Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

by Rebecca Raisin

  So many secrets for such a small town. “What did you make of it all?”

  Rose put a hand to her heart. “He was a shadow of a man by the time I met him. Like the life had been zapped out of him… But he was nice, just lost, and broken by then. He sold maple syrup, so eventually he had to chat to locals, but he still held back, didn’t make small talk for the sake of it.”

  “You think he would be proud his farm’s getting fixed up?”

  “I think so, dear. He had plans for that place—that was one of the only things he talked about that brought some color back to his face. But age got the better of him. And by himself, he just couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t accept help from anyone. Some people are just private like that.”

  I buttered a piece of bread and dipped it into my soup. “That explains all the half-done projects around the place. He must have struggled to do it all.”

  Rose placed her wineglass down, and said, “People say they see him there, at dusk, a silhouette by the maples. But it’s just the memory of him they’re seeing. That’s where he always seemed to be, right near those trees, almost as if he was talking to them.”

  My skin broke out in goose bumps at the thought. He was still there in spirit. Wandering behind us, stepping lightly on our footprints. CeeCee had said something similar about Jessup when we met on the bus. It was a bittersweet notion, that the man loved that place so much he was loath to leave, even in death.

  “Did you ever see him painting or sketching?” I asked.

  She cocked her head, thinking. “No, but then, I only ever saw him by the applecart. That doesn’t mean he didn’t. Who knows what he did behind closed doors. Gives me comfort thinking he had something like that to pour his heart into.”

  “There’s something about his work,” I said. “I was flicking through it again, and it’s almost like I recognize it, but how could I?” The style, the complexity, it was as though I’d seen it before. It was the way he accentuated the woman’s eyes, so full of depth, so intricate that it was hard to focus on the rest of the drawing, almost as though the eyes told their very own story—the reflection in them, the density. But an old farmer? I didn’t know any artists with the name Jessup. Still, that nagging feeling irked me.

  “Do you think it’s a sign you should be concentrating on your work more, dear?” She gave me a half smile. “There’s no point wasting a gift like yours. You can’t keep it secret forever, can you?”

  I’d shown Rose a sketch I’d done the year before of some yellow daisies, because she was a flower fanatic. She had such a gentle way about her, I’d felt confident enough to see what she thought. “You think it’s fate that I found the journals that just so happened to be full of sketches?”

  She laughed, and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I certainly do.”

  “My mom would totally agree with you, Rose.” She believed nothing was coincidence, just invisible arrows from the universe, directing your life if you kept an eye out for them. “Lil said the same thing about my art.”

  “Time to be loud and proud about what you love.”

  The night before I had studied the sketches in the journals for so long my vision had blurred, trying to break down his technique, and see how he managed to make the girl’s face so soft, yet so lucid, like she was real. Compared to him, I was an absolute rookie. I could learn a lot from his work. And I felt honored to be able to gawk at the sketches, uninterrupted. It was like a gift.

  “It’s so nice to have someone to sit down and eat dinner with,” Rose said.

  I gave her hand a pat. “Tomorrow I’ll make something fancier.”

  “It’s lovely having you here, Lucy. And don’t you worry about cooking, let me make something for you. You can’t work all day and then trudge home and do more.”

  I went to protest when Rose’s gaze flicked to the bench that was covered with discarded pumpkin skin, open jars of spices, and an alarming number of dirty pots since I’d only made a so-called one-pot soup. “Oh, I was going to clean all that up.” I laughed.

  “You just walk home safe and sound, and I’ll have something nice waiting.”

  ***

  After a quick shower, I dived into bed, eager to read the journal before the sandman found me. The comfort of the bed was a sure-fire eye closer.

  Tapping for maple syrup has given me purpose. I feel an affinity for the ancient trees. The sugar season is short, only six weeks or so. These thick-trunked trees provide for me. It’s like a kind of alchemy, making their water-like liquid into thick luscious syrup. It’s a lot of work, there are so many of them. But I talk to them. They’re like friends standing guard over me. I can’t lose a drop of their precious nectar—it would be an insult to them—so each day I trek over and empty their overnight hauls. It’s like a present from them to me.

  It’s a science getting the spiles in at the right angle, and then taking the fluid and boiling it slowly to the exact right temperature. One misstep and the batch is ruined. I take things slowly; I will not waste a drop of what my maples produce for me. My arthritic hands make everything laborious, and sometimes fear seizes me: I won’t be able to tap them soon. My body slowly gives up on me. Each day there’s a new concern, legs that don’t bend right, a heart that misses a beat. But I have to try.

  Their trunks are luminous at night when the moon shines. Stars glitter above showing me the way. When nightmares collar me, I wake sweating, my heartbeat erratic, I go to them. Talk, as though they’re listening, my secret keepers, my friends who don’t judge me.

  In the sleepy mornings, with my journal in hand, and my back against a tree, I write in the hope that it heals me somehow. Some days, the darkness doesn’t come, and I think it’s because of them, the maples. I sit, soaking up their energy like a panacea. Being that close it’s almost as though they understand my pain and absorb some of it. The crazy ramblings of an old man, in love with some trees.

  When I can’t see through the fog of the past, I work. Until sweat drips into my eyes, and my hands ache. When I’m stooped over like the old man I’ve become, then I call it a day. I can sleep then, dreamless and weightless.

  It was as though I absorbed his words, felt the essence of his pain. The maples were like magic for the old man. I’d make Clay listen. I wondered if he knew the trees only produced for six weeks. Timing was everything, when it came to the syrup.

  His next sketch was of the maple trees, with spiles embedded into their trunks, and a bucket hanging over it to catch the drips. Could it be that simple to tap them? My breath caught when I noticed a woman in the far left corner. He’d drawn her sitting by the lake, hands clasped around her ankles, a voluminous skirt draped around her. Again, the detailed eyes, almost like if you stared long enough she’d come to life. I must have seen his work somewhere before, I kept getting that shiver of recognition. Adele would know; I’d learned almost everything art-related from her.

  I closed the journal and ran a hand over the cover, hoping the old man had found peace eventually at the farm, and dialed Adele, mentally calculating the time difference from America to Paris, and hoping it wasn’t the early hours of the morning.

  Adele answered, “Oui?” Her voice was hazy with sleep.

  “Whoops,” I said, realizing I’d counted the hours the wrong way, and it would be just after six a.m., instead of six p.m. “Sorry, Adele, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Her voice came back brighter. “Lucy, is that you?”

  “Yes,” I laughed, she dropped the French and continued in English. “Oh my word, how are you? I’ve been expecting a phone call ever since your mom rang.” Adele’s words came out thick and fast, like machine gun fire.

  “I’ve been meaning to ring but things have been hectic.”

  I heard the rustle of bed linen. “You should have heard her, Lucy. She’s excited that you might apply for the institute. She hasn’t sounded that upbeat since your first day at high school.” Adele had met Mom on the front steps of school. Back then her condition wa
s still manageable, not as noticeable, without the wheelchair, and the rasping breathing. It was so good to hear Adele’s voice, someone who knew us, and what life had been like.

  “I know,” I said softly. “It means so much to her. But I haven’t decided yet. I’m not sure if I’m ready, and I don’t want to blow my chances, submitting work that’s not right.”

  Adele’s voice softened to a honeyed tone, “You’re ready, Lucy. Come on, I’ve seen your work; you know you are. One day she will be gone, we all will be, and the last thing she wants is you left with nothing but grief. You should apply, and see what happens.”

  I knew it was coming. I knew Adele well enough but the words still stung. “I’m thinking about it,” I finally said.

  “How’s your work now you’re out of Detroit?” Her voice was back to its brassy tone.

  “It’s evolved…like I see things clearer here. That murkiness has gone.”

  “Nothing like a new view for some perspective. So where exactly are you? All Crystal said was you were off on an adventure for the year, and perhaps winding your way to me, which I seriously hope you do.” She spoke with emphasis.

  “I’m in Connecticut, the little town of Ashford. Working on a farm if you can imagine!”

  She laughed. “Like mother like daughter. That would suit you, all that fresh air.”

  It was so good to hear Adele’s voice. She was almost like a second mother to me, and I’d missed our chats since I’d been in Ashford. “Yeah, Mom’s already been at me to hug the trees, consider their feelings, you know the drill.”

  “I bet she’s doing your tarot cards as we speak. I miss you girls.” Her voice grew sad. “Maybe we can both travel back to see Crystal once your year is up?”

  “She’d love that.” Mom loved Adele’s lively way of speaking, her forthright nature. “There’s something else, though,” I said. “We found some journals here, full of the most exquisite sketches. I think they belong to a man who owned the Maple Syrup Farm, but the thing is, he hid out there for years, didn’t get to know anyone. But his work, it’s familiar to me…like I’ve seen it before, but I can’t place him. All I know is his name was Jessup.”

  “What makes you think you’ve seen it before?”

  “The way he draws the subject’s eyes. Wait until you see. It’s breathtaking.”

  “OK, well take a pic with your phone and send it over. I’ll see what I can find out. Until then, you keep on with your own work, you hear? And I want to know when you’ve submitted to the Van Gogh Institute. I’m well aware of the deadline…”

  I laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you know. But in the meantime, I’ll send some photos, and tell me what you think.”

  ***

  I didn’t know that when I stepped onto the rich soil of the farm I’d learn a lot about myself in solitude. And I’ve learned about the trees, their moods, how something as simple as the pattern of the moon can shape the syrup they produce. How the stars above twinkle in a certain way when it’s time to start tapping. I began the season this year the day after a full moon. The trees produced more than they ever have. The syrup is sweeter, more golden. Before I plunge the spile into their hardened trunks, I talk to them, warn them about what’s going to happen. It takes the shock away, almost like they loosen instinctively, and allow me the privilege of pillaging their sap. I respect them and they seem to yield more when I explain my actions.

  The syrup tastes like nothing I’ve ever had before. It can cure all ills, except heartbreak, and can become a magical potion in the right hands.

  Chapter Ten

  “He said the season only goes for six weeks or so, were you aware of that?” We were digging up an overgrown vegetable patch that had long been abandoned. The ground was rock hard and my shovel kept getting stuck.

  “Yeah, of course,” Clay said, dismissing me with a look.

  “Well, I think we need some kind of plan, don’t you?” His nonchalance bothered me. I wanted to know the plan going forward. Secretly, the idea of making maple syrup thrilled me. How a tree produced something so sweet and pure amazed me, and I wanted to be involved from start to finish.

  “You’re still on probation. How do you know I’ll keep you here?” He threw me a sardonic smile.

  “Actually, I’m not. Times flies when you’re having fun, right?”

  “What?” His eyebrows pulled together.

  “I’ve been here over six weeks, Clay, and that probation period slipped past with nary a word from you.” For such a trivial thing I felt like celebrating. We’d worked so hard, he hadn’t even considered firing me, and the time had flashed past, my farm skills improving, and my body more able to cope.

  “Well, aren’t you lucky?” he said, a hint of grudging respect in his voice.

  “Oh yeah, all my dreams have come true, thanks to your kindness, Clay.” I shook my head, at his brazen attitude. “Yep, I’m the lucky one working a solid ten, twelve hours a day with Mr. One-Word-Joe.”

  “You ever think before you speak?”

  Hands on hips, I said, “There’s no point being coy about it, you need my help, and I want some answers about when we’re tapping.”

  He let out a sigh, the usual impatient one he did whenever I pressed him for details. He glared at me with those deep, dark, mesmerizing eyes of his, which made my heart skip a beat for some unfathomable reason.

  “We’ll start getting organized tomorrow, Miss Need-to-know-it-all. And if that suits Your Majesty, then we’ll tap a few days after that.”

  “Thanks for emphasizing all of that like I’m a child.” I flashed him a winning smile. “The journals said something about…”

  He waved me away. “Forget the journals. I want you to go into town, to the bookstore, and see what you can find about Maple trees. All the gear is here, I just need to double check there’s nothing missing.”

  The thought of escaping into town warmed me.

  “Take the truck.” He tossed me a set of keys.

  “The truck?” I gulped.

  “Can’t you drive?” he scoffed.

  “Of course I can drive! It’s just I’m used to cars that, umm, are a little more economical size wise.” And I only drove automatic, not stick shift. Maybe it was automatic?

  “Off you go.” He leaned on the handle of his shovel, watching me dither. I threw my shoulders back and walked faux confidently to the truck saying, “Please be auto, please be auto,” under my breath.

  The door squeaked open and I hoisted myself up. Goddamn it! I pasted on a smile and gave Clay a cheery wave hoping he’d turn back to the vegetable patch. No such luck.

  With a deep breath, I turned on the ignition and hoped to God I could reverse out without hitting anything. The truck bunny hopped, and the wheels spun, while I desperately tried to wrench the stick shift into place. I went forward instead of backward.

  I gritted my teeth expecting Clay to roll his eyes at my incompetence, but instead he materialized at passenger door and jumped into the cab next to me. He slid over the vinyl seat, pushing his leg tight against mine.

  “Here,” he said, placing my hand over the ball of the gearshift, his palm resting on mine. “Push the clutch in.”

  I was hyper aware of his proximity. He was so close, I could smell the spiciness of his aftershave, and make out the stubble on his face. “Push it,” he said again.

  I stretched my leg, and held the heavy clutch pedal down. He rolled closer to me. “This is first gear.” He pressed the gear upward, my hand moving under the weight of his. “This is second.” Turning to me, the dark umber of his eyes shone with a kind of…yearning, or was I imagining it? Time stopped, our hands trapped together. I nodded mutely, in case he was waiting for me to acknowledge I’d heard. There was a subtle shift between us, and I couldn’t explain why. “Third, and then reverse.” He didn’t take his eyes off mine.

  “See?” he said, continuing to move our hands. “Can you feel it?”

  I gulped. Instead of feeling the red-hot flush o
f embarrassment, I felt a stab of longing. The planes of his face, strong structured jaw, the fire in his eyes. He bit down on the curve of his bottom lip, and I wrenched my gaze away, worried he’d see something in me, a desire that I wasn’t prepared for.

  When he moved back across the seat, my denim-clad leg cooled, without the warmth of his pressed against it. He jumped down from the cab, and said through the open door. “OK, start it up. Drive safe.” He shut the door and tapped it twice, as if saying goodbye.

  I twisted the ignition and hit the accelerator hard; the truck lurched backward. I reversed in a wide arc, turning the big beast around, trying to steady the thrum of my heart. I was grateful for the distance between us, as Clay’s face was etched firmly in my mind. I’d never felt anything that powerful before, and as my breathing slowly returned to normal, I wondered if I’d imagined it. That flash of longing, of what could be, had stunned me senseless.

  ***

  Giving myself a silent pep talk—you can do this—I drove Clay’s truck into Ashford. It was like driving a tractor; it took all my strength to keep it on the road. There was no power steering so white- knuckled I gripped on tight, and tried not to veer off the road. My muscles contracted and shook with the effort. Laughter burbled out of me imagining Mom seeing me drive such a beast. She wouldn’t believe it.

  My mind kept drifting to Clay. When he stopped pretending to be fierce, and acted like a normal guy, everything changed. I tried to push the vision of him, face close to mine, our hands touching, out of my head.

  On the main street of Ashford I spotted a car bay and wrenched the steering wheel left, scrunching my eyes closed in hope. Probably not the safest option, but when I blinked them open, I was parked close enough to the curb to call it a success.

  The Bookshop on the Corner was dimly lit, bathed in a yellow glow from an antique lamp by the door. Lil had raved about Sarah the owner, said she was whimsical, and shy, and knew books better than anyone.

  The door sighed as I pushed it open and walked inside. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Books were stacked haphazardly on every available surface, as though they’d topple over if you breathed too close to them. Small laneways like a maze crisscrossed the floor, with piles of books flanking each side. It was like finding an enchanted garden, only full of books. The higgledy-piggledy nature of the store was welcoming, and warm. How did they all do it here? They knew instinctively how to decorate their stores so you never wanted to leave.