Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

Maple sugar kisses

Lucy would do anything for her mom…but she never expected to end up promising to leave her. After her mom got sick, Lucy dropped everything to take care of her, working all hours in a greasy diner just to make ends meet and spending every spare moment she had by her mom’s hospital bedside.

Now, Lucy is faced with a whole year of living by her own rules, starting by taking the first bus out of town to anywhere…

Except she didn’t expect to find her next big adventure just around the corner! Especially when on her first day in town she bumps into grumpy, but oh-so-delicious Clay amid the maple trees. Surrounded by the magic of Ashford, Lucy has the chance to change her life forever and finally discover a life she wants to live!

Fall in love with Ashford, Connecticut, in this dazzling and beautiful romance from bestselling author Rebecca Raisin.

Praise for REBECCA RAISIN’s Gingerbread Café series

‘Christmas at the Gingerbread Café is a lovely, cheery festive read, a good old-fashioned feel-good romance to warm the cockles of your heart. This is one of my favourite Christmas reads of the year.’ Books with Bunny

‘This is a great novella that I really enjoyed reading and found that I didn’t want to put it down. It is the perfect read to get you in the mood for Christmas and my mouth was watering after reading about all of the delicious-sounding baking. If you are looking for a Christmassy romance then don’t look any further than Rebecca Raisin’s brilliant debut.’ Bookbabblers on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

‘Raisin not only excels in creating a festive mood—the tone of family and friends coming together is sweet—but also portrays a lovely winter-wonderland setting, where things are covered in snow. This makes the book feel cosy and safe. It’s definitely an uplifting read.’ Sam Still Reading on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

‘This is a short and incredibly sweet novella that explores a very endearing and unexpected romance. It is definitely one that will make you laugh and warm your heart, and one that can be happily devoured in one sitting.’ Louisa’s Reviews on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

‘If you love Christmas, romance and HEA then you will love this sweet novella.

This one gets an A!’ Clue Review on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

‘Wow—loved it, loved it, loved it! … It was just like I was visiting with old friends. Rebecca’s descriptions are so vivid I could very well have been stood in the café, hugging CeeCee and waddling out after sampling all the different chocolatey delights on offer. My mouth literally watered with every turn of the page. … I don’t know what I’m going to do whilst waiting for the next book—Christmas is so far away!!’ Crooks on Books on Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café

‘This book is sweet & delicious, and I am looking forward to the next in the series as they end all too quickly!’ All Booked Out on Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café

Also by Rebecca Raisin

Once in a Lifetime series

The Gingerbread Café trilogy

Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café

(The Bookshop on the Corner)

Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café

The Little Paris Collection

The Little Bookshop on the Seine

The Little Antique Shop under the Eiffel Tower

The Little Perfume Shop off the Champs-Elysees

Secrets at Maple Syrup Farm

Rebecca Raisin

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Rebecca Raisin 2015

Rebecca Raisin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474024983

Version date: 2018-06-20

REBECCA RAISIN

is a true bibliophile. This love of books morphed into the desire to write them. She’s been widely published in various short-story anthologies, and in fiction magazines, and is now focusing on writing romance. The only downfall about writing about gorgeous men who have brains as well as brawn is falling in love with them—just as well they’re fictional. Rebecca aims to write characters you can see yourself being friends with. People with big hearts who care about relationships, and, most importantly, believe in true, once-in-a-lifetime love.

To the girls I met in the UK and the ones who couldn’t make it, thanks for your unwavering support and friendship, always.

For Graham Basden

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Excerpt: The Little Bookshop on the Seine

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

With the beeps, drips, and drones, it was hard to hear Mom, as she waxed lyrical about my painting. Her voice was weaker today, and her breathing labored, but none of that took away from the incandescence in her deep blue eyes.

Wistfully she said, “Lucy, you have a real gift, do you know that?” She patted the white knitted hospital blanket. “Look at that sunset, it’s like I’m right there, stepping into the world you’ve created.”

I sat gently on the edge of the bed, doing my best to avoid the wires that connected my mom to the machine. These days her hair hung lank—the wild riot of her strawberry-blonde curls tamed by so many days indoors, head resting on a pillow. I tucked an escaped tendril back, and made a mental note to help her wash it later.

“You’re biased. You have to say that,” I said, keeping my voice light. Beside her, I cast a critical eye over the piece. All I could find was fault. The sun was too big, the sky not quite the right hue, and the birds with their wings spread wide seemed comical, like something a kindergartner would do. When it came to my art, I still had a way to go before I felt confident. Mom was the only person I showed my work to these days.

“Hush,” she said. “I could stare at this all day. If I close my eyes I feel the heat from the sun, the wind in my hair…”

That’s why I’d painted the picture. She’d been suffering quietly for so many years, in and out of hospitals, unable these days to pack her oversized backpack and follow her heart around the globe. She’d been a wanderer, always looking to the next city, a new host of people, a brand new adventure…but her diagnosis had changed all of that. Even though she never complained, I could read it in her eyes—she still yearned for that freedom.

My mom, a free spirit, looked out of place in the gray-white room. She needed sunshine, laughter, the frisson of excitement as she met other like-minded souls, nomads with big hearts and simple lifestyles. The painting, I hoped, would remind her of what we’d do when she was home again. A short road trip to the beach, where I’d sketch, and she’d gaze at the ocean, watching waves roll in.

“Honey, are you working a double tonight?” she said softly, her gaze still resting on the golden rays of sun.

I had to work as many shifts as I could. Our rent was due, and the bills mounting up, just like always. There were times I had to call in sick, to help Mom. We lived paycheck to paycheck, and I was on thin ice with my boss as it was. He didn’t understand what my private life was like, and I wasn’t about to tell him! It was no one’s business but my own. I kept our struggles hidden, a tightly guarded secret, because I didn’t want pity. That kind of thing made me want to lash out so I avoided it. When I had the odd day off, I tried to make up for it by covering any shift I could. We needed the money anyhow. “No,” I lied. “Not a double. I’ll be back early tomorrow and I’ll take you out to the rose garden.”

She gazed at me, searching my face. “No, Lucy. One of the nurses can take me outside. You stay home and rest.”

I scoffed. “You know the nurses won’t take you all that way. You’ll go crazy cooped up in here.”

She tilted her head. “You think you can fool me? Not a double, huh?” She stared me down, and I squirmed under her scrutiny. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got plenty to do here.” She waved at the table. “Sudoko, knitting, and…” Laughter burst out of us. The Sudoko and knitting needles were a gift from the lady in the bed over, who’d been discharged earlier that morning. When I’d walked in, Mom’s face had been twisted in concentration as she tried to solve the puzzle of numbers. The yarn lay on her lap, knotted, forgotten. She didn’t have the patience for that kind of thing, not these days, with her hands, her grip, unreliable at the best of times.

With a wheeze, she said, “There are not enough hours in the day to waste boggling my brain with knit two, pearl one, or whatever it is.”

I laughed. “I could use another scarf or two. Who cares if you drop a few stitches?” A million years ago Mom had taken up knitting for a month or so, producing with a flourish a bright pink sweater for me to wear to school. She’d been so damn proud of it, I hadn’t had the heart to point out all the holes from dropped stitches. She knew though, and looped a pink ribbon through them, and said, “Look, it’s all fixed with a belt.” I wore that sweater until it fell apart, knowing how much love she had poured into every stitch. It was one of her foibles, taking up a new hobby with gusto, and then dropping it when something else caught her eye. It was a sort of restlessness that plagued her, and she’d skip from one thing to another without a backward glance.

She gave me a playful shove. “I’m not the crafty one of the family, that’s for sure. That’s reserved especially for you. Would you put the painting by the window? I’m going to pretend we’re at that beach, drinking fruity cocktails, and squinting at the sunshine.”

“We’ll be there in no time,” I said, knowing we wouldn’t. It was January, rain lashed hard at the window. Detroit in this kind of weather had a gloominess about it; it cast a pall over the city, almost like a cloud of despair. It was different than other places in winter. Sadder.

I leaned the painting against the rain-drizzled glass, its colors too bright for the dreary room, but maybe that’s what she needed—a bit of vibrancy to counter the gray. The bleak city was not our first choice, but rent was cheap enough for us to afford on one wage. It pained me to think of the places we’d lived when we’d both worked. I’d loved the sun-bleached streets of Florida, and being blown sideways in the woolly weather of Chicago. Those were happier times, when we disappeared for weekend escapades. Home for me had always been where Mom was, as we squished our too-full suitcases closed, and moved from place to place.

Stepping back to the bed, I pulled the blanket up, and settled beside her, checking my watch.

“Before you head to work, I want to talk to you about something.” Her tone grew serious, and her face pinched.

“What, Mom?” I inched closer to her.

She cleared her throat, and gave me a hard stare. “I want you to make me a promise.” She held up her pinkie finger.

“OK,” I said warily. I’d promise my mom anything, she was the light in my life, but I sensed somehow this was going to be different. I could tell by her expression, the way she pursed her mouth, and set her shoulders. The air grew heavy.

“I mean it. You have to promise me you’ll do as I ask, and not question me.” Her lip wobbled ever so slightly.

I took a shaky breath as my mind whirled with worry. “What, Mom? You’re scaring me.” It was bad news. I was sure of it.

She shook her head, and smiled. “I know you, Lucy, and I know you’re going to struggle with this, but it’s important to me, and you have to do it, no matter what your heart tells you.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.” I stood up, folding my arms, almost to protect myself from what she might say. I stared deeply into her eyes, looking for a sign, hoping against hope it wasn’t something that would hurt.

“Trust me.” Her face split into a grin. “I want you to take one year for yourself. To travel…” She held up a hand when I went to interrupt. “Hush, hear me out. Tell your boss tonight—you won’t be coming back. Then go home and pack a bag, go to the station, and get on the first bus you see. The very first, you hear me? Let fate decide. Find a job, any job, save as much money as you can. I thought you might apply for that scholarship you’ve dreamed about at the Van Gogh Institute. You can stay with Adele in Montmartre. She’s excited by the prospect.”

Shock made me gasp. Take a year for myself? The Van Gogh Institute? I couldn’t think. I couldn’t catch my breath.

There was no way. But all I could manage to say was: “You spoke to Adele about this?” Adele was my art teacher back in high school. We’d kept in touch all these years. She was a mentor to me, and the best painter I knew. I’d left school at just fifteen, and only Adele knew the reasons behind my hasty exit. I hadn’t been there long enough to make real friendships. She continued to teach me art on Saturday mornings, cooped up in our tiny apartment. I don’t know if she saw something in my work or felt just plain sorry for me.

For years she arrived punctually every weekend, until a friend offered her a spot in her gallery in Paris. Saying goodbye to her had been heart-wrenching, but we kept in contact. She badgered me to share my work, and I sidestepped her gentle nudging by asking her about Paris.

“Adele’s all for it,” Mom said. “And before you go saying no, she agrees you should apply for the scholarship. It’s time, Lucy. Your work is good enough. You just have to believe in yourself.”

The Van Gogh Institute was a prestigious art school, notorious for being selective about their students, and far too expensive for me to ever have considered. Each year the school was inundated with scholarship requests, and I’d never felt confident enough to try for a place. Besides, I couldn’t leave Mom. She needed me more, and whatever ambition I had with my art would have to wait.

“The deadline for entries this year is the last day of April,” Mom continued to urge me. “So you’ve got a few months to decide. Maybe you’ll paint something even more wonderful on your jaunts. You’ll be spoilt for choice about which ones to send for the submission process.” The room grew warm, as so many emotions flashed through me. The thought of sharing my work filled me with fear. I’d tried hard to be confident, but people staring at it, and judging me, made my heart plummet. I shook the idea firmly out of my mind before it took hold. Me leaving for a year? There were about a thousand reasons why it just couldn’t happen.

I narrowed my eyes. What Mom was suggesting was just plain crazy.

“Mom, seriously what are you thinking? I can’t leave! I don’t understand why you’d even suggest it.” I tried to mask the hurt in my voice, but it spilled out regardless. We were a team. Each day, we fought the good fight. It was us against the world, scrambling to pay bills, get medical treatment, live for the moment, those days where she felt good, and we pretended life was perfect.

She took a deep breath, trying to fill her lungs with the air she so desperately needed. “Honey, you’re twenty-eight years old, and all you’ve seen these last few years is the inside of a hospital room, or the long faces of the patrons in that god-awful diner. That isn’t right. You should be out with friends, or traipsing around the world painting as you go—not working yourself to the bone looking after me. I won’t have it. Take one year, that’s all I ask.” She gave me such a beseeching look I’m sure I heard the twang as my heart tore in two.

“It’s impossible.” I summoned a small smile. “Mom, I get what you’re saying, but I’m happy, truly I am. Any talk of leaving is silly.” She must see? Without my work at the diner there’d be no money coming in. Rent, bills, medical treatment, who’d pay for all of it? And worse still, there’d be no one to care for her. How could she survive without me? She couldn’t. And I doubted I could either.

“Your Aunt Margot is coming to stay. She’s going to help me out, so you don’t need to worry about a thing.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Aunt Margot? When’s the last time you two spoke?” Aunt Margot, Mom’s older sister, hadn’t struggled like my little family of two had. She’d married a rich banker type, and wiped us like we were dusty all those years ago after she tried unsuccessfully to curb Mom’s travel bug. Aunt Margot’s view was Mom should’ve put down roots, and settled down, the whole white picket fence, live in the ‘burbs lifestyle.

According to her, Mom traipsing around America with a child in tow, working wherever she could, was irresponsible. There were times we moved so often that Mom homeschooled me, and Aunt Margot couldn’t come to terms with it. If only Aunt Margot could see how much life on the road had broadened me. I’d learned so much and grown as a person, despite being reserved when it came to my art. We didn’t need the nine-to-five job, and the fancy car. We only needed each other.

A few years ago, Mom tried to reconnect with Aunt Margot, their fight festering too long, but she didn’t want anything to do with us nomads. Mom still didn’t know I overheard them arguing that frosty winter night. Aunt Margot screeched about Mom breaking a promise, and said she couldn’t forgive her. Mom countered with it was her promise to break—I still have no idea what they were talking about, and didn’t want to ask, or Mom would know I’d been eavesdropping. But it had always made me wonder what it could have been to make two sisters distance themselves from one another for so many years.

For Mom to reconnect with Aunt Margot now meant she was deadly serious. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Aunt Margot living in our tiny one-bedroom apartment. She wouldn’t lower herself. I’d sort of cooled toward my once doting aunt, after hearing her spat with Mom. She’d been judgmental, and narrow-minded, for no good reason.

“We’ve been talking for a while now. We’ve really mended the bridges.” Mom tried to rearrange her expression, but it was farcical, her smile too bright to be believable.

I squinted at her. “Really? Now who’s messing with who?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Well, we’re on speaking terms at least. And she offered to help so you could go away for a bit. So I don’t want to hear any more excuses. Got it?”

Stepping back to the bed, I hugged her small frame, resting my head on her shoulder so she wouldn’t see the tears pool in my eyes. How could I tell her I didn’t want to go? Leaving her would be like leaving my heart behind. Plus, accepting favors from Aunt Margot… We’d never hear the end of it.

Mom pushed me back and cupped my face. “I know you’re scared. I know you think it’s the worst idea ever. But, honey, I’ll be OK. Seeing you miss out on living, it’s too much. The young nurses here gossip about their weekends and all the fun things they manage to cram into each day, and then there’s you, the same age, wasting your life running round after me. Promise me, one year, that’s all. Can you just imagine what you’ll learn there with all those great teachers? Just the thought…just the thought…” Her eyes grew hazy as she rewrote my life in her dreams.

I knew to grow as an artist I needed proper training, but that was for people who had lives much more level than mine. My day-to-day life was like a rollercoaster, and we just held on tight for the downs, and celebrated the ups when they came. But Mom’s expression was fervent, her eyes ablaze with the thought. I didn’t know how to deny her. “Fine, Mom. I’ll start saving.” Maybe she’d forget all this crazy talk after a while.

“I’ve got some money for you, enough for a bus fare, and a few weeks’ accommodation, until you land a job. It’s not much, but it will start you off. You can go now, honey. Tomorrow.”

“Where’d you get the money, Mom?”

She rested her head deeper into the pillow, closing her eyes as fatigue got the better of her. “Never you mind.”

My stomach clenched. She’d really thought of everything. Aunt Margot must have loaned it to her. And I knew that would come at a price for Mom. There’d be so many strings attached to that money, it’d be almost a marionette. There was no one else she could have asked.

When I was in middle school my father had waltzed right out of our lives as soon as things got tough, and since then not a word, not a card, or phone call. Nothing. That coupled with our lack of communication with Aunt Margot, a woman who cared zero about anything other than matching her drapes to her lampshades, made life tough. But we’d survived fine on our own. We didn’t take handouts; we had pride. So for Mom to do this, borrow money, albeit a small amount, and have Aunt Margot come and rule her life, I knew it was important to her—more important than anything.

“I just… How can this work, Mom?” I folded my arms, and tried to halt the erratic beat of my heart.

Just then a nurse wandered in, grabbed the chart from the basket at the end of the bed, and penned something on it. “Everything OK?” she asked Mom, putting the chart back and tucking the blanket back in.

“Fine, everything’s fine, Katie. My baby is setting off for an adventure and we’re excited.”

Katie was one of our regular nurses—she knew us well. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time, Crystal!” She turned to me. “And, Lucy, you make sure you write us, and make us jealous, you hear?”