Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (8 page)

Clay hadn’t been dressed like this. I wasn’t sure farmers actually wore such clothing, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe Clay had been barely clothed because he was working indoors, and once outside we’d need to be protected from the elements. Because if there was one thing I was sure of, nothing was getting through the layers of plastic that now crinkled noisily over my body. I held on to the curtain. “I’ll take them.” Bonnie had the puppy dog eyes down pat, and rewarded me with a happy squeal.

“You’ve gone and made my day,” she said, closing the curtain, so I could change back. Her smile threatened to swallow her up, and it dawned on me that maybe Bonnie didn’t get many customers, just like the travel agent Henry, who appeared hopeful seeing a new face in town. “I’ll go and ring them up for you. And I’ll throw in a pair of socks, since you’ve been real nice. They’re a new brand. Meant to help with the circulation, you know, for the diabetes?”

I didn’t know. But I played along, anyway. “That sure will come in handy. Thank you, Bonnie.”

Chapter Five

My alarm shrieked, waking me from a deep sleep. Groggy, I rubbed my eyes, and yawned, taking an age to remember where I was. The shadows were unfamiliar. When I flicked on the bedside lamp, and the flowered wallpaper stared happily at my crumpled frame, it all came back. Begonia Bed and Breakfast. And day one of working with the half-naked, intensely arrogant Clay.

With a groan, I wrenched the covers back and dressed quietly in the shoebox-sized room. The last time I’d seen five a.m. was coming off a double shift at the diner. Maybe once I acclimatized this would be better, watching dawn break, fresh, after a good night’s sleep.

I tried to creep quietly but the garb I wore had other ideas, and crinkled like someone scrunching cellophane. Once outside, I breathed fresh air deep into my lungs. The sky was awash with gray, not even a bird chirp for company.

I crinkled along, wishing I’d made a cup of coffee for the journey. Rose had given me a travel mug for that very purpose but I didn’t want the shrieking of the kettle to rouse her. I turned the corner and headed down the main road of Ashford. It was gloomy, the store fronts somber without the light of day and their cheery owners.

A beam of light coming from the Gingerbread Café caught my attention. I resisted the urge to fist pump as thoughts of strong coffee danced through my mind. I jogged up the road, and spilled through the door in a flurry.

Lil jumped, her eyes wide. “You scared the bejeezus out of me!” She clutched her chest. “Coffee?”

“I will love you forever.” As much as I loved drinking cups of tea with Rose, a strong dose of caffeine would fire up the old brain synapses and enable to me to make sense at such an early hour.

She grinned and went to the percolator, poured two mugs, and motioned to a stool. “I bet you haven’t eaten.” She stared me down the way my mother would, even though Lil and I were probably around the same age, give or take a few years.

“No, I was going to but…”

“Say no more.” Lil expertly moved around the kitchen, gathering bowls and utensils before cracking a couple of eggs, adding some spices and whisking. “French toast, OK?”

“Do you always make people’s dreams come true?” I said faux seriously.

She threw her head back and laughed. “I try.”

There was something about Lil, something indistinct that made me act differently with her. She had a unique energy. I sensed her life hadn’t been smooth sailing, but she’d come out the other side. Studying people in the background for so many years had made me read people on a deep level, somehow seeing past the cosmetics of a situation and finding the heart of them. For that reason, I connected with her more easily than I usually would have.

While Lil worked, I walked around the café sipping my coffee and taking in every tiny detail. It was cozy and warm, not just from the fire, but also from the little touches they’d added to make it kitschy and cute. The walls were painted the color of dark chocolate, gingerbread-man bunting hung in garlands, twisted with rows of fairy lights, which pulsed like stars.

Hand-knitted throw rugs were tossed lazily on sofas. Fat fluffy mismatched cushions perched on chair seats. By the bookshelves was a veritable mountain of European pillows adorned with cartoonish dinosaurs or pink-swathed princesses. I imagined toddlers falling into them face first, shrieking with joy, the stack taller than their little bodies. In a corner a green plastic table sat tucked away, full of jars of brightly colored pencils, and craft supplies so kids could create while their parents took a break from their day over a cup of tea and a plate of something delicious.

Lil and CeeCee’s passion for their business and customers shone through from the way they greeted their customers, to the way they joked with one another, and the love they poured into baking. It was so far from the diner I worked in it was hard to reconcile the two. The diner had needed a damn good scrub, and some life poured into it, but it was always busy because of its location, and the customers who frequented didn’t seem to mind the seventies décor.

On the bench by Lil, knobbly loaves of bread cooled on a wire rack. The scent of fresh bread reminded me of my mother, and how once upon a time she loved baking, humming while she kneaded dough, flour dusting her forearms. These days, even baking was too much for her. Sometimes, it was hard not to let the bitterness creep in. She was such a vital person, and her condition snatched that away from her.

“What’s on your mind?” Lil asked taking two slices of freshly baked bread and dipping them into the egg mix. “You’re away with the fairies.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” I walked back to the stool, cupping my face in my hands, and watching her work.

“Nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing.” She raised her eyebrows and gave me a look that meant share my woes.

People were so perceptive in Ashford. Maybe it was because they all knew each other, and could read moods like some people read the ocean tides. When they asked you a question they stared you full in the face, giving you their undivided attention. Like you mattered. That the words that fell from your lips were important.

“Every now and then sadness catches up with me, that’s all.” I ran a hand over the bench, wiping down bread crumbs. “I wonder if I’m making the right choice by leaving my old life.”

Lil clucked her tongue. “Leaving is always hard. But I suppose, you won’t know until you try, right?”

I toyed with the coffee mug, avoiding Lil’s sincere-eyed expression. Sensing my mood, she went to the stove and lit the element, then groveled under the bench for a frypan. She dropped a dollop of butter into it, which slipped and slid around the black pan, melting into a sunny yellow liquid.

“Waking up at five a.m. brings out the maudlin in me. I just need to get used it.” I tried to make a joke of it, lightening my tone, and forcing a wide smile. I hadn’t devoured the first coffee of the day; I was still half asleep at such a crazy hour of the morning—that’s all it was. In the still of the dawn, reality always seemed that much more frightening, and sometimes harsh and cold. Who was I pretending to be? I wasn’t an artist. I wasn’t anything, except my mother’s daughter, and running off to change that didn’t feel right. Shouldn’t I put her first always?

“You’ll get used to it, Lucy. Things will get easier over time.” Lil flipped the buttery brown French toast, and glanced back over her shoulder at me. “
Viola
.” She pushed the dish in front of me, and gave my shoulder a squeeze.

“You’re some kind of miracle worker,” I said, gazing at the plate, glad for the interruption of breakfast so my somber thoughts didn’t fall out in a sad jumble.

“Wait!” she held up a hand and then dashed to the fridge, pulling a bottle out. “Maple syrup!”

“Of course!”

She drizzled a helping of syrup over the French toast and took the stool beside me. “As soon as you’ve made the first batch of syrup, you tell Clay we want some. Nothing better than locally made produce.”

I nodded. “Can you imagine making it? I can’t wait to see how it’s done.”

“It’ll be wonderful.” Lil picked up a fork. “Eat,” she said. “And remember to stop by tomorrow on your way. I love a bit of company in the lonely dawns. I’m not as good as Cee with dispensing advice, but if you need a shoulder to lean on, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Lil,” I said, truly grateful. CeeCee and Lil had a way about them, a genuine kindness that took the edge off my homesickness.

***

After refusing a lift from Lil, I trekked down the long, dark road out of Ashford. By the time I arrived at the farm I had my hands shoved deep in my pockets. I walked down the driveway, my eyes wide at the view ahead. Before the winter sun had risen, the snow-covered maple trees looked hauntingly beautiful in the dark of the morning.

It was a touch before six, so I sat on the back porch, not wanting to wake Clay. There was no sound from inside the cottage. Time marched on; the sky slowly shifted from a moody gray to a diaphanous blue. It was like being inside a dream.

I imagined setting up a canvas here, capturing the sky before it changed hue. But I couldn’t. I would hate Clay peering over my shoulder at my work.

For me, painting was deeply personal, and private. It was like my heart was right there on the canvas, along with the brushstrokes, leaving my soul exposed. My mom said I was all sorts of kooky to think such a way, but she understood.

I wasn’t ready for judgment—I wasn’t good enough yet and what I painted sometimes was murky and hazy with grief, a way for me to get all those feelings out, not let them simmer too long inside me. That’s why I’d never applied for the Van Gogh Institute in case they replied with a negative. I imagined these geniuses of the art world, shaking their heads, confused by clumsy attempts, like I was a fake, a phony, pretending to be as good as them.

My pictures, whether sketched or painted, reminded me of how I felt, what I did, even though the subject might be something as innocuous as a piece of fruit, like the bruised bananas on a lunch tray, served to Mom in hospital. Like a metaphor, the damaged skin of the fruit, a once perfect thing, marred by all those who had touched it, leaving it indelibly changed. The paint—bleeding, soaking into the canvas—took some of the angst away. Whatever I was feeling, I purged part of it when I painted. Life made sense when I could recreate it in color.

But now the world in front of me was different. The farm would be another chapter. Could I catch the light here? Would my art evolve?

Sitting on the porch, the cold settled in my bones. I jiggled to warm up, wondering if I should just go inside but slightly hesitant in case Clay was undressed. He’d be the type who wouldn’t appreciate a girl wandering into his sanctuary. From what I’d gathered he was a private sort.

I knocked, and pressed my ear against the door. The cottage was silent, bar a few soft creaks: the wind, wrapping itself around the old place. Nerves fluttered, but I settled them with one of Mom’s wacky affirmations. Today will be a good day.
Today will be a good day.

After another two quick raps, I pushed the front door open. The fire crackled in the living room, so I wandered over. With my back to it, I called, “I’m here!” feeling like an intruder. Where was he? Wrenching myself away from the warmth I walked through the cottage calling his name. About to give up, I spun on my heel only to come face to face with him. “Oh. My. God.” My hand flew to my mouth. He was so close I could see the amber flecks in his eyes. “Are you some kind of serial killer? Who creeps up like that?”

He was like Dexter, standing there mute, clutching some ginormous piece of metal. He was so silent, I couldn’t even hear him breathing.

“And who lets themselves into a stranger’s house?” He gave me that same maddening look, like he wanted to eat me for breakfast.

“You said six; it’s past six.” I tapped the face of my watch. “I was waiting outside for ages.” I didn’t say how much of a culture shock the early wake-up was for me.

His face softened, and I breathed a sigh of relief, until he said, “What the hell are you wearing?”

I blushed. And creaked. Goddamn it! “Erm, farmer’s clothing. I asked an expert and this is what she recommended. Why, is it not suitable?” Lil hadn’t mentioned my outfit at the cafe, so I’d taken that as a sign it was the norm. Clay’s unnerving stare had the ability to make me second-guess myself.

“You look like an astronaut.”

I scoffed, but knew it was true. “Well you look like a…a…”

“A… What?” I took in his clothing, tight jeans, and a barely there tank top same as the day before.

My brain unscrambled. “Like some kind of stripper wannabe. Who are you channeling? Magic Mike?” He brought out the worst in me riling me up for no good reason. “I mean, aren’t you cold?” All the while I was silently cursing Bonnie for hooking me up with clothes that were obviously
not
the latest in farming wear.

“Cold?” He dropped his voice to a low growl. “I’m a warm-blooded male, Lucy. Can’t you tell?” He tilted his head. It was like a tennis match, volleying insults back and forth.

I scrunched up my face, like I’d sucked a lemon. “Is that so?” I get he was all sorts of hot, but really? A warm-blooded male—what was he insinuating? I’d had boyfriends in the past who’d tried to take the lead as if I didn’t have a brain in my head. The alpha-male affliction. I’m sure Clay was a carbon copy of that kind of guy. And a narcissist to boot. “You don’t look all that warm to me, Clay. In fact you look downright chilly.”

I gave him a slow dismissive, once-over, dragging my gaze from his face, down his body, and ending at his feet, which were not as ugly as most feet are. Goddamn it. He would make a great subject, those fiery eyes of his, and that clenched jaw, the way he held himself, tightly coiled, ready to pounce.

“I’m not on the market for a girlfriend, that’s all.”

“
Excuse me
?” I held in a harrumph, wary of going too far and losing the job before it began. “Well, I’m just here to work, so that’s one less thing to worry yourself over.” Clay seriously needed to lighten up. In the past maybe women had thrown themselves at him, but I certainly wouldn’t be one of them. Only one thing kept me from walking out that door: money. Money for a future that would be hundreds of miles from the likes of him.