“There must be a lot of those in a house that size.”
He nodded. “Back in Ethan and Hiram’s day, they had three generations living in it. It had to be big.”
“It’s a lot of space for your mom to rattle around in.”
“Yeah. Especially recently.”
An empty nest, no husband. And Jacob being Jacob, he was worried about her. “It probably helps to have you around,” Celie said gently.
“I don’t know how much it does.” He stared into his coffee cup. “I’m not sure what she needs.”
“You sound like it’s entirely up to you.”
“I’m the one who lives here. I’m the oldest.”
And he’d always take that responsibility seriously. “Don’t your brothers help?”
Jacob shrugged. “Gabe stops by when he can. Nick calls. He’s in Boston but he’s a firefighter, so sometimes he comes up when he gets a big break. It still lands on me, though.” He hesitated. “The anniversary of my father’s death is next month.”
“That’s going to be hard.”
“Yeah. We’re trying to stick close. But it only helps so much.”
“You’re doing what you can.” Celie’s voice was soft.
“I wish I could do more. I wish…” He wished that he could bring back his father but that wasn’t possible and there was no use thinking about it.
“I’m sorry.” Celie reached out to cover his hand with hers. “You must miss him.”
Her fingers were cool and soft against his, dragging him abruptly into memories of the night before, of holding her, the scent of her hair, and her taste, that tantalizing taste that had kept him lying awake for long hours, want settling in his belly like a bag of rocks.
And she’d done it to him again, drawn him into opening up, drawn him into wanting. He lived a simple life, one that his occasional forays into female companionship didn’t disturb. He always managed to enjoy himself and give as good as he got without complicating his life in any way.
Celie Favreau was a walking complication. Since he’d stumbled on her in his sugarbush, nothing about his life had stayed the same. Everything about it was changing in ways he was powerless to stop.
And he couldn’t stop wanting her.
He moved his hand away from hers before he found himself pressing it to his lips. “Thanks for breakfast.” He set his napkin on the table. “I’ve got to run. Lots to get done today.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“The farm doesn’t care.” He rose.
She put a hand out to stop him. “Give me a couple more minutes. I didn’t just want to say thank you with breakfast. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Not the kiss, he prayed. He really didn’t want to get into talking about the kiss and why he didn’t want to repeat it and why he couldn’t stop thinking about doing it again. “What?”
She took the same kind of deep breath she might take before going off a high dive, looking simultaneously excited and uneasy. “Remember the other day I told you nineteen acres of your sugarbush had to come down?”
“Kind of hard to forget, especially since a chunk of it is already gone.”
“There might be a way to salvage the rest.”
“How? You spent the whole meeting last night telling everyone there wasn’t any other way.” And he wasn’t ready to get his hopes up.
“We have to take out the infested trees and the inner ring. We don’t have a choice there. But there might be a way to save the outer ring.”
He sat slowly. “Tell me more.”
“We’ve figured out how to distill the chemical the tree produces to battle the maple borer and turned it into an inject-able insecticide.”
“I’ve read about it on the Internet but I didn’t think it was approved for use here, yet. Just in Canada.” He frowned. “And if it is approved, why the hell aren’t you using it?”
“I’m not allowed to yet, not broadly, but my contacts tell me the RAL—that’s the EPA’s regulatory action leader who pulls together all data and recommendations—has given it the thumbs-up. They’re just processing the paperwork.” She leaned forward, eyes bright. “I can inoculate the trees in the outer ring. If a borer chews into them, it’s history. If there are already eggs in them, once the larvae hatch, they’ll die.”
“What about the people who eat syrup made from the sap of the trees? Will they die too?”
Celie shook her head. “It’s a naturally occurring substance, we’ve just upped the concentration. The chemical makeup of syrup produced from the sap is identical to that pulled from regular trees. Nothing different in the taste, no harmful compounds.” She spread her hands. “It’s not a panacea but we can use it to save some of your maples.”
He gave her a long look. “Why are you doing this? Because I took care of your truck?”
“I’m doing it because I’m sick of watching trees come down,” she retorted. “It doesn’t need to happen, not if we use Beetlejuice.”
“Beetlejuice?”
“The insecticide. The approval’s basically a done deal. Once the paperwork’s done, you’ll be able to buy it off the shelf.”
He felt like a man receiving an eleventh-hour reprieve. “So talk to me about the numbers. How many trees would this save?”
“Our tests show the maple borer’s range is a hundred yards. We added the fifty-yard cushion to compensate for the limited sampling. If we can inoculate the trees in the outer fifty yards of the circle, they should be safe. With the number of infected trees you have, that’ll save about eleven acres.”
“And this stuff really works?” Hope warred with suspicion.
“Yes, it really works. My group has been testing it for seven years, Canada and the U.S. for five. It represents our best bet to get the beetle under control.”
“How long does it last?”
“At least a year, maybe more. It actually has a fairly long survival rate in the tree.” She paused. “So what do you think?”
He didn’t reply right away. He wanted to believe it. He wanted, he desperately wanted to save his trees. But he wanted to be sure. “Where would you get it if it’s not out yet?”
“I’ve got a couple of gallons of the concentrate in the back of my truck, left over from some of the test trials I ran. If you give me the word. I could start tomorrow.” She crossed her arms before her. “I need to know by Monday because that’s when the rest of the trees come down.”
He studied her. “If you were me, would you do it?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
“Your judgment’s good enough for me.”
It wasn’t a surprise that Jacob wanted to get to it immediately, but it wasn’t as easy as just going into the maples. Celie needed supplies, she needed to mix up jugs of Beetlejuice, but that was only part of it. The truth was that she didn’t want him doing the inoculations. That was her risk to take, she thought as she watched him drive away.
She’d told him that the release could come any day. Which, strictly speaking, was true. What she hadn’t said was that there was a chance it would take longer, that she was gambling on the probability that by the time anyone found out about her unauthorized use, the insecticide would be released. That was her risk to take and her risk only.
She picked up her cell phone and dialed.
“Bonjour.”
“Maman? C’est Celie.”
“Who is calling me in this American-accented French?” her mother replied, her French, too, laced with the North-American accent that thirty-five years of living in Montreal hadn’t erased. “It couldn’t be my daughter, who does not come home for Christmas and does not call to tell her poor maman she has gone to an assignment heaven knows where.”
Celie stuck her tongue in her cheek. “Perhaps it wasn’t her fault,” she said in English. “Perhaps she’s been kidnapped and is waiting for ransom.”
“Where was she kidnapped to?”
“Vermont,” Celie supplied with a gri
n.
“Vermont? Why haven’t there been any ransom notes?”
“Maybe if you checked your e-mail once in a while.”
Her mother cleared her throat. “A truly dedicated kidnapper would have used a better way.”
“Carrier pigeon?”
“C’est qui?” Celie heard her father boom in the background.
“Someone who sounds very much like our long-lost daughter, accusing me of ignoring my e-mail.”
There were sounds of the phone being shuffled and her father came on the line. “Ah, bébé, are you coming to visit?”
“I hope so, Papa,” Celie replied, lapsing back into French. “I am close. I will see you soon.”
“We would like that. You could visit us and you could visit the living room.”
“The living room?” Celie repeated, mystified.
“Yes, the living room. You could convince her it should be left as is. Your childhood memories, you know, they are delicate. She wishes to change everything.”
Now she got it. “Is Maman redecorating?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Celie’s mother said in the background. “I just asked him to move some furniture.”
“You will not recognize it,” he said in English. “You will think you went to the wrong house.”
It had been too long since she’d been home, Celie thought, listening to the affectionate sparring. “I’ll have to visit to play referee,” she told him.
“Please, before it is too late,” he said. “And now, I must go open the store.”
Of course. Always the store. Celie sighed and tried to think about it the way Jacob would. “How is business?”
“Eh,” her father said and she could imagine his shrug. “Business is all right. Quiet after Christmas, you understand, but the High Lights Festival begins soon. You will come for it, perhaps. We will put you to work.”
“Just what I’ve always hoped for.” Celie’s tone was dry.
“But of course,” he said, laughing at his own joke. “Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, Papa,” Celie answered. “Doesn’t he have someone to help him?” she asked her mother as she came back on the line.
“He is happiest doing it himself. You know he loves the shop. It’s his history.”
“I know, his family.”
“Exactly,” her mother said. “And it’s your history, too, whether you want to admit it or not.”
Celie opened her mouth and shut it. Legacies. She’d seen from Jacob that they didn’t always have to be burdens. “You see too much sometimes.”
“I’m a mother. That’s what we do. Now tell me about your new home,” she said comfortably.
Washington County Maple Supplies was surprisingly busy for so early on a Saturday. Then again, sugar-makers started early, Celie thought, just like any other farmer.
Behind the counter, a gray-haired woman in a sweatshirt smiled at her. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Celie replied. One of the growers in the store made eye contact. The others went about their business, studiously ignoring her. She ought to be used to it by now; she tried not to let it sting as she set her air canisters down on the counter. “Can you recharge these?”
The woman nodded. “Go ahead and do your shopping. They’ll be ready in a couple minutes.”
“Thanks,” Celie said. She picked up a plastic five-gallon bucket from a display and began wandering the aisles, looking. She’d always loved these kinds of stores, the mix of scents, the variety of gadgets. And yet for someone who’d made forestry her life, she’d never stayed anywhere long enough to have a house and trees of her own. She wondered sometimes what it would be like to really watch a forest grow, to know each individual tree the way Jacob seemed to know his.
She shook it off. It wasn’t an option, however appealing it might have been.
Celie walked up to the counter and set down the bucket.
“Find everything you needed?” the woman asked, setting the charged canisters down beside it.
“Actually, I need a couple of needles for an Arborjet injector.”
“Oh, we keep them back here.” The woman reached below the counter and pulling out a pair of flat, cardboard packages. “You’re new around here. I don’t recognize you. I’m Muriel Anderson.”
“Celie Favreau, APHIS.” She put her hand out.
Muriel shook it firmly. “I hear you’re working out at Jacob Trask’s place. How’s that going?”
“I think we’ve got a handle on it.”
“I hope so. Jacob’s had his share of trouble, I guess.” Muriel began to ring up Celie’s purchases. “Good-looking boy,” she added. “You’re taking down his trees, right?”
“Some of them,” Celie said uncomfortably, looking away from the injector needles.
“Well that’s a crying shame.”
“It has to be done to control the maple borer.”
“I suppose I can see that, but it’s hard luck.”
Celie thought of the gallons of Beetlejuice concentrate in her truck. “I’m doing my best for him.”
“Are you?” Muriel put the bottles into a bag. “He could use a woman doing that.”
Celie gave her a quick, startled look. “Excuse me?”
“That’ll be $23.70,” Muriel said smoothly.
Celie tapped the little plastic plug into the hole she’d just drilled in one of Jacob’s maples, then set the mallet aside and picked up her injector gun. It looked a little as though it should fire energy bolts instead of doses of insecticide, but she didn’t live in a Star Trek world, and firing Beetlejuice suited her just fine.
Trees might appear static to some, but she knew they were in a state of constant change. On the outside, perhaps, the change looked slow except during spring and fall. On the inside, it was rapid and purposeful, fluids traveling, cells multiplying, the whole structure seething with life.
And just like people and animals, the layers that carried fluid could be injected with serums—or in this case, Beetle-juice. Celie punched the gun’s needle through the plastic plug and pulled the trigger. Once the fluid was in the little pocket between the plug and the back of the hole, it was up to the tree.
Dabbing the bark with blue paint, she marked the tree and moved on. The holes were tidy and low; unless a person was looking for them, they wouldn’t show. Of course, at this hour not much did; the sun wouldn’t be up for thirty or forty minutes. It was light enough to see what she was doing, though, barely. She’d managed to put in seven hours the day before. Today, she figured to put in at least ten. That would push her past the halfway point.
Which was important. When Monday hit, she’d be back in the inspection race and any time she put into inoculations would have to be stolen from in the early morning or early evening.
Not that she minded. In a way, the risk and the extra time and effort were her penance for all the trees she’d had taken down. It was a chance to do something genuinely positive for a change, something tangible she could point to.
At least once Beetlejuice was officially released.
“Are you out of your mind?” Marce stood at the kitchen sink, the coffeepot dangling from her hand. Outside, the Sunday evening sky purpled to black.
“Why, because I’m trying to avoid taking down trees I don’t have to?” Celie asked.
“Because you’re doing it with an unreleased pesticide.”
“It’s practically a done deal.”
“It is not,” Marce shot back. “Pete told you he didn’t know how long it would be bogged down and you know how long it’s taken already.”
“They’re close.” Under the table, she crossed her fingers. “The RAL approved it. It’s just a matter of time.”
Marce eyed her narrowly. “How long have you been working for the government, Pollyanna? Are you going to make me use dumb clichés about fat ladies singing? You can’t do this.”
“Beetlejuice is under test. I’m just expanding the trials.”
“In the field and
without authorization. Yeah, that’s going to fly. Do you want to become unemployed?” Marce demanded. “Because you will be when they find out what you’ve done. Falsifying reports, use of unapproved chemicals, willful disobedience…” She ticked them off on her fingers. “There are reasons to have those rules in place.”
“How are they going to find out?”
Marce gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, a surveyor’s transit would be a good start. Or unearthing the disagreement between the number of trees you’re ordering removed and your removal report. Celie, you can’t do this, you’re the head of the program.”
“All the more reason I should be able to make an exception.”
“Why now? Why him? Wait,” Marce raised her hand. “I already know the answer to that. How about this? Can you honestly say that you’re being totally objective, here?”
“I’m never objective about any of this, Marce.” Wearily, Celie dropped her head into her hands. “It kills me to take down acres of perfectly healthy trees for a safety margin, and in the meantime I’ve got people slashing my tires because they can’t take it out on the maple borer.”
“Yeah, well here’s one to think about. What happens if Beetlejuice doesn’t work and the infestation spreads? How are you going to sleep at night?”
“It’s not going to spread,” Celie said stubbornly. “Beetle-juice works, we know it does. It’s just caught up in inter-agency politics.”
“Yeah, and thalidomide is this really great anti-nausea medication, they just won’t release it in the U.S. yet.”
Celie set her jaw. “You’ve made your point.”
“I’m not trying to be a hardass.” Marce’s voice softened. “I just don’t want to see you risk everything without being really damned sure you know what you’re doing and why. Do you?”
Celie hesitated. “I kissed him, Marce.”
“Who, him? Sap Boy?” Marce laughed and then stopped and looked at her more closely. “Oh, good God, you’re serious. How was it?”
“The kiss was great. Outside of the fact that he wouldn’t talk to me after and he acts now like it never happened.”
“Outside of those small details. So what does it mean? Was it a one-time experiment?”
Vermont Valentine (Holiday Hearts #3) Page 10