She clucked her tongue. “Living out of a suitcase is
not
living. And you’re on the same path. I worry about you, Lucy. With a role model like that what can you expect?”

I held in a scream. “Aunt Margot, don’t talk about Mom that way,” I managed through clenched teeth. “Did you get the list I left there?” I’d left detailed instructions, but still, I wanted to clarify things.

“Yes, yes. You know your mother, Lucy. It would be easier if she was more upfront sometimes.”

“What does that mean?” My mother was as transparent as water.

She sighed. “I
can
keep a promise,” she said. “Unlike her. So I’ll leave it at that.”

“What? Is she OK?” What was she talking about?

“She’s fine, Lucy. Jesus, I’m not a monster. If anything happened I’d let you know. I’m just saying, as
usual
, your mother does things her own way, and as
usual
I don’t agree with her. But let’s not rehash the past—it’s already colliding with the future.”

She was referring to the promise Mom apparently broke all those years ago. “Put Mom on,” I said.

“Sorry, darling, she’s asleep. You’ll have to try again later.”

“Fine, I will,” I said, and hung up as anger coursed through me. This was why we didn’t need help. Someone like Aunt Margot holding it over us. She had the power, and poor Mom was probably stuck there every day having to listen to her bring up her issues every five minutes.

I stomped toward the farm, even more determined to get the job, and send money home to Mom.

***

I’d eventually calmed down, as my feet found a rhythm while I walked. Thirty minutes later, the farm appeared. With my head inclined, I stopped, shoved my hands deep in my pockets and surveyed the place.

The Maple Syrup Farm was, at best, a ramshackle mess. The front gate hung off its latch, creaking in the wind, pitching backward and forward like an invitation to enter. In the distance you could make out the cottage. Gnarly old vines twisted around porch posts as though they were slowly strangling them. Cottage windows were smashed, leaving only dirty shards of glass clinging to their perches. Mountains of junk had been abandoned across the land for so long that grass had grown over them. Odd sticks of wood protruded like arms in supplication. The decaying façade of the place was somehow compelling rather than confronting.

Behind the gate, the property spanned for miles. Long snow-dotted grass swayed like green ribbons and grew into everything, wild and free. Even down the graveled driveway the grass had crept over like it was intent on taking over, burying the vestiges of ground.

I pushed the creaky gate open and walked purposefully, convincingly, like I’d been on a million farms before and knew what to do. As I neared the cottage music blared from inside. I stepped onto the porch. It was rotted in places, worm-wooded. I covered my ears against the noise as I dodged holes and hoped to God I made it inside without tumbling into trouble in my boots.

Whoever was inside the small cottage was belting out lyrics to “Pony” by Ginuwine like he was the only person in the world. Clay? I couldn’t really see an old farmer type listening to such provocative music, but it took all kinds to make a world, as my mom was keen on saying.

With a quick rap on the door, I set my shoulders, pulled my coat tighter and waited. No answer. There was no way he’d hear me with the volume up so high. With a shrug, I opened the front door, and stuck my head inside.

My mouth hung open at the sight before me. Clay was not old. Not weathered. Not wearing overalls.

He stood all six foot something of him, on the top rung of a stepladder, wearing only tight denim jeans, holding a drill. His broad shoulders moved to the beat of the music, his biceps flexing in time. As he turned and leaned I caught sight of his sculpted abs, the grooves and valleys of them, the color of his skin, tanned somehow in wintertime. He was the epitome of the perfect male model. I imagined him nude, and wanted to paint him in explicit detail because it would make such a stunning portrait.

The tight denim jeans accented his butt, and he thrust his hips to the rhythm of the song. That kind of taut, strong body would be a joy to paint. Just watching him made me uncomfortably warm. I had been wanting to capture a man on canvas, their intense lines and lengths, especially one as chiseled as this.

He flicked his dark blond hair back, and turned suddenly, one hand grasping the top rung of the ladder. When he caught sight of me the singing and, sadly, the thrusting stopped abruptly.

I walked to the stereo to turn the music down, before saying, “Hi, nice drill you have there.”
Nice drill you have there?
I promptly closed my mouth, and hoped my brain would catch up with my voice. In my effort to come across convincing, like I knew what a drill was, I sounded like I was flirting. Or just plain stupid. “What I meant was—”

His expression darkened and he spoke over the top of me. “You lost?”

I tilted my head, confused at the hostility in his voice. “No.” I appraised him—a hot guy with a bad attitude. I’d been expecting to see a middle-aged guy wearing overalls,
not
someone half-dressed, and mesmerizing from a painting point of view. The fierceness in his eyes—would I capture it?

He jumped down from the ladder, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his abs. From a sofa covered with plastic, he snatched up a crumpled tank top and pulled it over his head.

“No need to get dressed on my account.” I resisted the urge to clap a hand over mouth. “What I mean is, just be as you were…” The words were coming out wrong, in my effort to be someone I was not.

I blushed.

He scowled.

“Can I help you?” He let the drill drop, the cord slipping slowly through his fingers—he didn’t take his eyes off me, before it hit the ground with a clunk. For some reason the gesture seemed highly erotic. But the steely glint in his eyes told a different story.

Thoughts of traipsing back down the driveway, jobless, flashed through my mind. “I’m here about the job.” I raised my chin.

His face cracked into a cynical smile. He snatched a rag from the coffee table and wiped his brow, all the while chuckling to himself. I held his stare, while he gave me a once-over. His eyes were a mesmerizing, deep, dark brown, almost fathomless. I should have changed my outfit before I set off. He couldn’t take me seriously for the job, looking like some kind of bohemian.

“A job?” His mouth twisted. “I don’t think so.” His gaze traveled the length of my body once more and I tried hard not to squirm.

“And why not?” I asked, remembering Becca’s word of warning.
Do not take no for an answer.

He sneered. “Do you even know what the job is?”

“Farming, or a farmer, or a farmer’s assistant. Who cares about the title? All you need to know is, I am more than capable of…farming.” Way to go, Lucy, I silently berated myself. Say farmer one more time. He had me on edge with his cool stare. I hoped the desperation wasn’t evident in my voice.

“Who sent you here?”

I tried to hide my smile at his phrasing—it was almost like a line out of a mafia movie. Was this guy for real? “Your cousin Becca. She said you can’t find anyone else.”
And now I see why
. If I wasn’t so desperate for a job I would have told him exactly what I thought of him and breezed out. But there was also a stubborn side of me that wanted to show him he was wrong about me. I could…farm, as well as anyone else.

He raised an eyebrow. “You think I can’t find anyone?”

“I don’t see people lining up to work for you.” He blanched. If it was a tug of war, I’d just retrieved a bit of the rope. “But I am perfectly able to do the work.”

“Is that so?”

“Sure is.” I pursed my lips.

He took two steps toward me and stood so close I could feel his breath on my face. My pulse quickened—for one second I thought he was going to kiss me. He said, “You think you can handle it?”

Shivers coursed through me. “I can handle anything,” I managed, gulping at his proximity. I didn’t know if he was referring to the job? Or himself? I was in two minds whether I could handle either, but the thought of getting back on a bus and being in the same predicament elsewhere firmed my resolve. There was no chance I’d let a guy like him peg me for a fool. I hadn’t worked my butt off my whole life to be judged on the spot by the likes of him.

“I bet.” He looked so deeply into my eyes I was sure my heart stopped.

I blinked rapidly and said, “I need a job.
This
job, and I’m not leaving until you say yes.”

A rivulet of sweat ran down his forehead. “Your threats usually work with other people?”

“Yes.” Well technically no. I was never in the position to threaten anyone, always relying on the mercy of managers, or landlords. I wasn’t desperate enough to let anyone hold anything over me, though. My pride wouldn’t allow that.

“Look, I don’t know who you are…”