Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

I returned her hand squeeze. She had no idea how much her words meant to me. I was missing my mom fiercely, but maybe Rose would help curb that loss a fraction. Even though I was hesitant making friends, Rose had a grandmotherly way about her. “Thanks, Rose.”

Girls my age probably had a much better hold on themselves at twenty-eight than I did. But I was all sorts of lost without the anchor of my old life. Regret sat heavy in my belly, as I rued making Mom the promise in the first place. It was a foolish idea to jet around the world like a carefree itinerant. The year was going to drag on, until I could finally go home where I belonged.

Rose pulled me down the hallway until we came to a door. With a flourish she pushed it open. The room smelt musty, like it had been closed up for a long time, but it was neat. There was a double bed, and a small dresser. We shared a room in Detroit—usually I flopped on the sofa when I crept in. A whole bed to myself would be a luxury.

“Here’s the bathroom.” She opened a door off to the side, and my breath caught. “Everyone always does that.” She laughed. While the bedroom was small the bathroom was huge, spacious enough for a double vanity and an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. “I made some renovations a few years back, and they knocked a wall through from the other side so the bathroom would be bigger.”

“Wow, you did a great job. No flowers?”

She chortled. “I thought maybe one room should be flower free.” She scratched her chin. “But I regret that choice every day.”

The bathroom was all white, with touches of cream in the tiling. Thick, fluffy towels were stacked next to the bath. It was like an oasis for my tired, overwrought mind. I knew I’d spend a lot of time soaking in the tub. We didn’t have one at home, and just the thought made me want to buy bubble bath, and a book to while the hours away indulgently.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” she said. “There’s soap and a few toiletries under the sink, and you just yell out if you need a hand.” With that she stepped from the room leaving only the scent of her perfume.

Casting another cursory glance around the room, I placed my art portfolio on top of the dresser drawers, and swung my backpack to the end of the bed. Time to unpack, and make the room my temporary home.

From the front pocket of my bag, I took out a picture frame. In the photo Mom had her arms looped around my shoulders. The wind whipped around us making her strawberry-blonde curls tangle into my flaxen hair. Behind us the sun shone, making it look as though we had haloes, but it was our faces, the sheer happiness that radiated that I loved. It was taken pre-diagnosis, where the world had been ours for the taking, and the only routine we had was waking up each morning. I gave the photo a quick kiss, and put it on the windowsill.

When we found out about Mom’s condition, and how easily it could deteriorate, our world swung dangerously off its axis for a while, until we regrouped, and collected ourselves. We’d hit a fork in the road, and veered the wrong way for a time, but eventually we had to accept it. There was no choice. We couldn’t change the diagnosis; we could only do our best to make Mom’s future as bright as possible.

Responsibility was thrust on us. Medical appointments and money woes ruled our days, but that didn’t stop us dreaming. It hurt to walk in and see Mom staring at the TV, a filmy light casting shadows over her face, her ready smile gone.

I tried a multitude of ways to cheer her up in those first dark months. One night I found a bunch of old magazines, and bought a sunny yellow scrapbook. I told her to find pictures that inspired her, that made her happy.

We cut and pasted tiny squares of shiny paper every night. It was our dream travel book—we visualized what could be. It didn’t take long for us to fill the pages with cuttings of spicy tapas in Spain, or diving with dolphins in Australia. The ruins of Rome. Tulips in Amsterdam. Famous paintings I wanted to see. Museums we wanted to wander inside. That was the thing about dreams—they could be as big and bold as you liked. Mom took a shine to scrapbooking, and unlike her other hobbies, she stuck with it.

With a wobbly smile, I took our dream travel book from my backpack, and flopped onto the plush bed. I creaked it open, its pages fat with cheap glue. The very first picture: a cutout of the Eiffel Tower, standing tall and proud, its night lights twinkling bon jour.

Did she know, all that time ago, that I should end up there? Maybe she’d always hoped I’d try out for the Van Gogh Institute. I’d often talked in an awed hush about visiting the Musée d’Orsay to ogle Van Gogh’s portraits. Or taking a day trip northwest of Paris to see the garden where Claude Monet painted the Water Lilies. Pipe dreams, or so I’d thought.

Pleasure bloomed in my heart at the thought I might get to do these things, despite not having my mom with me. Once-in-a-lifetime adventures were within reach, if only I could do it on my own. Carefully, I tucked the scrapbook into the bedside drawer. There’d be time enough to flip its full pages. I yawned, so tempted to sleep. Without the usual rush of my life, I was as drowsy as a cat in summertime.

But I had to find a job. I’d dillydallied enough this morning. I could easily end up stranded and penniless here. Mom didn’t have the same fears as me, always believing the universe would provide, that a solution would appear. As much as I loved the universe, real fear of being broke sat heavy on my shoulders.

With a groan, I pulled myself up and went to wash my face. The cool water refreshed me. The thought of breakfast at the Gingerbread Café was enough to inspire me to get going.

Chapter Three

I recognized a booming laugh before I’d even got to front door of the Gingerbread Café. It was quickly followed by a shriek. As I approached the window, CeeCee’s round frame was bent double, hooting as amusement got the better of her.

Pushing the door open, a jangle of bells announced my arrival. The café was busy. Customers lolled on chairs by the window, or cupped their chins, bent over a table with friends. By the fire an elderly gentleman had fallen asleep, a newspaper crumpled in his lap, his snores punctuating the chatter in the café.

The scene was completely opposite to the old diner I’d worked in, where men hung their heads over weak cups of coffee, their eyes vacant, as though their lives had passed them by. Night-shift workers, truck drivers, and women dressed in flashy sequins, holes in their stockings, their heels scuffed; they all had that same pall, a kind of defensiveness in their faces, a clenched jaw, stiff posture.

But here, it was almost like walking into a storybook. There was a relaxed and cozy air about the place, but somehow it made me feel on edge, like I didn’t belong. They’d see straight through me, and know I wasn’t like them. I was a drifter in their midst. They had easy smiles, and ready laughs, and I was so used to being guarded, and careful, so that nothing would be taken from me. No one wanted a sob story where I’d come from. And I was loath to share mine anyway.

I hung my coat by a rack near the door as my senses were assaulted with the sweetest smells. Chocolate, coffee, and the spiciness of gingerbread baking. It was like I’d been lifted up and transported to a sugary-scented paradise. Music played chirpily overhead, while customers sipped coffee and gossiped.

I walked to a display cabinet full of chocolate truffles in every shape and size, some dusted with red with some type of glitter, some with delicate gold leaf. My mouth watered while I tried to make up my mind about which I’d choose. Thoughts of saving money dogged me—even though I needed these chocolates like I needed air to breathe. As subtly as I could, I whipped out my cell phone and snapped some pictures to send to Mom. She’d get such a kick out of the artistry on each truffle. If I did land the job at the farm, I’d post Mom a box of the gourmet chocolates home, as a celebratory gift.

“Well lookie here, it’s Lucy.” CeeCee pulled me into a bear hug so tight she squashed the air from my lungs.

After she released me from the squishiness of her ample frame, I said, concerned, “You’re working after no sleep?” We’d napped intermittently just before dawn, but not enough that I could make my brain fire on all cylinders if I needed to. CeeCee must’ve had the energy of child, dashing about in the café like she was. I slipped off my gloves, and rubbed my hands together.

“I’ve had so much coffee I won’t sleep for days. Now what can I get you?” She waved to people walking past, and then focused on me.

I gestured to the chocolates, nervous as suddenly all eyes in the café landed on me. “How can you choose?”

She guffawed. “Ain’t no way you can, my sweet cherry blossom. That’s part of our cunning plan to keep folks vistin’ every day! How about you take a seat by the window, and I’ll bring you a gingerbread coffee and a selection o’ my favorites?” She spun me around and nudged me in the right direction.

“Umm,” I protested feebly as CeeCee trundled off, whistling a song, drawing amused smirks from customers. She’d said breakfast on the house, but even that was too much. I couldn’t take handouts. “Cee…” She was already talking to another customer, so I took refuge at a table, and looked studiously out the window, avoiding the curious glances that came my way.

A minute later, CeeCee said, “Mind, it’s hot.” She placed a coffee, a plate of bacon and eggs, and a golden box full of truffles on the table. My stomach rumbled in appreciation.

“This is too much, Cee. You have to tell me what I owe you.” I blushed, wondering how much such a deluxe breakfast would cost, frantically calculating in my mind.

She waved me away. “It’s your ‘Welcome to Ashford’ meal, so put it out o’ your mind, cherry blossom. It’s just our way round here.”

I knew CeeCee could see straight through me, and she was only being nice so I could save face. I finally managed, “Thank you, Cee. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime, sugar plum. Lil,” she said. “This here’s Lucy, the one I was telling you ‘bout. First time being a passenger with one o’ Jimmy’s near misses!” She shook her head and ruched her skirt up to sit before gesturing to a curvy, blonde-haired girl, who gave me a big wave. Lil was beautiful in that all-American, girl-next-door way. I returned her wave, and smiled.

“Sometimes I think ol’ Jimmy thinks he’s a race-car driver or some such!” A trio of elderly women at the next table nodded, as if they knew all about Jimmy.

I grinned at CeeCee, the accident not as scary in the light of day. “He handled it well, but I’m not too keen to repeat the journey, that’s for sure.”

Lil wandered over and sat with us. “CeeCee was mighty glad you were there when Jimmy lost control. She might pretend to be blasé, but really she was scared witless. Isn’t that right, Cee?”

“Hush now,” CeeCee said. “Don’t you give away my secrets.” They gave each other a look, like best friends do, one where words aren’t needed to convey a message.

“What made you decide on sleepy old Ashford?” Lil asked, propping her face in her palms.

It was almost like a spotlight shone down on me. The girls asked so many questions and I could see people peering at me over the tops of their mugs, inclining their bodies closer to listen. It was nerve-racking but I pulled on a smile and said, “It was as simple as catching the only bus out of town, which happened to be stopping here.” I shrugged.

What I didn’t say was the crying jag I’d had upon leaving had zonked me so much that I missed most of the journey, lost inside my head, in a lonely haze.

“Wow, I like your style,” Lil said. “That takes some courage, just getting on any old bus.”

“I figured it was fate. I’m…escaping for a year and seeing where the wind takes me.” There. I was sure I sounded convincing enough. Maybe they’d think I was just a young girl with no attachments. No sad past, just an amiable soul, crisscrossing the globe.

“Ain’t that something?” CeeCee said. “Everyone’s gotta have an adventure at least once in their lives. When you’re as old as me, you’ll know. Time flies, quicker than you ever imagine.” She stared into the distance, as if she was thinking of someone else. I followed her gaze to an empty store across the road with an old sign advertising handcrafted furniture.

She shook her head as if dislodging a thought. “Anyways, you’re going to love it here. I can always tell.” Hefting herself from the table, she gave my shoulder a pat. “You go on an’ eat now, and if you run out o’ truffles you go on and let me know.”

Lil groaned. “I was hoping for a five-minute sit-down, Cee.” She made a show of pulling herself up from the chair. “She’d work me to the bone quick as look me.” She winked at me.

CeeCee narrowed her eyes. “Ain’t that the truth? The cakes don’t bake themselves, sugar plum.” I hid a grin at the way they teased each other. They were obviously the best of friends. I could imagine them confiding in each other, and always having someone on their side. It made me wish for a friendship like theirs. Could I ever be that open with someone other than Mom? I’d never had the chance to create a lasting bond with any of the girls I’d met on our travels, because we’d never stayed long enough. It would be nice to have someone to confide in, someone who’d keep your secrets.

Lil gave me a dazzling smile, and said, “CeeCee’s excited because she’s making apple tarte tatin—from a recipe given to her by a certain Frenchman who shall remain nameless.”

CeeCee put her hands on her hips. “You gonna keep razzin’ me about Guillaume, I’m gonna march over the road and tell Damon that you the one who ate the pie he ordered especially for a customer o’ his.” I wondered how all these people fit together: friends, lovers, customers?

Lil’s eyes went wide. “OK, OK. Sheesh, how was I supposed to know it was for his customer? You can’t just bake something that smells like heaven itself and leave it in front of me like some kind of invitation. Anyone would have done the same.” She glanced at me for hoping for an ally. I grinned, and stared into my mug.

“But the whole pie?” CeeCee shook her head and faced me. “The amount that girl eats—must have hollow legs. Come now, Lil, let’s bake and you forget all about my Frenchman.” She blushed. “I’m too old for this kinda carry on,” she said, her voice lilting.

Lil laughed and bent to whisper, “It’s her new boyfriend but we’re all supposed to pretend he isn’t!”

The girls were like a breath of fresh air, their routine comical, as they badgered each other with good nature.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that,” CeeCee said mock sternly. “Eat, Lucy, ‘fore you waste away on us.”

With my head spinning from it all, I bit into the first chocolate truffle, and closed my eyes as I savored the flavor. The taste sensation exploded in my mouth—dark chocolate, and cherry with a hit of liqueur, encased in a tiny ball of goodness. All of life’s problems could be forgotten when you ate chocolate as delectable as this. While I was still jittery about being here, the girls somewhat assuaged that with their antics.

A young woman dashed into the café, flicking her glossy brown curls over her shoulder. “I need coffee!” she yelled dramatically. “Preferably by an IV, if you can.”

CeeCee cackled like a witch. “And let me guess, chocolates served up by the pound?”

The girl pretended to be surprised, clapping a hand over her mouth. “How did you know? You’re like…the chocolate whisperer!”

“Probably because you say that every day, my sweet cherry blossom. Lucy this here’s Becca—works at the hair salon up the road.” CeeCee turned back to Becca. “Why don’t you go sit over there with Lucy. She’s new here, looking for work.” CeeCee gave her a pointed stare. “And we drove right on past the Maple Syrup Farm this mornin’ if you get my drift.”

Becca gasped. “You did? Let me go speak to this exotic creature.”

I would have blushed like crazy if people back home spoke of me in such a way, but here it was done with such humor and warmth. So far the townspeople were lively and funny, and so open it was like watching a play being performed, and I was the audience.

With a sweep of her hand, Becca sat regally at the table. “Lucy, my lovely. Work you say?” She arched an eyebrow in a theatrical way.

“Why?” I said, oddly out of step with the latest customer to spill through the doors. Was no one here quiet and unassuming? Each person I met one-upped the last with their antics. I’m sure it would make living in Ashford fun but it was so foreign to me. I played along, hoping I’d get the hang of their easy camaraderie. “Are you expecting me to dance on tables or something?” I said, safe in the knowledge that was probably not the case.

She whacked the table, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “No, no!” she said. “But are you really looking?” Her voice dropped to a more neutral tone.

“I really am.”

“It’s not a pretty job…” Her forehead furrowed, and she surveyed her nails, as if buying time. “Actually, it’s rather, well…messy.”

I surreptitiously glanced at my own nails. They were chipped, the light pink polish bitten to the quick as I’d made my way here. “That’s OK. I’m in no position to be fussy right now.”

“Great!” Her voice carried around the café. “My cousin needs a hand.”

CeeCee piped up. “Becca is Clay’s cousin. That ramshackle property we passed on the bus…the Maple Syrup Farm.”

The very same job I was intent on applying for. The chance meeting with Becca was great timing—maybe she could give me some pointers on what to tell the so-dubbed reclusive Clay. “So what should I do, Becca?”

“Just mosey over there and say you’re ready to work. He needs someone urgently so don’t take no for an answer.” She wrinkled her nose. “But it’s not going to be easy.”

I waved her away. Easy? How hard could farmwork be? Outside surrounded by the beauty of nature, I’m sure it would be as easy as ABC. And something my hippy mom would enjoy hearing about.

More important was landing the job. My whole future hinged on it. “Any advice on how I can convince him that I’m the girl for the job?” My voice pitched, giving away the worry I felt. No doubt he’d prefer someone who knew exactly what farmwork required, but I was convinced I could do it. Maybe it was desperation speaking, but given a chance, I’d show him I was more than willing to work hard.

Becca cocked her head, grimacing slightly. “Stand your ground. Clay’s…sort of used to being alone. But he really does need help, otherwise he won’t get the trees tapped for syrup.” The words spilled out quickly, like she was trying convince me.

Stand my ground? I imagined Clay—a man used to being alone—as some crinkle-faced, weathered farmer, set in his ways. “OK, any other tips?”

She waited a beat. “Don’t take anything he says to heart.”

I frowned. “I’ll keep that in mind. So no need to spout on about my love of the outdoors, or my urge to…farm?”

Laughter spilled from Becca’s bright-pink lips. “No, definitely no need for that. Just be confident, and don’t give in when he says no on sight. He seems to think he can do it all alone sometimes, and then resents the fact he can’t.”

“OK. I thought maybe I should be the full bottle on farming equipment or something, so he knows I’m capable.”

“Nope.” She flashed a smile. “He can teach you the basics. You’ll be fine.”

“Right,” I said, feeling strangely confident. “Thanks, Becca. It’ll be a beautiful place to spend time. I’ll head over and see what he says.” I caught the wide-eyed look Lil and Becca exchanged and wondered just what kind of man Clay was.

Not an easy one, by the look of it.

Chapter Four

After leaving the café, I strolled along the main street of Ashford, peering into store windows, soaking up the atmosphere, when a travel agency caught my eye. I gazed at posters of exotic locations. One had Indian women dressed in vibrant-colored saris. Another an orangutan with an almost human-like face, the text below suggesting a vacation to Sumatra. Gondoliers in Venice. The Eiffel Tower in Paris.

The wanderlust in my DNA pulsed a little quicker. Before Mom had me, she’d hotfooted it around the globe—these posters reminded me of her travels. I had albums of her twenty-something face, carefree and lit with wonder as she stood, wrapped in sky-blue cheesecloth, next to an elephant that dwarfed her. She’d been on safari in Africa, before heading to the UK to work in a pub, where there were photos of her holding a pint glass filled with black stout, saving for her next jaunt.

Nothing had held her back; she’d siphoned every ounce of joy from her life, before she was struck down. She’d squashed so much into her days, each hour counted. There was something timeless about it.

“Can I help you?” A man popped his head around the archway of the door, startling my reverie. My gaze darted to his sweater that read Take the plunge, visit New Zealand.

What would New Zealand be like? Another place to add to the one-day list.

“Have you got any brochures for Paris?” I stuttered, feeling put on the spot.

The slightly stooped man motioned me inside. I glanced at my watch—a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. After all, for once, I didn’t actually have to be anywhere. The sudden freedom gave me a sense of euphoria. The farm could wait another ten minutes. It wasn’t like Clay was expecting me…unless the Ashford grapevine had reached him already.

“I’ve got brochures for Paris, Pakistan, Peru. Whatever you want.” He was jolly, and ruddy-faced.

He rifled through a stack of shiny brochures before finding one with a picture of a couple smooching under the Eiffel Tower.

“Anything else?” he asked handing me the brochure. “I’m Henry, by the way.”

“No, that’s perfect. Lucy,” I said, and held out my hand to shake. I wanted to grab a fistful of brochures, to cut them and paste them into our scrapbook, but visiting these places might become a reality now, and without Mom, it didn’t seem right to fill the book anymore. It had been our project. Our wish list.

“Have you been to Paris?” I stalled, wanting to stare at the exotic locations, dream of another life, a different me. The wonderful things I could capture on canvas. Chance snapshots, like an over-ripe coconut felled from a tree, the bandy brown legs of its lopper.

“Paris? Sure have. Let’s see.” He ran a hand over his head. “Must’ve been thirty-odd years ago now. All I had was a few French francs in my pocket, and a backpack hitched over my shoulder. The people there, they were something else, inspired, eccentric.” There was glimmer in his eye as he recalled his vacation. “Always wanted to go back there.”

“Why didn’t you?” The eternal question. Why did people leave the places they loved?

He scratched the stubble on his chin. “There was always somewhere new to discover. Once you’re hit with the travel bug, well, you just want to go ahead and see it all.” His voice softened as he gazed over the top of my head, almost as if he were back in Paris, the young man he must have been thirty years ago. “I wanted to walk those back streets, and find joy in patches of the world that so many before me had been, leaving only their footprints, and maybe a piece of their heart, their lives indelibly changed.”

My mom would love Henry. She had that same faraway look in her eyes when she recalled her travels before she was housebound to a degree. It was hard not to feel glum. Mom should be here too, plotting her next trip, and following the summer. “Seems like there’s two types of people: those who wander the earth, and those who don’t,” I said.

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.”