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.
He gave me the oh yeah face like he didn’t believe me. “Can’t say I’m not relieved. So that’s settled then. Now, let’s do some work, if you can handle it.”
“That’s what I’m here for, besides the thought-provoking conversation that is.” My words poured out, honeyed with sarcasm. If I’d been sleepwalking through the morning, I was certainly awake now. He brought out a different side of me, one I didn’t know, but liked nonetheless. There was no way I’d stand there and let him try and mock me.
He reached out, his hand near my breast, my mouth went wide to protest. “Excuse…” He pulled a sweater from the hook behind me. I swallowed back the sentence.
“Better cover up, hey? I need you to focus today.” He winked. He actually winked as though I’d get a kick out of staring at his muscles, like some kind of lust-struck fool.
“Unless you’re a fan of frostbite, it would be wise to wear something warm, your warm blood can only do so much in winter…” I sneered as he pulled the sweater over his head. It killed me that my turncoat eyes darted a glance at his body before it was sheathed in fabric, and not crinkly farmer fabric either. He had muscles, and lots of them. Really such a body was wasted on a guy with an ego the size of Texas.
“Follow me,” he ordered, walking blithely past.
Today will be a good day.
We went outside, the cold shocking the air from my lungs.
With a grunt he pulled the barn door wide open. Inside was neat, benches were free of clutter, and tools were hung methodically on a board in order of size. Definitely Dexter traits.
With his back to me he said, “We have a lot to do today.” He threw a tool belt at me, which I caught one-handed as it whizzed past my ear. “You can start outside, head to the fence line, and pull the ivy off the posts. If you manage—” he gave me a pointed stare “—to get it all done, then you can sand them back, ready to paint come springtime.”
He strapped on his tool belt, and went to the wall. He selected a few tools and pushed them into the loops of his belt. I waited for him to tell me to choose which ones I’d like.
“Grab what you need,” he barked.
“OK…” I stared at the wall of shiny silver tools. None looking remotely like gardening implements.
“Let’s go.” He’d already turned and walked away. Hastily I snatched some shears, and a pronged fork that might be good to remove ivy.
He stomped off, and I scrambled to catch up with him. “Head west, and start by the lake, and work your way backward.”
My mouth hung open, as he pivoted and walked in the opposite direction than he’d pointed to. I was working alone? I’d expected we’d tap the trees, or do something together, until I’d learned more. Maybe this was my chance to prove I could work steadily, alone. With gusto, I walked west, marveling at the beauty of the snow-covered farm. I shivered slightly, until my quick steps warmed my body. I would get all the posts done and surprise him, walk confidently back and ask what next.
When I got to the fence and looked down the line, the posts growing smaller as my eyes tracked the distance, my heart sank. There were hundreds of them, as far as the eye could see. Surely, there was no way I could wrench ivy from every single post in one day. I knelt down, and twisted the tendrils of ivy loose, wincing as they tore into the soft flesh of my hands.
While the fences did need mending, by exposing the old posts, and taking the green-leafed shield away, I was also taking a little of the beauty away, and I wondered if Clay would think so too. The farm, overgrown and derelict, told its own unique story, and while we were restoring it, we were also erasing chapters of its past.
A few hours later the snowfall had increased, and Clay came searching for me. I was shivering, and still wrenching away ivy. With a grunt, he motioned for me to come inside. When I stood, my back cricked into place. A stretch had never felt so good. I furtively checked the palms of my hands, blanching when I saw the damage I’d done.
Back inside I warmed myself by the fire, waiting for instruction from Clay.
“There’s lunch in the kitchen for you. After you eat, you can help rip the old drywall off in here until the snowfall slows.” He went back to work, ripping down walls, and carrying the detritus away. It was like he was racing against time. He went fast, and had a determined look in his eye. Everything was invisible to him except the job he was focusing on.
***
The sky darkened, the sun retreating behind dense skies. With a sof
t sigh I used the crowbar to pry off a piece of broken drywall, my pace slower than Clay’s. Thick dust particles floated up, catching in the light, before swirling down over me, making my nose itch. It was a dirty job, and my fingers ached from tearing away the vestiges of the wall. Blisters popped up, making it difficult to hold the crowbar without letting a sob escape. There was no way in hell I was going to admit to Clay I was struggling. I’m sure at the first sign of weakness he’d say I wasn’t cut out for the job. My pride and my bank balance wouldn’t have that.
“Last wall,” he said, standing and stretching. His sweater rode high, exposing a deep V, like an arrow, a direction. I’d never imagined it could be so visually appealing, like the human body was designed with a symbol showing you the way to pleasure… I gasped, dropping the crowbar, which clanged to the wooden floor.
I made a show of searching the floor for it, so Clay wouldn’t see the blush creeping up my skin. What the hell? I blew out my cheeks. It wasn’t him…it was simply his body. Why couldn’t he be the clichéd lumberjack, heavily bearded, middle-aged, overall-wearing farmer? Instead, he was—I flicked my gaze back to him—he was…still stretching, his jeans slung low, he was tanned all the way down. I was asphyxiating, I was sure of it.
“Turn the fire off,” I groaned, pulling the crinkling, suffocating, plastic-wrap-like clothing from my neck.
Clay lifted a brow. “Turn the fire off? It doesn’t actually work that way. Maybe in your world…”
He was having a dig at me over my clothing yesterday. He’d pegged me for someone other than I was.
“Yeah, where I’m from you click your fingers, and fires go out.” I gave him a pointed stare. “And we use little hovercrafts too.” Suddenly the heat was gone from my body, as I stared at his cold-eyed expression. As hard as it was to bite my tongue, his one-liners irked me, and I found myself responding.
“Are you running from something, Lucy? Bad debts? A bad marriage?”
I scowled. I hated the fact he could see I was out of my comfort zone. And in a way, I was on the run, running toward some indistinct future.
“Far from it. I’m merely working my way around the world,” I said, huffiness getting the better of me. If Clay knew what my life entailed, he’d quit his yapping quick sticks, but my past was private. I wouldn’t have him feel sorry for me—when people knew my story and stared at me with that pitiful look in their eyes, my blood boiled. As though what I had to do to survive, and to make Mom’s life as easy as possible, was seen as a penance, and it evoked sympathy I didn’t want, or like. It wasn’t a burden caring for my mother, it was a privilege. And again I was hit with a bout of worry that Aunt Margot wouldn’t do it right.
Glowering, I flopped on the plastic-covered sofa, not caring that Clay would probably make some kind of snappy comment about stopping.
“So what’s your story, Clay? Word is you’re a little on the reclusive side? Got something to hide? A dead body or two buried around here?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You part of the Chinese whispers gang?”
I shrugged. “It’s a small town, there’s bound to be talk.”
“Well…” the fire was back in his eyes “…there’s nothing to know. The sooner they learn that the better.”
“Maybe. But you ever think you’re fueling the fire by hiding out?” Was he just a broody hothead? I sensed there was a lot more to Clay than met the eye.
“Who said I’m hiding out? I’m not going to fall over myself trying to fit in.”
I held up two fingers. “Peace. I really don’t care what you do or don’t do, I’m only pointing out that usually in small towns everyone knows everyone’s business and you might do well to get to know them if you plan on making a decent living here.”
“I don’t need anyone,” was his curt reply.
Everyone needed someone, surely? But I bit my tongue. I was here to save money, not save Clay.
“You should…”
“Yeah, work, I know.” I took the crowbar and bent down, prizing parts off the remaining wall, flinching slightly when I gripped the metal pole, sure one of my blisters popped. Gloves—why didn’t Bonnie supply me with gloves? My farmer’s assistant outfit was terribly flawed.
“The snow’s slowed down,” he said. “Head back outside to the fence line.”
***
A week later, I still wasn’t used to the manual labor. Each night my legs were heavy with fatigue, and walking back into town took double the amount of time when I wasn’t buzzing off a steaming hot gingerbread coffee, and a cinnamon-sugar pastry. Even though my hands were blistered and my feet sore, there was no chance of me accepting a lift from Clay out of principle. He said he wasn’t going to go easy on me and he hadn’t. Every day was a fresh challenge and I did my best to rise to it.
After another interminable day, I trudged down the icy road back to town, so tired I was almost sleepwalking.
When the main street came into view, I almost wept with relief. So. Close. To. Bed.
Storekeepers were rolling shutters down and packing chairs away. Some leaned against the brick of their buildings, and chatted to neighbors. Inside the Gingerbread Café, CeeCee was dashing about, wiping tables down, and restacking magazines into neat piles. I stumbled through the door to say hello, and hopefully buy something, anything, for dinner if I stayed awake long enough to eat.
She turned to the jangle of the doorbell as I walked ape-like—arms dragging beside my legs—to a table.
“Glory be, what’s gone and happened to you?” She scurried over, her face lined with concern.
I dropped my head onto the table. “I thought farmwork was easy. Turns out, it’s not.”
CeeCee let out a roar of laugher. “Oh, sweet child, are you just getting back now? It’s gone seven already.”
It hurt to talk so I just nodded, one step away from falling into a deep, possibly dribble-mouthed sleep. I hurt right down to the marrow of my bones.
“That sure is too long a day. Why’d he make you stay so long?” She frowned.
I managed a half shrug. “Probably because we spent half the day arguing. So between that, and a few accidents, the day lagged on.”
She folded her arms and looked down the bridge of her nose at me, worried. “What kinda accidents?”
“Rookie farmer’s assistant mistakes. I’ve been trying so hard, but sometimes, I have no idea what he’s ordering me to do. And I don’t want to ask. He races around doing tasks so quickly you’d think he was on a deadline. So I bumble along, hoping I’m doing the right thing. Apologizing when I’m not. He’s not exactly approachable. It’s easier to try and do it myself. He hollers out orders, and I follow.”
CeeCee’s face relaxed. “Sounds as though you’re doing a great job. I know he’s not easy to work for. There’s been a gaggle of people come and go from that place.”
“I have no idea if he likes my work or not—he doesn’t say. Just yells out the next missive and stalks away, back to hammering, and drilling and making lots of noise.”
The streetlights flicked on outside. I was probably keeping CeeCee from her nice warm home.
“You might be just the thing he needs, slap some sense into that handsome head o’ his. Folk tried to make friends but he ain’t interested. Don’t see how he’s gonna sell maple syrup if he keep turning people away who just tryin’ to make his acquaintance.”
Cee bustled to the fridge and took out a casserole dish.
“I don’t think he cares, Cee. He’s one of those good-looking hot guys with zero personality.”
“He just might be. I’m fixin’ you some pumpkin soup,” she said, ladling the liquid into a small saucepan, and heating it on the stove.
“If I could move, I’d hug you.” The aroma of spiced soup filled the air, making my mouth water in anticipation.
“Never mind that. It’ll get easier,” she said with her back to me, stirring.
I must have fallen asleep, because next minute CeeCee was shaking me gently on the shoul
der. She placed a steaming bowl of soup down, and a thick piece of buttered bread.
“Again, the Gingerbread Café makes all my dreams come true.”
She laughed and came back to the table with a second bowl, sat across from me, and smiled. “That’s our job. Get that soup in. You so skinny I can’t even see your shadow.”
***
“You sound like you’re drunk!” Mom said, worried.
I was only half awake, my mind slipping between conversation, and sleep. “I’m so tired. Golly.”
“Go to bed, honey. You don’t need to call me every day. Just get yourself used to the work first…”
I managed, “I love you,” before cradling the phone like it was a teddy bear, and falling into a deep sleep.
Chapter Six
I’m sure my snoring must have woken Rose up most nights. It had woken me on a number of occasions. As the days bled into each other, my body still ached whenever I stopped what I was doing.
I’d never slept so deeply in my life. A hurricane could have torn past and I would have been none the wiser. But the mornings were another story. After being prostrate for hours, I awoke stiff, and all folded in on myself. Limping to the bathroom, I hunched over, unable yet to stand up straight as my muscles protested every movement.
It was my second week at the farm, and as usual I wondered how in the heck was I going to walk all that way with my body stiff and sore. But I knew, once I started the long trek, my blood would pump through my tender muscles, making me limber. The body was a miraculous thing, the way it coped. It didn’t stop me from having a ten-minute mind battle with myself about jumping back into bed, and looking for an easier job.
I remembered the aborted phone call with Mom, the night before. I should have just zombie-walked my way to bed and gone to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. My incoherent mumblings might have worried her. I debated whether I should call now but I didn’t want to wake her.
Because Clay continued to make such a big deal about my work clothes, I put them on again, not worrying about the coat of dust that streaked them, and really having no choice. It wasn’t like I had any other suitable farm wear. And my money couldn’t stretch to another outfit. They were warm and waterproof and they’d do. Clay paid me a decent amount, but I had to save as much as I could, just in case I did apply to the Van Gogh Institute. If I did, and was somehow accepted, I would need enough money saved to live on for the entirety. The formidable tutors were well known for lengthy class times, and a barrage of tasks to complete at home. There wouldn’t be enough time to hold down a job as well. I’d promised myself I’d try and send money back home for mom too, so I’d have to be frugal.
Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm Page 7