“And information. Hopefully accurate information.”
“No more, Celie.”
“Come on, I bought you rounds at quarter beer night,” she wheedled. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“If anyone found out I was talking to you, I’d be screwed.”
“Petey. I’m looking at giving the order to take out nineteen acres of trees, maybe more. I need to know what’s going on.”
There was a short silence and he sighed. “Okay, okay. Look, the RAL gave it the thumbs-up. A draft of the approval paperwork went by my desk.”
She couldn’t stop the buzz of excitement. “The approval paperwork? That’s—”
“A draft,” he interrupted. “It didn’t have a date. It wasn’t stamped Final. You can’t put any stock in it, Celie.”
“But they’re planning to release it?”
“They’re talking about it. And until the release is out, they can put the brakes on at any time. You can be a little encouraged about it but that’s about it. You hear me?”
She nibbled on the inside of her lip. “I’m looking at taking down a lot of trees here, Pete. Should I stall?”
“At this point I’ve stopped guessing. This baby isn’t going by the rules.”
“If you had to?” she persisted. “If your feet were in the fire?”
“Guess only? Two, three weeks, call it a month. Or six, if you want to be safe.”
“Six? Even one month takes me into hatching season.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. Ordinarily, the draft would mean the pesticide would be officially registered any day but nothing about this one has followed plan.”
Celie let out a quiet, defeated breath. “Okay. Thanks for the information, anyway.”
“Sure. The minute I know something for sure I’ll call you, I swear.”
“This is driving me nuts here, Pete. It’s almost worse having it be so close.”
“Not much longer. Look, Celie, you and Benchley did something important here, developing Beetlejuice. A little more patience isn’t too much to ask for, is it?”
It was when she was going to have to tell a man the heart of his sugarbush was coming down, Celie thought as she set the receiver in the cradle and stared at the wall of her cubicle.
She had to tell him. A quick phone call, just to say the necessary words and then she could hang up. At least then she wouldn’t have to see his face when she delivered the news. It wasn’t like any of Gavin’s protocols said it had to be done in person. Calling would save her the trip. It would be quicker.
And it would be easier.
It was that, finally, that had her reaching for her keys. He didn’t deserve to have her take the easy way out. He deserved to hear it from her in person.
A hollow thunk sounded as Jacob set down an armload of split oak. Four-foot lengths, just right for stuffing into the fire-box of the evaporator. He’d walked the sugarbush with Celie and her team until he couldn’t stand it any more. He’d walked until he’d had to stop, finally, had to stop because it was too wrenching every time he saw her reach for her field kit. Every time she hesitated in front of a tree, he’d wondered if she’d found another one, another host that would take acres down with it.
And how much that could repeat before the life he knew was gone.
The looks she sent him made it almost harder. That humming sense of something between them, something unfinished and unspoken, something that couldn’t coexist with the havoc she was wreaking on his life, and yet something that stubbornly refused to go away.
Even in the midst of the uncertainty, the loss, he couldn’t stop wanting her and it made him want to hit something, because everything he was about was at stake, and yet he kept watching those dark eyes, studying that soft mouth, wondering, wondering if she ever lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling and thinking about him as he thought about her.
And so he’d come back and stacked wood, the wood he’d sectioned the previous summer, cutting the beeches and oaks and maples he’d culled into lengths, then cutting the lengths in halves, then quarters, then eighths. He’d hauled the laden utility cart to the sugarhouse to unload it armload by armload, heavy leather gloves protecting his hands. The wood went down in the shape of a square butted up against the door at the end of the sugarhouse. When he was boiling sap, standing by the firebox of the evaporator with that door open wide, all he’d have to do would be reach out to find fuel within arm’s reach.
It was hard, mindless work. He didn’t think about pushing himself, he simply did it. He’d long since stripped off his coat, tossed aside his faded green flannel shirt. The thermal under-shirt underneath was enough to keep him warm.
Lift and stack, turn and lift. Jacob didn’t mind working hard. He liked it, feeling the machinery of the body do what it was designed to do. Gradually, the cart emptied, the stacks of wood rising ever taller. And he felt the anticipation. In a few weeks, it would be time to spark up the fire and get sap boiling in the broad, shallow pans of the evaporator. There’d be the scent of woodsmoke, the scent of slightly woody sweetness. The scent of sugaring season.
His favorite time of year.
Lift and turn, step and stack. Moving smoothly, easily, he emptied the cart for the fourth time that day. Already, the wood was chest-high under the eaves of the open roof, the next best thing to walls. He didn’t need real ones—once he’d fired up the evaporator, the sugarhouse would stay quite warm enough, even with the doors open to the elements in the wee, frigid hours of the night.
Once the sap started running, the world would really come to life. For now, he labored and tried not to think about Celie.
Which worked about as well as not thinking of elephants.
He hadn’t even known her a week and he could summon a picture of her instantly in his mind. Actually, he didn’t have to summon because it was pretty well there all the time. Celie was a taste that lingered. Contrary, focused, opinionated. Perhaps a match for him in drive. Certainly a match for him in stubbornness.
And that was saying a lot.
He reached for wood and spun to the sound of crunching footsteps behind him.
“Hey.”
And she was there, standing in the little yard behind the sugarhouse, staring at him.
Jacob gave himself a minute to look, just look. There was something in her face, some look of strain that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, he set down the wood he held and dusted his hands off on his jeans. “Hey yourself.”
“Working hard?”
He shrugged. “I’m playing catch-up after yesterday. The sugaring season’s coming. Lot to get done before then. What about you?” He watched her as she walked restlessly over to the cart to touch the lengths of wood, then turned to the sugar-house, all without looking at him. And he waited because he knew there was a reason she was here. She just had to get to it.
“You ever heard of quitting time?”
“It doesn’t really apply on a farm. The wood’s got to get moved.”
“Tonight?”
He looked up and realized that the sun was going down. “Hadn’t thought about it, really. I was just working.”
“In the zone.”
“I suppose. How about you? You get in the zone today?”
She looked at him now, her eyes very large and dark. “Yes. We finished your inspection this afternoon. I just left the lab.”
He didn’t have to ask what the verdict was. He saw it in her eyes. “Dammit,” he said softly. “You found them, didn’t you?”
“Only three trees,” she said quickly, “and they’re fairly close together.”
He pressed his hands against the wood on the cart, clenching his fingers around the bark as though he could drive them into it, staring blindly down at the ground beneath his feet. The Trask sugarbush had been in his family for generations. He’d been responsible for it for a year. And now they were going to lose Christ knew how much of it.
Celie’s feet crunched on the snow and
he saw her boots appear next to his. “Jacob, there was nothing you could do. You couldn’t have stopped it.”
Knowing that didn’t help. Hearing her say it did. Finally, he turned his head to look at her. “So how many have to come out?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“You know.”
“I don’t think we need to talk about it—”
“I do.” His gaze was unflinching. “Tell me.”
She hesitated. “Nineteen acres, maybe a little more. The section off Bixley Road, where we were yesterday.”
The most productive section. Some of the oldest—and some of the newest. He closed his eyes.
And felt her hand touch his shoulder.
It didn’t matter that she wore gloves, that he wore a shirt. For a moment, the reality of the contact was all that mattered. For a moment, they were connected.
“Jacob.” Her voice was soft. “We’re going to replant. I know it’s not much but we’ll do everything we can to get those trees producing in twenty years. I tested the soils while we were out there. The mix is right. You can make it happen if you want to. We can make it happen.” She bit her lip. “I’m so sorry. I hate having to give you this news.”
“Don’t be. You’re doing the right thing.”
“I wish I could fix it.”
“So do I.” He straightened, trying to get his mind around it. “Nineteen acres, huh?”
She nodded. “How hard is it going to hit?”
They might make it, he thought, provided they didn’t have too many bad years in a row. There wouldn’t be a lot of extras for a while. His truck would have to last a little longer and he could forget about that new guitar. But they’d find a way to get by. He had some trees on the back side of the sugarbush that would be ready to tap in eight, maybe ten years. All they had to do was get through until then. He gave a short laugh. “If you see me working the counter at Ray’s, you’ll know.”
“Don’t joke about it,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Ah, hell, Celie, why not? The worst that’ll happen is I wind up having to take an outside job for five or ten years. It’s not like I’ve never worked before.”
“How can you take it so lightly?”
“I don’t know.” He leaned one hip against the utility cart and sobered. “This has been the big scary monster in the closet for almost a year, ever since I first read about it on the Internet. And especially since you’ve been here. At least now I know how bad it is and that we can live with it. Thanks for getting me off the hook.” He gave her a serious look. “I mean it.”
Celie studied him. No sarcasm lurked in his eyes. He meant it, she realized. “Well, I could have guessed a few hundred other reactions before I hit this one.”
“What, did you think I was going to take your head off?”
“That would have been one of them.”
“It’s not like it’s your fault.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s never easy news to hear. I’d give anything if it weren’t true.”
He looked at her for a long minute. “Me too.”
And even in the gathering dusk she could see the deep, addictive blue of his eyes. She had a sudden impulse to reach out and slide her arms around him. To comfort, she told herself, but she knew that wasn’t it. Something pulled her closer to him, like the gravitational pull of planets. How would it feel to touch him, really touch him?
And how would his mouth taste under hers?
As though he could hear her thoughts, his eyes darkened and he leaned toward her.
Only to be interrupted by the sound of a door opening at the back of the farmhouse. “Jeez, Jacob, you going to be out there forever?” said a man’s voice. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Go back inside,” Jacob replied without shifting his gaze away from Celie.
Celie leaned past him to see a dark-haired man in a suit standing on the back porch of the Trask house.
“Now is that any way to—oh, hello,” he said as he caught sight of her.
“Hi,” she replied.
“I’m Jacob’s brother, Gabe.”
“I’m Celie.”
“Well how about that.” Gabe’s smile gleamed in the dusk. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
And just what was that all about? she wondered.
“Don’t you have things to do?” Jacob called. “Why don’t you go back inside where it’s warm? I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Aye aye, captain.” Gabe closed the door and Jacob turned back to Celie.
“Now where were we?”
She put her hands on her hips and turned to the utility cart. “Looks like you’ve got a lot to do quickly. Let me help.”
“I don’t need—”
“Your mom’s making dinner, and you’ll save time if you’re not walking to and from the cart. Come on, they’re not that heavy.” She lifted a few pieces to demonstrate. Awkward, yes, and she’d never lift a handful the way Jacob could, but she could manage.
He studied her a moment and then walked to the wood stack. “All right.”
Celie picked up three of the logs and swiveled to hand them to Jacob. Behind her, he thumped them onto the woodpile. When she turned around with another armload, he was looking at her, waiting for another load. Within minutes, they’d established a working rhythm and with surprising speed the pile of wood in the cart began to diminish.
Then Celie reached for another slab and dropped it, cursing.
“What did you do?” Jacob demanded.
“The wood got me.” She pulled her glove off and tugged out the fearsome-looking splinter that had stabbed her forefinger.
Jacob bent to pick up her discarded glove. “I suppose you know you’ve got a hole in the finger, here.”
“They’re my work gloves,” she said, by way of explanation.
“All the more reason they shouldn’t be perforated. Work gloves are supposed to protect.”
“So?”
“They don’t cost much. You ever think of getting new ones?”
“I don’t usually load wood with them. They’re fine for inspecting trees. They’re perfectly—”
“Yeah, I know, perfectly good gloves. Don’t ever let ’em say you’re not loyal, Celie.” He put down the glove and stripped off his own. “Give me your hand.”
“What?”
“Let me look at it.”
She gave him a suspicious stare. “What are you, a trained EMT?”
“I am, as a matter of fact,” he said mildly. “Now hush and cooperate.” He bent over her hand like a palm reader, smoothing the fingers flat.
And heat bloomed through her. Forget about the pain from the splinter. It was every other nerve that she was thinking about. Celie tensed as he brushed her fingertip with the edge of his nail, seeking out the splinter. The little twinge she felt when he hit it was nothing compared to the rush of sensation she felt from his hand holding hers. And it made her want more, much more. It made her want those hands on her, and just her, sliding over her bare skin, touching her everywhere.
And inside her tension began to build.
“Got it,” Jacob said as sharp pain flashed through her. He flicked the splinter away and glanced at her, still holding on to her hand. “Better?”
Better? Better would be his mouth on hers, the final discovery of just how that temptation felt. She moistened her lips. “Maybe we—”
The door to the farmhouse opened again and this time Gabe walked down the path, stepping gingerly on the snow in his street shoes. “Celie? Ma says for you to come to dinner, too.” He walked up. “Palm-reading, Jacob?”
Celie pulled her hand back hastily. “He was helping me out with a splinter.”
Gabe’s teeth shone white in his face. “I’ll spare you the obvious lame doctor jokes and just tell you that if I don’t go back inside with a yes, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
She looked at Jacob. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“You won’t,” Gabe told
her before Jacob could speak. He grinned. “Hell, it’ll be the most excitement we’ve had in years.”
“So here I am, ready to go down the hill, trusting my big brother to take care of me.”
“And instead you got closely acquainted with a tree?”
“Black maple.” Gabe grimaced.
“Wait a minute,” Jacob interrupted. “Who got acquainted with the maple tree?”
“Was that my fault?” Gabe demanded. “You were the one who threw yourself between me and the trunk.”
“The way I remember it, you insisted on steering and then when things got rough, you bailed and I went into the tree.”
“And showed up here covered in blood,” Molly added. “Having you three made me old before my time.”
“You should thank me,” Gabe told Jacob. “Lots of people pay for nose reconstruction. You got it for free. It suits you.”
It did, Celie thought. The little lump in his nose kept him from being too perfect, gave him that little bit of graininess to offset that impossibly square chin, that mouth that was just a little bit too pretty.
Gabe was good-looking in an effortlessly stylish way that made her think of fine wines and fancy dinners. Jacob? Jacob was simply himself, so solidly and completely there that there was no room for any polishing, and none needed. What would it be like to be so at home in her own skin, in her own life? Celie wondered.
“More potatoes, Celie?” Molly Trask lifted a big red-patterned ceramic bowl that Celie could have sworn she’d seen at the Trask Farm gift shop.
“No thanks, I’m stuffed.” Roast pork, garlic mashed potatoes—Molly Trask had chosen deceptively simple fare that was fiendishly difficult to pull off well. And pull it off, she had, Celie thought, stifling the urge to loosen her belt. “This was excellent. I haven’t had a dinner like this since I left home.”
“So where’s home for you?” Molly asked, handing the potatoes to Gabe, who took a second helping enthusiastically.
“Montreal, I suppose, though I’ve basically been on the move since I left for college.”
“That sounds exciting, seeing lots of different places.”
Vermont Valentine (Holiday Hearts #3) Page 7