Lil laughed. “I promise I’ll save you some. I really mean it this time!”
Whatever we made sold out during the hours I was away, or Lil ate the rest because she claimed the jellybean made her do it. Secretly, I was thrilled to spend the mornings soaking up her knowledge, and enjoying the friendship. And while the produce at the café was heavenly I went for the company more than anything.
“Have you been to the Maple Syrup Farm, Lil, besides the applecart out front?” I asked Lil, copying her as she put the dough in a bowl and covered it with plastic wrap, setting it aside next to the warmth of the oven.
She nodded. “I used to play on the farm when I was a child. A group of us used to tear through the trees and try our luck fishing in the lake. Jessup knew we were there but never said anything. One day, we turned up and there was an old tractor tire tied by rope to a tree. He’d made us a swing.”
I slipped my gloves off and threw them in the bin. Lil motioned for me to sit while she made us breakfast, our morning as routine as the sun coming up. “That was so sweet of him.” There seemed to be no end to the mysterious man. Again I wished somehow I’d had the chance to meet him.
Lil took flour, butter, and milk and whisked it in a bowl. “A gentle man, an old soul, from what I saw.”
“In the journals, he talks a lot about the maples, and how they’re his friends in a way.”
Lil cradled the bowl under one arm and continued stirring it. “He was friends with those trees. As kids, we used to spy on him. He’d croon lovingly to them like they were real people. Once I’d climbed a tree, and got stuck there for hours, when he came and sat at the foot of it. I didn’t want him to know I was using his ‘friend’s’ as a playground. He spent hours sketching.”
So they were definitely Clay’s uncle’s journals. Jessup. A man who loved and lost, and lived in solitude for the rest of his days.
“It’s so sad. In a way, I miss him, and I didn’t even know the guy.” How could I explain the connection without sounding like a fool?
With the clang of the frypan, and the element lit, Lil dolloped a pat of butter in. When it sizzled she poured batter in. “Pancakes with berries and cream,” she said when I gazed at the mix. “Maybe the maple trees were enough for him. He surely did make the best syrup I’ve ever tasted.”
“It’s like I recognize his artwork, or maybe it’s just I feel his pain. I don’t know.”
Lil flipped the first pancake. “What does Clay say about it all?”
I grimaced. “Doesn’t seem to care either way.”
“Men.” Lil shook her head. “So today’s the big day? Rested after a weekend of relaxation and ready to tap?”
I blew out a breath. “Yep. I’m nervous—I don’t know why! I think because Clay’s edgy about it too. Doesn’t want to mess it up.”
“It’ll be in his blood. His uncle was a master at it, so I’m sure he will be as well. Those kinds of things seem to stay in families. Tapping trees isn’t as hard as it looks, it’s just a lot of work.”
“I might just have a bottle of maple syrup for you soon, if all goes well.”
Lil added more pancakes to the plate. “Well then, we’re going to have to scout out more maple syrup recipes. You’re going to need to learn to cook with it.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “Sarah found me a pile of books about maple syrup farms, and we read all about the traditions, one being a summer Sugaring-Off Festival. Lots of maple-flavored food, music, and fun. Clay said he’d consider it, if the first batch is good.”
Lil’s eyes widened. “Now you’re talking! So what’s the plan?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t really got one yet. But I was hoping you’d consider catering it, if Clay says yes.”
“Are you kidding, I’d love to! We need to start planning… I know the syrup’s going to taste great! We need to find some recipes.” Lil wiped her hands on a tea towel, and took a notepad from next to the phone. “So, the first thing that springs to mind is some maple bourbon barbequed ribs, can you imagine how great that smell will be for people wandering around the farm?”
My mouth watered just thinking of sticky, sweet, fall-off-the-bone meat. “That’s a winner, for sure, Lil. How many people do you think we’d need to cater for?”
“Hundreds,” she said grinning. “The Chocolate Festival drew a huge crowd, and if you want to have your party in summertime, then I’d say even more would attend. We better think of some recipes that will feed the masses!”
“What about slow-roasted beef? With some kind of maple marinade…”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes! We could use Damon’s rotisserie—he can be in charge of that. And the desserts, well, that’ll be the fun part.”
We abandoned our pancakes, and instead discussed various recipes, narrowing down a shortlist. Lil’s face was animated, the thought of catering for hundreds of people inspired her, rather than scared her. I was swept along in all the planning, only once or twice, thinking of Clay who hadn’t actually agreed to it as yet. It paid to be organized though, especially for an event this size. There was no harm in making a plan.
Once I arrived at the farm, I dashed straight to the maples. Hazy morning light filtered through, landing in soft shards on the velvety ground. Feeling energetic, and a little crazy, I dashed from one trunk to the next, running a palm over and warning the trees of what was to come. If Clay saw me now, he’d peg me as downright cuckoo. The old man, eccentric, or just sensitive to his environment, had loved these trees. I wanted to follow his method, and if that meant explaining to these magnificent maples about what was to come then that was easy enough.
Laughter spilled out of me, as I ran. “Sorry,” I said, breathlessly. “We’ll try to be gentle. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” I imagined the maples nodding, respectful that they knew their fate. It was like Jessup was standing behind me, in my shadow. My skin prickled, and all at once I felt as weightless as I ever had. For that brief moment in time, it was simply me and the astounding beauty of the trees, the light, and the feeling that life in all its forms was miraculous.
I kept on, my words tumbling out. There were so many trees to talk to.
***
“Ready?” I asked.
Out of all the maples we’d selected the ones with thicker trunks and decided on one tap per tree, rather than the standard two. We couldn’t hide the fact we felt a certain level of guilt drilling into the majestic trunks. The trees we’d chosen were southward-facing, which meant they’d get the most daytime sun. Clay had asked me to study the books I’d got from Sarah and then grilled me endlessly about them.
“Ready,” Clay said, holding a drill a few inches from the tree, pausing and scrunching his eyes closed.
I patted his back. “Well, what are you waiting for? We have hundreds to do today.”
He narrowed his eyes, drill poised midair. “It…this is going to sound crazy, but I feel like it’ll hurt them.” A blush bloomed up his cheeks. I almost fell over in surprise. Clay was worried about the tree’s feelings? Mr. Cold Heart himself?
“I’ve ‘told’ them what’s coming,” I said unable to hide my grin, “as per your uncle’s stipulations. I’ve warned them, crooned to them, hugged them even. We’re tapping the day after a full moon… I think we’re all ready.” I too felt that same guilt, but I wanted to get it over and done with, fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
His mouth was a thin line, as he put the drill up against the trunk. “You warned them? When?”
I laughed, remembering the buoyancy I felt earlier that morning. That one snapshot of time where I was euphoric, and energized, lingered still. “Today, before I woke you up.”
He cocked his head. “I was awake,” he said, “I was waiting for you…”
“Well I was here, wasn’t I? You’ll thank me later when the syrup tastes sweeter.”
“I bet it will.” Something changed in his face; he didn’t clench his jaw so often. He probably thought I was a little screwy, and felt sorry for me. “You
like it here, don’t you?” he asked.
Was he just dillydallying for time? I hadn’t expected to love it here as much as I did. The farm felt different to any place I’d been, like I belonged here, and I had finally found my way home. I’d traipsed over every corner of America with Mom and nowhere had felt like this. It would take an aeon to put my past into words for Clay, so I just I said, “Yes, I love it here.” He was a man of few words anyway.
A tendril of hair blew into my face, making me blink. Clay brushed it gently behind my ear, his lips parting like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. We stood mute, staring at one another for too long to be comfortable. Something had shifted. We both recognized it.
The trill of a bird overheard broke the moment. He shook his head as if dislodging a thought.
“Right,” he said, his voice thick. “Where were we?”
I stepped away from him, needing a minute to catch my breath, as my mind scrambled with confusion. Nothing had happened, and yet…I was on fire with the thought of him. The guy who said so much with just a look. I was almost liquid, as a lushness spread through me.
“The trees,” I mumbled, pointing, trying to stop the erratic beating of my heart. “It’s time to tap them.”
Clay turned away from me, and ran a hand slowly over the trunk. I’d never been so envious of a tree in all my life. The buzz of the drill rang out, as Clay pushed his weight against it. The shavings from the bark were a tan color, which meant the tree was healthy. If the shavings came away darker, like the color of chocolate, then we knew the tree wasn’t right for tapping.
“One down,” I said. There was no way I would have been able to drill into their beautiful trunks, marring them. On some trees you could see circular scars where they’d been tapped before, and had tried over time to heal.
“Put the spile in,” he said. The mood changed, when we weren’t staring directly at each other. It was easier to rally myself and pretend it was any other day.
I gave the tree a reassuring pat. “Sorry, Persephone.”
He arched a brow. “Persephone?”
I rolled my eyes, an attempt to go back to our usual banter. “If you’d get over yourself and read your uncle’s journals, you’d see they’re all named. According to his squiggly diagrams this beauty is Persephone.” I pointed to the next tree. “That’s Athena, then there’s Venus, and Artemis…”
“I get it,” he cut me off.
“He named them after goddesses, and wrote about how each is unique. Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard?”
Clay forced a smile. “Real sweet. Now can you put the spile in?”
That was as close to agreeing as I’d get from him. “Sure, let’s get these babies in.” The spile was the conduit that took the sap from the middle of the tree and dripped it into the galvanized bucket.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” I joked, and with a deep breath pushed the spile into the hole he’d drilled, all the while saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
I hooked the bucket handle over the spile, and made sure the lid was firmly closed so nothing could infect the liquid before we’d had a chance to collect it.
“Let’s take a photo,” I said. I took my cell phone from pocket and snapped a few pictures of the tree before taking a sneaky one of Clay so I could send another one to Mom. “Our first ever tap. I’m pretty impressed.”
I swear he smiled. “Impressed enough to do your happy dance?”
I blushed to the roots of my hair. I had performed a number of happy dances out of Clay’s sight when something compelled me to celebrate. Or so I’d thought. “You saw my happy dances?”
“Every one of them.”
I pictured myself under the trees, dancing like some kind of wood nymph wannabe. “Oh my God.”
“It was like…” he scratched his chin “…watching an interpretive dance.”
Maybe my dancing was a whole lot better than I gave myself credit for. “What was your interpretation? A contemporary dancer?”
He guffawed, and quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. Once composed he said, “Well…at first I thought you’d walked into a spider’s web, and that you were terrified, but then it kept happening, so I figured that maybe you intended to ah…move like that.”
I was mortified. There was nothing to do except backtrack. “Why were you spying on me anyway?” I swatted him on the arm.
“I thought maybe you were low on sugar or something at first. And since you’re an employee I felt it was my responsibility to watch over you.”
I moaned. “You think I’m unhinged!”
He laughed, a full-fledged, deep sound that made his chest rumble. “I think you’re expressive! It’s like your body reacts before your brain catches up.”
Well I’ll be, Clay laughed. And not just a little bit. The proper, blood-pumping, belly-hugging laugh. Not only had I changed since arriving in Ashford, but so had Clay. He was almost a joy to be around. The tranquil air here had helped heal us both, or maybe it was the maples and the fact we were excited and on edge with nerves that made us react so differently. “Let’s get these spiles in.”
***
I let out a yawn, completely bushed. We’d tapped three hundred trees at least. Each tap it was easier not to let the guilt get to us and we eventually got faster, and more productive as the day stretched on.
Clay yawned in response, as if it was contagious. “Enough for today?” he asked.
“Yes.” I nodded gratefully. Hopefully we’d tapped enough to make a big enough batch the first harvest. According to our calculations we’d have plenty of sap to boil. We estimated thirty liters of maple sap boiled down to one liter of maple syrup, so it was best we harvested extra, since the season was so short. He needed something to sell, after all.
I was itching to go back to the first lot of trees and see if the buckets had filled but fatigue won out. We made our way haltingly to the cottage. My hands ached from the work, and my back wasn’t faring much better. Clay looked as bright as always, as if he didn’t just work for almost twelve hours straight.
“You must be starving,” he said as I took my coat off and dropped it in a messy heap by the front door before flopping on the sofa.
I was always starving, a fact Clay had noticed. “Nope, too tired to eat. Wait. That was a lie. I could eat a horse and chase the jockey. Do you want to come into town? There’s this new pizza place, just opened—we could share a pizza? I promise I’ll only eat my half, unless you eat too slow, then all bets are off.”
“Not for me.” He folded his arms and leant against the side of the sofa.
“Why? Surely you need to get out once in a while?” He picked up my coat, and folded it. He was one of those people who liked everything orderly. “Clay, I’m about to wear that coat again, so there’s no point picking it up.”
He gave me a pointed stare. “There’s a coat hook for a very specific reason.”
I laughed, happily ignoring his jibe. “So pizza yes or no?”
“Nope. But I’ll drive you into town. You worked hard today.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth before saying, faux seriously, “Is that your version of a thank you?”
“Get in the truck.” And again he smiled, not widely, but enough that I saw the white of his teeth.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were happy, Clay.”
He lobbed my jacket at me. “Maybe.”
“See? What was the point in folding it?” Honestly, he had to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. The only thing I was pedantic about was art, and planning ahead. Things like clothes, and dishes, and general tidiness bored me silly. Clay was the opposite, everything had a place, and he couldn’t relax until it was in it.
The ride into town was mercifully quiet. Clay drove with one hand on the wheel and his other arm along the door frame. The radio played a country and western song, which I hummed, half to keep myself awake and half because I was unsure about how to make conversation.
Li
ghts from town twinkled ahead. Store fronts lit up gray evening, like little beacons of wonder. The old truck rumbled down the main street.
CeeCee from the Gingerbread Café was on the sidewalk, closing the A-frame chalkboard to take it inside. I gave her a wave, as we drove past. She flashed me a smile.
As we neared the pizza place there were clusters of people lingering by outside, under big tables, or by benches set up along the sidewalk.
“OK here?” Clay said pointing to a car bay just further along.
“Perfect.” I jumped down from the cabin and stood on the curb.
“See you tomorrow,” Clay said. Before I could say anything, he inclined his head and rumbled away.
The scent of freshly baked pizza wafted over, making my mouth water in anticipation. I turned on my heel and went inside, shrugging away any thought of Clay. You couldn’t get blood out of a stone, and it was time I learned to give up on a lost cause.
I ordered and went back outside, finding an empty table. The owner, Maria, had given me a steaming cup of coffee to sip while I waited and I drank it greedily even though it burnt all the way down. My eyelids were set on closing, and I forced myself awake with the mantra: pizza, shower, bed.
My bones cracked as I folded my stiff body into a sitting position.
“Lucy!” I turned to the familiar voice.
“Hey, Becca!”
She sat at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. “I meant to get back to the farm earlier to catch you before you left, but I smelled pizza, and the restaurant being new, I couldn’t resist.”
I laughed. “It smells divine.” The scent of wood-fired pizza permeated the night air. It would be hard for anyone to resist. I did wonder, though, if it would take some of the Gingerbread Café customers away. Lil was always saying how tough it was to stay afloat. But the café was closed at night, so maybe it would add to the town, and not affect Lil. I hoped so, for her sake.
She pushed a stray curl back. “So how did the great big tapping marathon go?”
I let out a groan in response. “I’ve never been so tired in all my life. But it was great.”
Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm Page 14