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Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm
Rebecca Raisin
‘ is a modern Maeve Binchy’ - Books for BunnyA truly decadent and delicious romance, perfect for long summer days and nightsMaple sugar kissesLucy would do anything for her mom…but she never expected to end up promising to leave her. After her mom got sick, Lucy dropped everything to take care of her, working all hours in a greasy diner just to make ends meet and spending every spare moments she had by her mom’s hospital bedside.Now, Lucy is faced with a whole year of living by her own rules, starting by taking the first bus out of town to anywhere…Except she didn’t expect to find her next big adventure just around the corner! Especially when on her first day in town she bumps into grumpy, but oh-so-delicious Clay amidst the maple trees. Surrounded by the magic of Ashford, Lucy has the chance to change her life forever and finally discover a life she wants to live!Fall in love with Ashford, Connecticut in this dazzling and beautiful romance from bestselling author Rebecca Raisin.What readers are saying about Secrets at Maple Syrup Farm‘A touching story mixed with laughter and secrets, a reminder of how important it is to live your own life’ – Reviewed the Book‘Rebecca’s stories are just like a huge, warm hug, gently enticing you into the heart of Ashford life and making you feel like you belong there. … This book is an absolute joy from start to finish, and I really must implore you to read it!’ – Paris Baker’s Book Nook‘I smiled, laughed and cried throughoutSecrets at Maple Syrup Farm. If you like me are looking for a read that will pull at your heart strings, make you smile and awww then this is a book for you.’ – Crooks on Books‘another wonderful story set in Ashford and her beautiful writing always adds this unique atmosphere.’ – Sky’s Book Corner


Maple sugar kisses
Lucy would do anything for her mom…but she never expected to end up promising to leave her. After her mom got sick, Lucy dropped everything to take care of her, working all hours in a greasy diner just to make ends meet and spending every spare moment she had by her mom’s hospital bedside.
Now, Lucy is faced with a whole year of living by her own rules, starting by taking the first bus out of town to anywhere…
Except she didn’t expect to find her next big adventure just around the corner! Especially when on her first day in town she bumps into grumpy, but oh-so-delicious Clay amid the maple trees. Surrounded by the magic of Ashford, Lucy has the chance to change her life forever and finally discover a life she wants to live!
Fall in love with Ashford, Connecticut, in this dazzling and beautiful romance from bestselling author Rebecca Raisin.
Praise for REBECCA RAISIN’s Gingerbread Café series (#ulink_d92530b5-ce80-540f-b322-1ec62bd3a982)
‘Christmas at the Gingerbread Café is a lovely, cheery festive read, a good old-fashioned feel-good romance to warm the cockles of your heart. This is one of my favourite Christmas reads of the year.’ Books with Bunny
‘This is a great novella that I really enjoyed reading and found that I didn’t want to put it down. It is the perfect read to get you in the mood for Christmas and my mouth was watering after reading about all of the delicious-sounding baking. If you are looking for a Christmassy romance then don’t look any further than Rebecca Raisin’s brilliant debut.’ Bookbabblers on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café
‘Raisin not only excels in creating a festive mood—the tone of family and friends coming together is sweet—but also portrays a lovely winter-wonderland setting, where things are covered in snow. This makes the book feel cosy and safe. It’s definitely an uplifting read.’ Sam Still Reading on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café
‘This is a short and incredibly sweet novella that explores a very endearing and unexpected romance. It is definitely one that will make you laugh and warm your heart, and one that can be happily devoured in one sitting.’ Louisa’s Reviews on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café
‘If you love Christmas, romance and HEA then you will love this sweet novella.
This one gets an A!’ Clue Review on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café
‘Wow—loved it, loved it, loved it! … It was just like I was visiting with old friends. Rebecca’s descriptions are so vivid I could very well have been stood in the café, hugging CeeCee and waddling out after sampling all the different chocolatey delights on offer. My mouth literally watered with every turn of the page. … I don’t know what I’m going to do whilst waiting for the next book—Christmas is so far away!!’ Crooks on Books on Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café
‘This book is sweet & delicious, and I am looking forward to the next in the series as they end all too quickly!’ All Booked Out on Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café
Also by Rebecca Raisin (#ulink_fb99aabb-d368-5aff-9fc5-155a4e7ee669)
Once in a Lifetime series
The Gingerbread Café trilogy
Christmas at the Gingerbread Café
Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café
(The Bookshop on the Corner)
Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café
The Little Paris Collection
The Little Bookshop on the Seine
The Little Antique Shop under the Eiffel Tower
The Little Perfume Shop off the Champs-Elysees
Secrets at Maple Syrup Farm
Rebecca Raisin


Copyright (#ulink_614fe621-bbfc-53d0-a8a4-f8b2e760cdb8)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Rebecca Raisin 2015
Rebecca Raisin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474024983
Version date: 2018-06-20
REBECCA RAISIN
is a true bibliophile. This love of books morphed into the desire to write them. She’s been widely published in various short-story anthologies, and in fiction magazines, and is now focusing on writing romance. The only downfall about writing about gorgeous men who have brains as well as brawn is falling in love with them—just as well they’re fictional. Rebecca aims to write characters you can see yourself being friends with. People with big hearts who care about relationships, and, most importantly, believe in true, once-in-a-lifetime love.
To the girls I met in the UK and the ones who couldn’t make it, thanks for your unwavering support and friendship, always.
For Graham Basden
Contents
Cover (#u2e01a481-8a2e-554d-9156-941516b0297c)
Blurb (#u324f5a8c-ce1e-568a-8a6b-fd65e847ab62)
Praise (#u64421351-0853-50ec-badc-3d0f95f2b5db)
Book List (#uc0be8643-bd7a-5582-8859-50aa2b57deaf)
Title Page (#ue5ebc294-03da-5307-a198-d6e84ba24388)
Copyright (#ue3a96d2a-0f0c-5a17-8798-f8acff4da5cc)
Author Bio (#u99cc750e-caa0-54c2-b9aa-705573232cb3)
Acknowledgement (#u09a1bd84-4cdd-585e-a103-5a23013f8bea)
Dedication (#ub32db23c-952c-5d72-b210-f8fd8aaad006)
Chapter One (#u9eef0c64-4005-5943-81ce-efcd122e7f2e)
Chapter Two (#u26a5274f-9120-554e-bd91-70e0420bdc60)
Chapter Three (#ucb8ae6f7-a831-55f3-a4a8-4e27a62f4b83)
Chapter Four (#u8828dc3c-4be0-56c3-994a-4847f2679eff)
Chapter Five (#ud4952a59-0d92-5e9a-8d2c-f9a5eee5cb8e)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt: The Little Bookshop on the Seine (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_e13333ff-d8b4-5d22-af93-100315b24497)
With the beeps, drips, and drones, it was hard to hear Mom, as she waxed lyrical about my painting. Her voice was weaker today, and her breathing labored, but none of that took away from the incandescence in her deep blue eyes.
Wistfully she said, “Lucy, you have a real gift, do you know that?” She patted the white knitted hospital blanket. “Look at that sunset, it’s like I’m right there, stepping into the world you’ve created.”
I sat gently on the edge of the bed, doing my best to avoid the wires that connected my mom to the machine. These days her hair hung lank—the wild riot of her strawberry-blonde curls tamed by so many days indoors, head resting on a pillow. I tucked an escaped tendril back, and made a mental note to help her wash it later.
“You’re biased. You have to say that,” I said, keeping my voice light. Beside her, I cast a critical eye over the piece. All I could find was fault. The sun was too big, the sky not quite the right hue, and the birds with their wings spread wide seemed comical, like something a kindergartner would do. When it came to my art, I still had a way to go before I felt confident. Mom was the only person I showed my work to these days.
“Hush,” she said. “I could stare at this all day. If I close my eyes I feel the heat from the sun, the wind in my hair…”
That’s why I’d painted the picture. She’d been suffering quietly for so many years, in and out of hospitals, unable these days to pack her oversized backpack and follow her heart around the globe. She’d been a wanderer, always looking to the next city, a new host of people, a brand new adventure…but her diagnosis had changed all of that. Even though she never complained, I could read it in her eyes—she still yearned for that freedom.
My mom, a free spirit, looked out of place in the gray-white room. She needed sunshine, laughter, the frisson of excitement as she met other like-minded souls, nomads with big hearts and simple lifestyles. The painting, I hoped, would remind her of what we’d do when she was home again. A short road trip to the beach, where I’d sketch, and she’d gaze at the ocean, watching waves roll in.
“Honey, are you working a double tonight?” she said softly, her gaze still resting on the golden rays of sun.
I had to work as many shifts as I could. Our rent was due, and the bills mounting up, just like always. There were times I had to call in sick, to help Mom. We lived paycheck to paycheck, and I was on thin ice with my boss as it was. He didn’t understand what my private life was like, and I wasn’t about to tell him! It was no one’s business but my own. I kept our struggles hidden, a tightly guarded secret, because I didn’t want pity. That kind of thing made me want to lash out so I avoided it. When I had the odd day off, I tried to make up for it by covering any shift I could. We needed the money anyhow. “No,” I lied. “Not a double. I’ll be back early tomorrow and I’ll take you out to the rose garden.”
She gazed at me, searching my face. “No, Lucy. One of the nurses can take me outside. You stay home and rest.”
I scoffed. “You know the nurses won’t take you all that way. You’ll go crazy cooped up in here.”
She tilted her head. “You think you can fool me? Not a double, huh?” She stared me down, and I squirmed under her scrutiny. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got plenty to do here.” She waved at the table. “Sudoko, knitting, and…” Laughter burst out of us. The Sudoko and knitting needles were a gift from the lady in the bed over, who’d been discharged earlier that morning. When I’d walked in, Mom’s face had been twisted in concentration as she tried to solve the puzzle of numbers. The yarn lay on her lap, knotted, forgotten. She didn’t have the patience for that kind of thing, not these days, with her hands, her grip, unreliable at the best of times.
With a wheeze, she said, “There are not enough hours in the day to waste boggling my brain with knit two, pearl one, or whatever it is.”
I laughed. “I could use another scarf or two. Who cares if you drop a few stitches?” A million years ago Mom had taken up knitting for a month or so, producing with a flourish a bright pink sweater for me to wear to school. She’d been so damn proud of it, I hadn’t had the heart to point out all the holes from dropped stitches. She knew though, and looped a pink ribbon through them, and said, “Look, it’s all fixed with a belt.” I wore that sweater until it fell apart, knowing how much love she had poured into every stitch. It was one of her foibles, taking up a new hobby with gusto, and then dropping it when something else caught her eye. It was a sort of restlessness that plagued her, and she’d skip from one thing to another without a backward glance.
She gave me a playful shove. “I’m not the crafty one of the family, that’s for sure. That’s reserved especially for you. Would you put the painting by the window? I’m going to pretend we’re at that beach, drinking fruity cocktails, and squinting at the sunshine.”
“We’ll be there in no time,” I said, knowing we wouldn’t. It was January, rain lashed hard at the window. Detroit in this kind of weather had a gloominess about it; it cast a pall over the city, almost like a cloud of despair. It was different than other places in winter. Sadder.
I leaned the painting against the rain-drizzled glass, its colors too bright for the dreary room, but maybe that’s what she needed—a bit of vibrancy to counter the gray. The bleak city was not our first choice, but rent was cheap enough for us to afford on one wage. It pained me to think of the places we’d lived when we’d both worked. I’d loved the sun-bleached streets of Florida, and being blown sideways in the woolly weather of Chicago. Those were happier times, when we disappeared for weekend escapades. Home for me had always been where Mom was, as we squished our too-full suitcases closed, and moved from place to place.
Stepping back to the bed, I pulled the blanket up, and settled beside her, checking my watch.
“Before you head to work, I want to talk to you about something.” Her tone grew serious, and her face pinched.
“What, Mom?” I inched closer to her.
She cleared her throat, and gave me a hard stare. “I want you to make me a promise.” She held up her pinkie finger.
“OK,” I said warily. I’d promise my mom anything, she was the light in my life, but I sensed somehow this was going to be different. I could tell by her expression, the way she pursed her mouth, and set her shoulders. The air grew heavy.
“I mean it. You have to promise me you’ll do as I ask, and not question me.” Her lip wobbled ever so slightly.
I took a shaky breath as my mind whirled with worry. “What, Mom? You’re scaring me.” It was bad news. I was sure of it.
She shook her head, and smiled. “I know you, Lucy, and I know you’re going to struggle with this, but it’s important to me, and you have to do it, no matter what your heart tells you.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.” I stood up, folding my arms, almost to protect myself from what she might say. I stared deeply into her eyes, looking for a sign, hoping against hope it wasn’t something that would hurt.
“Trust me.” Her face split into a grin. “I want you to take one year for yourself. To travel…” She held up a hand when I went to interrupt. “Hush, hear me out. Tell your boss tonight—you won’t be coming back. Then go home and pack a bag, go to the station, and get on the first bus you see. The very first, you hear me? Let fate decide. Find a job, any job, save as much money as you can. I thought you might apply for that scholarship you’ve dreamed about at the Van Gogh Institute. You can stay with Adele in Montmartre. She’s excited by the prospect.”
Shock made me gasp. Take a year for myself? The Van Gogh Institute? I couldn’t think. I couldn’t catch my breath.
There was no way. But all I could manage to say was: “You spoke to Adele about this?” Adele was my art teacher back in high school. We’d kept in touch all these years. She was a mentor to me, and the best painter I knew. I’d left school at just fifteen, and only Adele knew the reasons behind my hasty exit. I hadn’t been there long enough to make real friendships. She continued to teach me art on Saturday mornings, cooped up in our tiny apartment. I don’t know if she saw something in my work or felt just plain sorry for me.
For years she arrived punctually every weekend, until a friend offered her a spot in her gallery in Paris. Saying goodbye to her had been heart-wrenching, but we kept in contact. She badgered me to share my work, and I sidestepped her gentle nudging by asking her about Paris.
“Adele’s all for it,” Mom said. “And before you go saying no, she agrees you should apply for the scholarship. It’s time, Lucy. Your work is good enough. You just have to believe in yourself.”
The Van Gogh Institute was a prestigious art school, notorious for being selective about their students, and far too expensive for me to ever have considered. Each year the school was inundated with scholarship requests, and I’d never felt confident enough to try for a place. Besides, I couldn’t leave Mom. She needed me more, and whatever ambition I had with my art would have to wait.
“The deadline for entries this year is the last day of April,” Mom continued to urge me. “So you’ve got a few months to decide. Maybe you’ll paint something even more wonderful on your jaunts. You’ll be spoilt for choice about which ones to send for the submission process.” The room grew warm, as so many emotions flashed through me. The thought of sharing my work filled me with fear. I’d tried hard to be confident, but people staring at it, and judging me, made my heart plummet. I shook the idea firmly out of my mind before it took hold. Me leaving for a year? There were about a thousand reasons why it just couldn’t happen.
I narrowed my eyes. What Mom was suggesting was just plain crazy.
“Mom, seriously what are you thinking? I can’t leave! I don’t understand why you’d even suggest it.” I tried to mask the hurt in my voice, but it spilled out regardless. We were a team. Each day, we fought the good fight. It was us against the world, scrambling to pay bills, get medical treatment, live for the moment, those days where she felt good, and we pretended life was perfect.
She took a deep breath, trying to fill her lungs with the air she so desperately needed. “Honey, you’re twenty-eight years old, and all you’ve seen these last few years is the inside of a hospital room, or the long faces of the patrons in that god-awful diner. That isn’t right. You should be out with friends, or traipsing around the world painting as you go—not working yourself to the bone looking after me. I won’t have it. Take one year, that’s all I ask.” She gave me such a beseeching look I’m sure I heard the twang as my heart tore in two.
“It’s impossible.” I summoned a small smile. “Mom, I get what you’re saying, but I’m happy, truly I am. Any talk of leaving is silly.” She must see? Without my work at the diner there’d be no money coming in. Rent, bills, medical treatment, who’d pay for all of it? And worse still, there’d be no one to care for her. How could she survive without me? She couldn’t. And I doubted I could either.
“Your Aunt Margot is coming to stay. She’s going to help me out, so you don’t need to worry about a thing.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Aunt Margot? When’s the last time you two spoke?” Aunt Margot, Mom’s older sister, hadn’t struggled like my little family of two had. She’d married a rich banker type, and wiped us like we were dusty all those years ago after she tried unsuccessfully to curb Mom’s travel bug. Aunt Margot’s view was Mom should’ve put down roots, and settled down, the whole white picket fence, live in the ‘burbs lifestyle.
According to her, Mom traipsing around America with a child in tow, working wherever she could, was irresponsible. There were times we moved so often that Mom homeschooled me, and Aunt Margot couldn’t come to terms with it. If only Aunt Margot could see how much life on the road had broadened me. I’d learned so much and grown as a person, despite being reserved when it came to my art. We didn’t need the nine-to-five job, and the fancy car. We only needed each other.
A few years ago, Mom tried to reconnect with Aunt Margot, their fight festering too long, but she didn’t want anything to do with us nomads. Mom still didn’t know I overheard them arguing that frosty winter night. Aunt Margot screeched about Mom breaking a promise, and said she couldn’t forgive her. Mom countered with it was her promise to break—I still have no idea what they were talking about, and didn’t want to ask, or Mom would know I’d been eavesdropping. But it had always made me wonder what it could have been to make two sisters distance themselves from one another for so many years.
For Mom to reconnect with Aunt Margot now meant she was deadly serious. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Aunt Margot living in our tiny one-bedroom apartment. She wouldn’t lower herself. I’d sort of cooled toward my once doting aunt, after hearing her spat with Mom. She’d been judgmental, and narrow-minded, for no good reason.
“We’ve been talking for a while now. We’ve really mended the bridges.” Mom tried to rearrange her expression, but it was farcical, her smile too bright to be believable.
I squinted at her. “Really? Now who’s messing with who?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Well, we’re on speaking terms at least. And she offered to help so you could go away for a bit. So I don’t want to hear any more excuses. Got it?”
Stepping back to the bed, I hugged her small frame, resting my head on her shoulder so she wouldn’t see the tears pool in my eyes. How could I tell her I didn’t want to go? Leaving her would be like leaving my heart behind. Plus, accepting favors from Aunt Margot… We’d never hear the end of it.
Mom pushed me back and cupped my face. “I know you’re scared. I know you think it’s the worst idea ever. But, honey, I’ll be OK. Seeing you miss out on living, it’s too much. The young nurses here gossip about their weekends and all the fun things they manage to cram into each day, and then there’s you, the same age, wasting your life running round after me. Promise me, one year, that’s all. Can you just imagine what you’ll learn there with all those great teachers? Just the thought…just the thought…” Her eyes grew hazy as she rewrote my life in her dreams.
I knew to grow as an artist I needed proper training, but that was for people who had lives much more level than mine. My day-to-day life was like a rollercoaster, and we just held on tight for the downs, and celebrated the ups when they came. But Mom’s expression was fervent, her eyes ablaze with the thought. I didn’t know how to deny her. “Fine, Mom. I’ll start saving.” Maybe she’d forget all this crazy talk after a while.
“I’ve got some money for you, enough for a bus fare, and a few weeks’ accommodation, until you land a job. It’s not much, but it will start you off. You can go now, honey. Tomorrow.”
“Where’d you get the money, Mom?”
She rested her head deeper into the pillow, closing her eyes as fatigue got the better of her. “Never you mind.”
My stomach clenched. She’d really thought of everything. Aunt Margot must have loaned it to her. And I knew that would come at a price for Mom. There’d be so many strings attached to that money, it’d be almost a marionette. There was no one else she could have asked.
When I was in middle school my father had waltzed right out of our lives as soon as things got tough, and since then not a word, not a card, or phone call. Nothing. That coupled with our lack of communication with Aunt Margot, a woman who cared zero about anything other than matching her drapes to her lampshades, made life tough. But we’d survived fine on our own. We didn’t take handouts; we had pride. So for Mom to do this, borrow money, albeit a small amount, and have Aunt Margot come and rule her life, I knew it was important to her—more important than anything.
“I just… How can this work, Mom?” I folded my arms, and tried to halt the erratic beat of my heart.
Just then a nurse wandered in, grabbed the chart from the basket at the end of the bed, and penned something on it. “Everything OK?” she asked Mom, putting the chart back and tucking the blanket back in.
“Fine, everything’s fine, Katie. My baby is setting off for an adventure and we’re excited.”
Katie was one of our regular nurses—she knew us well. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time, Crystal!” She turned to me. “And, Lucy, you make sure you write us, and make us jealous, you hear?”
I forced myself to smile, and nodded, not trusting my voice to speak without breaking.
Katie checked Mom’s drip, fussing with the half-empty fluid bag. “We’ll take good care of your mom, don’t you worry about a thing.”
“Thanks, Katie. I appreciate that,” I finally said. She gave us a backward wave, and said over her shoulder, “Buzz me if you need anything.” Mom nodded in thanks.
We waited for the door to click closed.
“What you’re asking me to do is pretty huge, Mom.” My chest tightened even as I considering leaving. What if Aunt Margot didn’t care for Mom right? What if she upped and left after a squabble? How was Mom going to afford all of this? Did Aunt Margot understand what she was committing to? So many questions tumbled around my mind, each making my posture that little bit more rigid.
“It has to be now, Lucy. You have to do it now; there’s no more time.”
My heart seized. “What? There’s no more time!” I said. “What does that mean? Have the doctors said something?” I wouldn’t put it past Mom to keep secrets about her health. She’d try anything to spare me. Maybe the pain was worse than she let on? My hands clammed up. Had the doctors given her some bad news?
“No, no! Nothing like that.” She tried valiantly to relax her features. “But there’ll come a time when I’ll be moved into a facility. And I won’t have you waste your life sitting in some dreary room with me.”
My face fell. We’d both known that was the eventual prognosis. Mom would need round-the-clock care. But the lucky ones lasted decades before that eventuated, and Mom was going to be one of them. I just knew she was. With enough love and support from me, we’d beat it for as long as we could. Her talk, as though it was sooner rather than later, chilled me to the core. There was no way, while I still had air in my lungs, that I would allow my mother to be moved to a home. I’d die before I ever allowed that to happen. When the time came, and she needed extra help, I’d give up sleep if I had to, to keep her safe with me. In our home, under my care. Going away would halt any plans of saving for the future, even though most weeks, I was lucky to have a buck spare once all the bills were paid, and a paltry amount of food sat on the table.
“You stop that frowning or you’ll get old before your time. I’ve got things covered,” she said throwing me a winning smile. “I’ll be just fine, and Margot’s going to come as soon as I’m out of here. Don’t you worry. Go and find the life you want. Paint that beauty you find and I’ll be right here when you get back. Please…promise me you’ll go?”
I gave her a tiny nod, gripped by the unknown. I always tried to hold myself together for Mom’s sake, but the promise had me close to breaking. Dread coursed through me at the thought of leaving Mom, the overwhelming worry something would happen to her while I was gone.
But getting back on the open road, a new start, a new city, just like we used to do, did excite some small part of me. We used to flatten a map and hold it fast against a brick wall. I’d close my eyes and point, the pad of my finger deciding our fate, the place we’d visit next. That kind of buzz, a new beginning, had been addictive, but would it feel the same without my mom?
Chapter Two (#ulink_39aeaf9f-ff24-57d0-a46b-db3fe1734a8f)
The bus careered with a squeal and skidded off the road, startling me from slumber. Instinctively, I clutched hands with the woman beside me. Before shock fully registered the driver hit the brakes hard and we pitched forward in our seats. A shriek caught in my throat as we slid sideways toward a metal fence. I dropped the woman’s hand and braced myself as the bus leaned so far to the left dusty-colored ground screamed into view.
“Glory be!” the woman beside me said, her voice edged with worry.
The bus driver swerved and stopped dead just before we hit the shiny gleam of the fence. The commuters let out a collective sigh of relief. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears, as I surveyed the pitch-black night, wondering where we were, and if our journey would stop here, on some lonely forgotten road. I took a gulp of air deep into my lungs, trying to gather myself.
“Sorry, folks,” the bus driver said sheepishly, making eye contact with me in the rearview mirror. “Damn deer trotted on past without a care in the world. Everyone OK?”
I turned in my seat to check. People sat, eyes wide, mouths in an O, but no one seemed hurt in any way, just stunned awake by fright.
Commuters nodded. I rubbed my neck, and mumbled, “Yes.”
The plump, brown-skinned woman beside me gave my knee a reassuring pat. “You’ll be OK,” she said, gazing at me with kind eyes. “Jimmy here’s the best driver round. Deer be bad on this patch of road come night-time.” She spoke with a rich southern accent.
“Thanks,” I said speaking on autopilot as fear collected me. “He did well to keep it from rolling over.” A seasick sensation sat heavy in my belly and I shook my head in a kind of astonishment—wouldn’t that be the worst kind of irony, promising Mom I’d leave on this impromptu adventure and not making it there because of a bus crash? The thought alone was enough to make me stiffen. I’d never considered something bad happening to me—Mom was always at the forefront of my mind—but what if it did? Then who would look after her? Aunt Margot wouldn’t stay forever. I’d have to be careful, and not take risks if I could avoid them.
“Sure as God made little green apples Jimmy’ll have a few more gray hairs by the time we reach Ashford.”
The woman brought a sense of peace with her no-nonsense attitude.
“He just might,” I said, my mouth dry. “I think my first gray might sprout up of its own accord too.”
She tutted, giving my hair a cursory glance. “Nothing gonna dim that blonde mane o’ yours.”
The young woman in front of me rested her head on her friend’s shoulder. Across the aisle a spotty-faced teenage boy wiggled in his seat, balled up his sweater, pushed it hard up against the window as a pillow. Everyone was settling back down, but I was too keyed up to do anything other than sit there, mildly panicked at how close we’d come to crashing.
Was it a sign that I was choosing the wrong path? It felt like a warning somehow. Even though I’d promised Mom I’d explore for twelve long months, a half-day into the journey, I was regretting the decision with every ounce of me. The excitement of not having to pull double shifts at the shabby diner had dimmed the further away from Mom I got. When I’d quit work, the manager had barely raised an eyebrow. The other waitresses gave me small smiles, some heavy with envy, some full of hope that maybe one day they’d get out of there too. Right this instant, I’d swap with them in a heartbeat, and pretend this journey never happened.
It was hard to forget Mom’s dazzling smile when I went to say my goodbyes. She’d radiated happiness. It was almost palpable, like she’d been cured, or something miraculous, but it was all because of me. She was overjoyed my travels were beginning in earnest, though in actuality, I’d have to stay in one place half the year to save for the rest of the trip, if I found a decent job. When it was almost time to leave it took all my might not to clutch her and sob, telling her I didn’t want to. Instead, I’d held myself tight like a coil, and said I’d do my very best to enjoy myself. In an effort to lighten up a somber situation we played the “Remember When” game.
Remember when we slept in the lighthouse that night? Remember when we swapped our homemade dream catchers for a crate of apples? Remember when…
After that the Van Gogh Institute Scholarship came up about a hundred times, but I shrugged her off. I needed time. At this stage I didn’t know if I’d make it without her.
“Where you from?” the woman asked, bringing me back to the present. She crossed her arms over her midsection, as we bounced softly along.
With a smile, I said, “Detroit.” I pivoted a fraction to face her. She looked like the type who would chatter on regardless.
“Ah,” she said, “the birthplace of Motown? Ain’t that something?”
“It is.” I missed it already. It was home. Where my heart was.
She studied my face intently. “Why the long face?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t about to share my story with a stranger. Besides, there was no way I could say Mom’s name. I held on to the promise I made as though it was something tangible, my secret. “Just saying goodbye.” I tried hard to make it sound breezy and bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself to stay focused and not well up. Honestly, I was like a child going off to camp the first time. I knew Mom wanted me to “find myself” but I didn’t think I was lost. She did.
With a raise of her eyebrows she said, “Goodbyes…surely are difficult. But sometimes, you gotta take the plunge. Life is for living.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. My mom had said something eerily similar when I’d visited the hospital to say my goodbyes.
Snatching her purse from under the seat, she rifled around in it, before brandishing a brown paper bag full of something spicy-scented. “Here, eat. You as skinny as a rake.” She handed me a chocolate-dipped gingerbread man. “Ashford—where we goin’—is about the nicest place on earth. Problem is, once you visit it’s kinda hard to leave.”
“That so?” I took a bite of the cookie, ravenous now I’d awoken. “I’m not staying for good,” I said. “Just stopping by for a while.”
She hemmed and hawed. “That’s what they all say.”
I smiled at the woman in thanks, all the while thinking maybe the bus simply slipped off the road because of a deer, and not because I’d made a bad decision walking away from my mom, when she needed me so badly.
“Did you make this?” I asked, holding the remnants of the gingerbread man, just his little chocolate-dipped legs.
“Why I most certainly did. I work at the Gingerbread Café. I’m CeeCee.” She held out her hand.
“It’s delicious.” I shook her hand. “Lucy. Nice to meet you.” It wasn’t like me to chitchat so easily. Mom was the extrovert, the babbler; I took a while to warm up. Instead I people-watched, always lost inside my mind with how I’d paint the planes of their faces, or whether I could catch the question in their eyes, their own unique gaze.
I guess it was a safety mechanism of sorts, my lack of involvement with people. We’d moved so often, it was easier not to make friends than risk losing them. But alone, maybe I’d have to change that.
“We be seeing a lot more of each other, mark my words.” There was something comforting about the woman, the way she spoke, the warmth in her.
***
After snatching some nap time, I awoke, squinting. The sky had lightened. The bus burbled along, making its way to Ashford. My sketchy plan was to find a job, anything. The money Mom had borrowed from Aunt Margot, I stubbornly refused to take. I used it to pay her rent a paltry few more weeks, and restocked her fridge and freezer—a surprise, for when she got home. All I had was the wages from the last few shifts at the diner to see me through, but I knew how to be frugal, and how to work hard.
I had to find a job quickly, and hoped at the end of each week, there’d be enough left over that I could save and send some home. I’d sleep better knowing my mom had a back-up plan and some independence when it came to money.
Resting my head against the cool glass, I watched as meadows dotted with the odd home or two flashed past.
The driver hollered out, “Ashford’s ten minutes away, folks.”
I nodded to him as we made eye contact in the rearview mirror. His face was lined with fatigue. He was probably dreaming of bed, while commuters snoozed fitfully behind him.
In the distance a property appeared. It was flanked by lots of trees, bare of leaves, and stood out beside the rolling snow-drizzled meadows.
As the bus lumbered closer, I pushed my face up against the glass again. My breath fogged up the window; I hastily wiped it with my hand. As we neared, I could make out an old cottage, decayed with age. Twisted vines snaked around porch poles like skeletons.
I pulled at CeeCee’s sleeve. “Would you look at that place!” It was mesmerizing.
She sat up straighter, popping specs on the bridge of her nose. “That there’s the Maple Syrup Farm. It’s gone and got itself a new owner too. A real handsome guy but he tend to keep to his self.”
“Why’s that?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Folk say he’s just one o’ them lonesome types.” She clucked her tongue. “Whatever that’s ‘sposed to mean. He ain’t been there long, a month or two maybe. Still trying to make sense o’ the place. As you can see, it needs a lot o’ work. The cottage itself is over a hundred years old.”
The driver slowed for a bend in the road. “It’s eerie, like something out of a ghost story.” The property was bathed in a filmy light almost like that one patch of land was a different color to the rest of the world. Sepia, faded somehow. All I could imagine was trying to capture it on canvas, painting daubs of russet and taupe, lashings of cloud white. Hoping my brushstrokes would reflect its bygone charm.
“Town folk believe there’s a ghost there, but it ain’t true. Old Jessup passed on not long back, and he left the farm to his nephew, Clay. Don’t stop people talkin’ out o’ turn saying they seen Jessup wandering around those trees. He used to love them, talk to them as if they was real.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.” When I painted a landscape like the one in front of me, it was easy to get lost in pondering what had gone on over so many decades—the history of the place, and not just the facts, but the heart and soul of it, the real story. Who slept under that cottage roof a century ago? Did they dream of other places, or were they happy there? Did kids frolic by the lake, swim, climb trees, tumble down hills? Was there a woman at the hearth, stoking up fires and baking? Imagining lives long forgotten piqued my curiosity and made my fingers itch to pick up a paintbrush.
She yawned, and stretched her arms above her head. “Sure is. And Clay’s only addin’ to it by being reclusive.”
I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “Ashford’s own little mystery.”
She guffawed. “Sometimes there ain’t much more to do than speculate about folk.”
I laughed. The town must be a hotbed of gossip because of its size. “I guess so. What’s he doing with the place? Is he going to stay?”
“Word is, he wants to tap the trees for maple syrup, like his uncle used to do before the arthritis got the better of him. Can’t seem to find anyone who wants to work there though. It’ll be a tough job, getting it all done without any help.”
My ears pricked up. “Really?”
How hard could farmwork be? Physical, sure, but I was fit and capable. It’d be something new, rather than pouring endless cups of coffee for weary truck drivers. Or serving plates of greasy bacon and eggs to night-shift workers. Each day bleeding into the next with the monotony of it all.
How was maple syrup made? All I pictured was their beautiful red, almost carmine, colored leaves, ones I used to take from parks when I was a child and press between the pages of my diary, until they dried, holding their shape, like an exotic fan.
Farmwork would surely be a damn sight better than being cooped up in an old diner.
“Do you think he’d consider me for the job?” I couldn’t contain my eagerness. A job on day one would surely be a good sign.
“I don’t rightly know,” she said thoughtfully. “You see, I don’t know him like I know most folk, but there ain’t no harm in tryin’.”
Knowing Ashford was a small town, I seized on the idea of working at the farm. I doubted there’d be many other opportunities, and if I didn’t snag something quick I’d have to move on and try my luck elsewhere. “I really need a job, CeeCee. Keep your fingers crossed for me.”
Her big brown eyes softened. “You go on and see if he’ll hire you, and then if he does, get yourself some wet-weather clothes. Being outdoors all day, that cold will surely sink into your bones.”
“Thanks, Cee.” Out of all the buses in the world, all the ways I could have traveled, I ended up next to CeeCee, and I thanked my lucky stars. With her help, I might have found a job, and at least I’d know one friendly face in town.
As we neared Ashford, the houses bunched closer together. In a driveway a group of kids were riding bicycles side by side in a languid, just-woke-up kind of way. Siblings, or next-door neighbors? I thought back to my childhood, moving from place to place, making friends, and then having to leave them. Mom’s itchy feet, her gypsy-like wandering, kept us on the road right up until my teenage years. I turned to look back at the kids. It must have been nice, settling in one place as a kid, knowing nothing would change except that their bandy little legs would fill out, and they’d eventually ditch their bikes for cars. A lifetime of friendship built right next door to one another.
Just as the driver promised, ten minutes later the small town came rolling into view. Snow drifted down, making the place look as pretty as a picture on a postcard. Neat store fronts lined the road, and for a small town, they had quite a variety. Jimmy pulled the bus into a park, and turned off the engine.
I gathered my belongings, and inched my way down the rubber-floored aisle to the front. “Sorry for the scare,” he said, his face brighter now we’d stopped. “Enjoy your day.”
“You too. Thanks, Jimmy.” I gave him a wave as I stepped off the warm bus and onto the curb.
Behind me, CeeCee marched from the bus and gave me a great big launch hug that almost bowled me over. “Begonia Bed and Breakfast is thatta way,” she said pointing to the far end of town. “The only accommodation Ashford has.”
“It’s like you can read my mind!” Though I suppose it was obvious, a girl heading into a small town would need a place to stay.
She tapped her nose. “I always know. You go on and get settled then come back here for some breakfast. On the house,” she added as I went to protest. “You need a decent meal ‘fore you head off to the farm, if you sure that’s the kinda job you want.”
***
Meeting the exuberant CeeCee put a smile on my face and took some of the ache away. I wasn’t used to being alone. Mom was always on my mind in Detroit, whether I was working or not. But the invisible cord that bound us was still there. Being so far away, the cord seemed infinite, and tugged, making me think she needed me.
Soft winter sun warmed my back as I walked, my steps heavy. I was so far from home I was almost under a different sky. I took in the charming streetscape, mentally framing up every view as a potential sketch, one that I could post home, show Mom where I was.
Cheery store owners nodded hello to me. I gave them a shy smile and averted my eyes. I headed toward the bed and breakfast, hoping the owner would have a room, something affordable too. When I passed a hardware store, I turned left at a sign advertising the lodgings, and meandered along until I found the B and B. Flowers spilled from pots in a riot of red, their sweet perfume wafting up.
The door opened, catching me, hand balled ready to knock.
A squirrely voice greeted me: “You must be Lucy! Come in, come in. I’m Rose.” Rose was rail thin, maybe in her seventies. She had a full shock of gray hair pulled back from her face in a bun. Her hands were liver-spotted and quivered slightly.
“Yes, I am, err, how…?”
“CeeCee called,” she said briskly, opening the door wide. “Said she met you on the bus. And that you were a dear little thing and I’m to make you comfortable, quick sticks. She’s never wrong about people, you know.” She gazed at me over the brim of her spectacles. “I see you are as pretty as a picture, all that lovely long blonde hair of yours, and those blue eyes… You know my mother, God rest her soul, used to call that shade of blue China blue… Did you know that?”
“Umm, no I didn’t…thank you.” I followed Rose inside, slightly overwhelmed by her scrutiny of me.
“Come on in. You’ll get used to me. I tend to say the first thing I think. Most of us do, being so used to one another, I suppose. Jimmy had another deer incident did he?”
The small town grapevine sure would take some getting used to. In Detroit, you could be invisible if you wanted. There was no way of knowing who was new, and who wasn’t. It was a big, busy town, and easy to be just a faceless member of the crowd. It might be nice to have friends, people who didn’t know me, or my past. “He managed to avoid it, but it was pretty close,” I said, sure that CeeCee would have told Rose the story already with a lot more oomph.
When I caught sight of the living room my head spun. Everything was floral. The curtains dusty pink with carnations, the carpet a ruby-red hibiscus, the wallpaper dotted with lemon-yellow daisies. I blinked the spotty vision away.
“Sit, dear. I brewed a pot of tea. Chamomile, OK?”
“Great,” I said. For someone so frail Rose moved with quick steps, fussing with her skirt as she went. I took a high-back chair and stared out the window while I waited, absently chewing a nail, wondering how I’d escape with any shred of dignity if the room was beyond my budget. It was my first day off in aeons, and it was nice to sit down, and relax. I was so used to rushing around that I was perpetually dizzy with it all. Time to sit and sip tea was a novelty.
Rose strode back into the room, carrying a tray with tea things. She poured the steaming brew into two delicate china cups, and balanced one on a saucer, before shakily passing it to me.
“So,” she said her eyes brighter than her years suggested. “How long are you staying?”
I blew out a breath. “I’m not too sure, yet. Depends on finding a job. I hope that’s OK?” Maybe she’d want the money upfront and a definite time frame?
“You just let me know whenever you’re ready,” she said, fluttering her hand. “January’s one of the quietest months for folks in Ashford, so I’m happy to have a bit of company no matter how long you stay for. I’ll make up the back bedroom for you. It has its own bathroom—you’ll be comfortable there.”
“Thank you…I…” My voice petered out as I squirmed in my chair. Money angst, as usual. Almost every decision, every choice I made, was linked to money or the lack thereof. It was like chasing my tail, and just once I would have liked to be free of the never-ending loop of it.
Rose gave me a once-over. “The room is a hundred dollars a week, is that OK?” Before I could respond with anything other than raised eyebrows she said, “That will include meals, if you’re here at night, and also your breakfast things.”
“Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like enough!” While I was all for saving, I didn’t want to take advantage of anyone.
“It’s plenty. Let me show you your room.” She stood and smoothed her hair back. Rose was poised and graceful as if she’d been taught to sit with the right posture and sip her tea daintily with her pinkie finger pointing out. I picked up my travel bag and my art portfolio.
“It’s right this way.” Her skirt swished around her ankles as she strode.
We went through the kitchen, its wooden benches orderly, and continued down a hallway with walls lined with family pictures.
“Is this you, Rose?” I pointed to a picture of a glamorous woman, soaking up sunshine in a striped bathing suit, and big Jackie-O style sunglasses.
“Yes, quite the starlet wasn’t I?” she joked. “That was me back in my beach bunny days—I spent far too long tanning myself to leather beneath the Californian sun, until I moved here, and swapped the sunbaking for hiking.”
“You look great.” Despite her age, I could still see that twenty-something woman in Rose, the quick smile, the grace.
“These are my grandbabies.” Rose pointed to a picture of three boys with cheeky smiles and dimples.
“Are they in Ashford?”
She shook her head sadly. “They’re all the way in Australia. My son moved there for work, so I rarely see them these days. The distance is too much for me to travel. My old bones suffer from the flight. Just because we said our goodbyes, doesn’t mean they’re not in my heart. Never mind.” She grabbed my hand. “I’ve got you to look after now.”
I returned her hand squeeze. She had no idea how much her words meant to me. I was missing my mom fiercely, but maybe Rose would help curb that loss a fraction. Even though I was hesitant making friends, Rose had a grandmotherly way about her. “Thanks, Rose.”
Girls my age probably had a much better hold on themselves at twenty-eight than I did. But I was all sorts of lost without the anchor of my old life. Regret sat heavy in my belly, as I rued making Mom the promise in the first place. It was a foolish idea to jet around the world like a carefree itinerant. The year was going to drag on, until I could finally go home where I belonged.
Rose pulled me down the hallway until we came to a door. With a flourish she pushed it open. The room smelt musty, like it had been closed up for a long time, but it was neat. There was a double bed, and a small dresser. We shared a room in Detroit—usually I flopped on the sofa when I crept in. A whole bed to myself would be a luxury.
“Here’s the bathroom.” She opened a door off to the side, and my breath caught. “Everyone always does that.” She laughed. While the bedroom was small the bathroom was huge, spacious enough for a double vanity and an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. “I made some renovations a few years back, and they knocked a wall through from the other side so the bathroom would be bigger.”
“Wow, you did a great job. No flowers?”
She chortled. “I thought maybe one room should be flower free.” She scratched her chin. “But I regret that choice every day.”
The bathroom was all white, with touches of cream in the tiling. Thick, fluffy towels were stacked next to the bath. It was like an oasis for my tired, overwrought mind. I knew I’d spend a lot of time soaking in the tub. We didn’t have one at home, and just the thought made me want to buy bubble bath, and a book to while the hours away indulgently.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” she said. “There’s soap and a few toiletries under the sink, and you just yell out if you need a hand.” With that she stepped from the room leaving only the scent of her perfume.
Casting another cursory glance around the room, I placed my art portfolio on top of the dresser drawers, and swung my backpack to the end of the bed. Time to unpack, and make the room my temporary home.
From the front pocket of my bag, I took out a picture frame. In the photo Mom had her arms looped around my shoulders. The wind whipped around us making her strawberry-blonde curls tangle into my flaxen hair. Behind us the sun shone, making it look as though we had haloes, but it was our faces, the sheer happiness that radiated that I loved. It was taken pre-diagnosis, where the world had been ours for the taking, and the only routine we had was waking up each morning. I gave the photo a quick kiss, and put it on the windowsill.
When we found out about Mom’s condition, and how easily it could deteriorate, our world swung dangerously off its axis for a while, until we regrouped, and collected ourselves. We’d hit a fork in the road, and veered the wrong way for a time, but eventually we had to accept it. There was no choice. We couldn’t change the diagnosis; we could only do our best to make Mom’s future as bright as possible.
Responsibility was thrust on us. Medical appointments and money woes ruled our days, but that didn’t stop us dreaming. It hurt to walk in and see Mom staring at the TV, a filmy light casting shadows over her face, her ready smile gone.
I tried a multitude of ways to cheer her up in those first dark months. One night I found a bunch of old magazines, and bought a sunny yellow scrapbook. I told her to find pictures that inspired her, that made her happy.
We cut and pasted tiny squares of shiny paper every night. It was our dream travel book—we visualized what could be. It didn’t take long for us to fill the pages with cuttings of spicy tapas in Spain, or diving with dolphins in Australia. The ruins of Rome. Tulips in Amsterdam. Famous paintings I wanted to see. Museums we wanted to wander inside. That was the thing about dreams—they could be as big and bold as you liked. Mom took a shine to scrapbooking, and unlike her other hobbies, she stuck with it.
With a wobbly smile, I took our dream travel book from my backpack, and flopped onto the plush bed. I creaked it open, its pages fat with cheap glue. The very first picture: a cutout of the Eiffel Tower, standing tall and proud, its night lights twinkling bon jour.
Did she know, all that time ago, that I should end up there? Maybe she’d always hoped I’d try out for the Van Gogh Institute. I’d often talked in an awed hush about visiting the Musée d’Orsay to ogle Van Gogh’s portraits. Or taking a day trip northwest of Paris to see the garden where Claude Monet painted the Water Lilies. Pipe dreams, or so I’d thought.
Pleasure bloomed in my heart at the thought I might get to do these things, despite not having my mom with me. Once-in-a-lifetime adventures were within reach, if only I could do it on my own. Carefully, I tucked the scrapbook into the bedside drawer. There’d be time enough to flip its full pages. I yawned, so tempted to sleep. Without the usual rush of my life, I was as drowsy as a cat in summertime.
But I had to find a job. I’d dillydallied enough this morning. I could easily end up stranded and penniless here. Mom didn’t have the same fears as me, always believing the universe would provide, that a solution would appear. As much as I loved the universe, real fear of being broke sat heavy on my shoulders.
With a groan, I pulled myself up and went to wash my face. The cool water refreshed me. The thought of breakfast at the Gingerbread Café was enough to inspire me to get going.
Chapter Three (#ulink_e5c448ba-8a7e-59a9-b509-dba0855877b2)
I recognized a booming laugh before I’d even got to front door of the Gingerbread Café. It was quickly followed by a shriek. As I approached the window, CeeCee’s round frame was bent double, hooting as amusement got the better of her.
Pushing the door open, a jangle of bells announced my arrival. The café was busy. Customers lolled on chairs by the window, or cupped their chins, bent over a table with friends. By the fire an elderly gentleman had fallen asleep, a newspaper crumpled in his lap, his snores punctuating the chatter in the café.
The scene was completely opposite to the old diner I’d worked in, where men hung their heads over weak cups of coffee, their eyes vacant, as though their lives had passed them by. Night-shift workers, truck drivers, and women dressed in flashy sequins, holes in their stockings, their heels scuffed; they all had that same pall, a kind of defensiveness in their faces, a clenched jaw, stiff posture.
But here, it was almost like walking into a storybook. There was a relaxed and cozy air about the place, but somehow it made me feel on edge, like I didn’t belong. They’d see straight through me, and know I wasn’t like them. I was a drifter in their midst. They had easy smiles, and ready laughs, and I was so used to being guarded, and careful, so that nothing would be taken from me. No one wanted a sob story where I’d come from. And I was loath to share mine anyway.
I hung my coat by a rack near the door as my senses were assaulted with the sweetest smells. Chocolate, coffee, and the spiciness of gingerbread baking. It was like I’d been lifted up and transported to a sugary-scented paradise. Music played chirpily overhead, while customers sipped coffee and gossiped.
I walked to a display cabinet full of chocolate truffles in every shape and size, some dusted with red with some type of glitter, some with delicate gold leaf. My mouth watered while I tried to make up my mind about which I’d choose. Thoughts of saving money dogged me—even though I needed these chocolates like I needed air to breathe. As subtly as I could, I whipped out my cell phone and snapped some pictures to send to Mom. She’d get such a kick out of the artistry on each truffle. If I did land the job at the farm, I’d post Mom a box of the gourmet chocolates home, as a celebratory gift.
“Well lookie here, it’s Lucy.” CeeCee pulled me into a bear hug so tight she squashed the air from my lungs.
After she released me from the squishiness of her ample frame, I said, concerned, “You’re working after no sleep?” We’d napped intermittently just before dawn, but not enough that I could make my brain fire on all cylinders if I needed to. CeeCee must’ve had the energy of child, dashing about in the café like she was. I slipped off my gloves, and rubbed my hands together.
“I’ve had so much coffee I won’t sleep for days. Now what can I get you?” She waved to people walking past, and then focused on me.
I gestured to the chocolates, nervous as suddenly all eyes in the café landed on me. “How can you choose?”
She guffawed. “Ain’t no way you can, my sweet cherry blossom. That’s part of our cunning plan to keep folks vistin’ every day! How about you take a seat by the window, and I’ll bring you a gingerbread coffee and a selection o’ my favorites?” She spun me around and nudged me in the right direction.
“Umm,” I protested feebly as CeeCee trundled off, whistling a song, drawing amused smirks from customers. She’d said breakfast on the house, but even that was too much. I couldn’t take handouts. “Cee…” She was already talking to another customer, so I took refuge at a table, and looked studiously out the window, avoiding the curious glances that came my way.
A minute later, CeeCee said, “Mind, it’s hot.” She placed a coffee, a plate of bacon and eggs, and a golden box full of truffles on the table. My stomach rumbled in appreciation.
“This is too much, Cee. You have to tell me what I owe you.” I blushed, wondering how much such a deluxe breakfast would cost, frantically calculating in my mind.
She waved me away. “It’s your ‘Welcome to Ashford’ meal, so put it out o’ your mind, cherry blossom. It’s just our way round here.”
I knew CeeCee could see straight through me, and she was only being nice so I could save face. I finally managed, “Thank you, Cee. I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime, sugar plum. Lil,” she said. “This here’s Lucy, the one I was telling you ‘bout. First time being a passenger with one o’ Jimmy’s near misses!” She shook her head and ruched her skirt up to sit before gesturing to a curvy, blonde-haired girl, who gave me a big wave. Lil was beautiful in that all-American, girl-next-door way. I returned her wave, and smiled.
“Sometimes I think ol’ Jimmy thinks he’s a race-car driver or some such!” A trio of elderly women at the next table nodded, as if they knew all about Jimmy.
I grinned at CeeCee, the accident not as scary in the light of day. “He handled it well, but I’m not too keen to repeat the journey, that’s for sure.”
Lil wandered over and sat with us. “CeeCee was mighty glad you were there when Jimmy lost control. She might pretend to be blasé, but really she was scared witless. Isn’t that right, Cee?”
“Hush now,” CeeCee said. “Don’t you give away my secrets.” They gave each other a look, like best friends do, one where words aren’t needed to convey a message.
“What made you decide on sleepy old Ashford?” Lil asked, propping her face in her palms.
It was almost like a spotlight shone down on me. The girls asked so many questions and I could see people peering at me over the tops of their mugs, inclining their bodies closer to listen. It was nerve-racking but I pulled on a smile and said, “It was as simple as catching the only bus out of town, which happened to be stopping here.” I shrugged.
What I didn’t say was the crying jag I’d had upon leaving had zonked me so much that I missed most of the journey, lost inside my head, in a lonely haze.
“Wow, I like your style,” Lil said. “That takes some courage, just getting on any old bus.”
“I figured it was fate. I’m…escaping for a year and seeing where the wind takes me.” There. I was sure I sounded convincing enough. Maybe they’d think I was just a young girl with no attachments. No sad past, just an amiable soul, crisscrossing the globe.
“Ain’t that something?” CeeCee said. “Everyone’s gotta have an adventure at least once in their lives. When you’re as old as me, you’ll know. Time flies, quicker than you ever imagine.” She stared into the distance, as if she was thinking of someone else. I followed her gaze to an empty store across the road with an old sign advertising handcrafted furniture.
She shook her head as if dislodging a thought. “Anyways, you’re going to love it here. I can always tell.” Hefting herself from the table, she gave my shoulder a pat. “You go on an’ eat now, and if you run out o’ truffles you go on and let me know.”
Lil groaned. “I was hoping for a five-minute sit-down, Cee.” She made a show of pulling herself up from the chair. “She’d work me to the bone quick as look me.” She winked at me.
CeeCee narrowed her eyes. “Ain’t that the truth? The cakes don’t bake themselves, sugar plum.” I hid a grin at the way they teased each other. They were obviously the best of friends. I could imagine them confiding in each other, and always having someone on their side. It made me wish for a friendship like theirs. Could I ever be that open with someone other than Mom? I’d never had the chance to create a lasting bond with any of the girls I’d met on our travels, because we’d never stayed long enough. It would be nice to have someone to confide in, someone who’d keep your secrets.
Lil gave me a dazzling smile, and said, “CeeCee’s excited because she’s making apple tarte tatin—from a recipe given to her by a certain Frenchman who shall remain nameless.”
CeeCee put her hands on her hips. “You gonna keep razzin’ me about Guillaume, I’m gonna march over the road and tell Damon that you the one who ate the pie he ordered especially for a customer o’ his.” I wondered how all these people fit together: friends, lovers, customers?
Lil’s eyes went wide. “OK, OK. Sheesh, how was I supposed to know it was for his customer? You can’t just bake something that smells like heaven itself and leave it in front of me like some kind of invitation. Anyone would have done the same.” She glanced at me for hoping for an ally. I grinned, and stared into my mug.
“But the whole pie?” CeeCee shook her head and faced me. “The amount that girl eats—must have hollow legs. Come now, Lil, let’s bake and you forget all about my Frenchman.” She blushed. “I’m too old for this kinda carry on,” she said, her voice lilting.
Lil laughed and bent to whisper, “It’s her new boyfriend but we’re all supposed to pretend he isn’t!”
The girls were like a breath of fresh air, their routine comical, as they badgered each other with good nature.
“Don’t think I didn’t hear that,” CeeCee said mock sternly. “Eat, Lucy, ‘fore you waste away on us.”
With my head spinning from it all, I bit into the first chocolate truffle, and closed my eyes as I savored the flavor. The taste sensation exploded in my mouth—dark chocolate, and cherry with a hit of liqueur, encased in a tiny ball of goodness. All of life’s problems could be forgotten when you ate chocolate as delectable as this. While I was still jittery about being here, the girls somewhat assuaged that with their antics.
A young woman dashed into the café, flicking her glossy brown curls over her shoulder. “I need coffee!” she yelled dramatically. “Preferably by an IV, if you can.”
CeeCee cackled like a witch. “And let me guess, chocolates served up by the pound?”
The girl pretended to be surprised, clapping a hand over her mouth. “How did you know? You’re like…the chocolate whisperer!”
“Probably because you say that every day, my sweet cherry blossom. Lucy this here’s Becca—works at the hair salon up the road.” CeeCee turned back to Becca. “Why don’t you go sit over there with Lucy. She’s new here, looking for work.” CeeCee gave her a pointed stare. “And we drove right on past the Maple Syrup Farm this mornin’ if you get my drift.”
Becca gasped. “You did? Let me go speak to this exotic creature.”
I would have blushed like crazy if people back home spoke of me in such a way, but here it was done with such humor and warmth. So far the townspeople were lively and funny, and so open it was like watching a play being performed, and I was the audience.
With a sweep of her hand, Becca sat regally at the table. “Lucy, my lovely. Work you say?” She arched an eyebrow in a theatrical way.
“Why?” I said, oddly out of step with the latest customer to spill through the doors. Was no one here quiet and unassuming? Each person I met one-upped the last with their antics. I’m sure it would make living in Ashford fun but it was so foreign to me. I played along, hoping I’d get the hang of their easy camaraderie. “Are you expecting me to dance on tables or something?” I said, safe in the knowledge that was probably not the case.
She whacked the table, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “No, no!” she said. “But are you really looking?” Her voice dropped to a more neutral tone.
“I really am.”
“It’s not a pretty job…” Her forehead furrowed, and she surveyed her nails, as if buying time. “Actually, it’s rather, well…messy.”
I surreptitiously glanced at my own nails. They were chipped, the light pink polish bitten to the quick as I’d made my way here. “That’s OK. I’m in no position to be fussy right now.”
“Great!” Her voice carried around the café. “My cousin needs a hand.”
CeeCee piped up. “Becca is Clay’s cousin. That ramshackle property we passed on the bus…the Maple Syrup Farm.”
The very same job I was intent on applying for. The chance meeting with Becca was great timing—maybe she could give me some pointers on what to tell the so-dubbed reclusive Clay. “So what should I do, Becca?”
“Just mosey over there and say you’re ready to work. He needs someone urgently so don’t take no for an answer.” She wrinkled her nose. “But it’s not going to be easy.”
I waved her away. Easy? How hard could farmwork be? Outside surrounded by the beauty of nature, I’m sure it would be as easy as ABC. And something my hippy mom would enjoy hearing about.
More important was landing the job. My whole future hinged on it. “Any advice on how I can convince him that I’m the girl for the job?” My voice pitched, giving away the worry I felt. No doubt he’d prefer someone who knew exactly what farmwork required, but I was convinced I could do it. Maybe it was desperation speaking, but given a chance, I’d show him I was more than willing to work hard.
Becca cocked her head, grimacing slightly. “Stand your ground. Clay’s…sort of used to being alone. But he really does need help, otherwise he won’t get the trees tapped for syrup.” The words spilled out quickly, like she was trying convince me.
Stand my ground? I imagined Clay—a man used to being alone—as some crinkle-faced, weathered farmer, set in his ways. “OK, any other tips?”
She waited a beat. “Don’t take anything he says to heart.”
I frowned. “I’ll keep that in mind. So no need to spout on about my love of the outdoors, or my urge to…farm?”
Laughter spilled from Becca’s bright-pink lips. “No, definitely no need for that. Just be confident, and don’t give in when he says no on sight. He seems to think he can do it all alone sometimes, and then resents the fact he can’t.”
“OK. I thought maybe I should be the full bottle on farming equipment or something, so he knows I’m capable.”
“Nope.” She flashed a smile. “He can teach you the basics. You’ll be fine.”
“Right,” I said, feeling strangely confident. “Thanks, Becca. It’ll be a beautiful place to spend time. I’ll head over and see what he says.” I caught the wide-eyed look Lil and Becca exchanged and wondered just what kind of man Clay was.
Not an easy one, by the look of it.
Chapter Four (#ulink_831589ec-c3e8-5932-8c8b-28df1d24904d)
After leaving the café, I strolled along the main street of Ashford, peering into store windows, soaking up the atmosphere, when a travel agency caught my eye. I gazed at posters of exotic locations. One had Indian women dressed in vibrant-colored saris. Another an orangutan with an almost human-like face, the text below suggesting a vacation to Sumatra. Gondoliers in Venice. The Eiffel Tower in Paris.
The wanderlust in my DNA pulsed a little quicker. Before Mom had me, she’d hotfooted it around the globe—these posters reminded me of her travels. I had albums of her twenty-something face, carefree and lit with wonder as she stood, wrapped in sky-blue cheesecloth, next to an elephant that dwarfed her. She’d been on safari in Africa, before heading to the UK to work in a pub, where there were photos of her holding a pint glass filled with black stout, saving for her next jaunt.
Nothing had held her back; she’d siphoned every ounce of joy from her life, before she was struck down. She’d squashed so much into her days, each hour counted. There was something timeless about it.
“Can I help you?” A man popped his head around the archway of the door, startling my reverie. My gaze darted to his sweater that read Take the plunge, visit New Zealand.
What would New Zealand be like? Another place to add to the one-day list.
“Have you got any brochures for Paris?” I stuttered, feeling put on the spot.
The slightly stooped man motioned me inside. I glanced at my watch—a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. After all, for once, I didn’t actually have to be anywhere. The sudden freedom gave me a sense of euphoria. The farm could wait another ten minutes. It wasn’t like Clay was expecting me…unless the Ashford grapevine had reached him already.
“I’ve got brochures for Paris, Pakistan, Peru. Whatever you want.” He was jolly, and ruddy-faced.
He rifled through a stack of shiny brochures before finding one with a picture of a couple smooching under the Eiffel Tower.
“Anything else?” he asked handing me the brochure. “I’m Henry, by the way.”
“No, that’s perfect. Lucy,” I said, and held out my hand to shake. I wanted to grab a fistful of brochures, to cut them and paste them into our scrapbook, but visiting these places might become a reality now, and without Mom, it didn’t seem right to fill the book anymore. It had been our project. Our wish list.
“Have you been to Paris?” I stalled, wanting to stare at the exotic locations, dream of another life, a different me. The wonderful things I could capture on canvas. Chance snapshots, like an over-ripe coconut felled from a tree, the bandy brown legs of its lopper.
“Paris? Sure have. Let’s see.” He ran a hand over his head. “Must’ve been thirty-odd years ago now. All I had was a few French francs in my pocket, and a backpack hitched over my shoulder. The people there, they were something else, inspired, eccentric.” There was glimmer in his eye as he recalled his vacation. “Always wanted to go back there.”
“Why didn’t you?” The eternal question. Why did people leave the places they loved?
He scratched the stubble on his chin. “There was always somewhere new to discover. Once you’re hit with the travel bug, well, you just want to go ahead and see it all.” His voice softened as he gazed over the top of my head, almost as if he were back in Paris, the young man he must have been thirty years ago. “I wanted to walk those back streets, and find joy in patches of the world that so many before me had been, leaving only their footprints, and maybe a piece of their heart, their lives indelibly changed.”
My mom would love Henry. She had that same faraway look in her eyes when she recalled her travels before she was housebound to a degree. It was hard not to feel glum. Mom should be here too, plotting her next trip, and following the summer. “Seems like there’s two types of people: those who wander the earth, and those who don’t,” I said.
He gave me a wide smile. “If everyone had the means, I’m sure it’d be more prevalent. That’s all they’re missing, that first big trip…the weight of the world someone else’s problem. What about you—where are you staying?”
He wanted to know which type I was. “At Rose’s B and B.” I shrugged. “Everything depends on a job.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said with a genuine smile.
“Me too. And I hope you get to visit more places soon, Henry.”
His smile waned. “Sometimes, life gets in the way of our dreams. But I have the memories.” He tapped his heart.
I don’t know what his story was, but his wanderings had been cut short, just like Mom’s. He couldn’t know that I understood—it was almost like caging a bird. Instead, I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Memories last forever,” I said, hoping it was true.
He nodded. “So, what about you, Lucy? Is Paris on the cards? Or are you still in the planning stage?”
I grappled with the same inner turmoil. Would I apply to the institute? Was I even good enough to try? But Adele was in Paris, so either way, if I continued to travel, Paris would be my first port of call. It wouldn’t hurt, to keep an eye on flight prices, while I saved up the money.
“I don’t know for sure yet,” I said, “but if any cheap flights become available will you let me know?” I knew, deep down, if I went to Paris, I would regret not applying for the institute if I had to walk past it every day. Even though I still felt like a novice.
“Sure! And if I can be of any assistance just let me know. I’ve got a bunch of maps, and well-thumbed travel guides, feel free to stop in and peruse whenever you like.”
“Thank you,” I said with a smile. I folded the Paris brochure and tucked it into my backpack. “I’d love to. I’ll get myself sorted with a job and I’ll be back.”
We said our goodbyes, and I walked outside. Across the road a second-hand bookstore had a display window of travel books. It was like the universe was showing me the way. Instead of stepping inside, I kept on, heading to the Maple Syrup Farm. There was no point dreaming of foreign locales until I’d secured a job. And in a town as small as Ashford, there was likely to be minimal work available. I’d have to prove to Clay I was more than capable of farming, whatever the heck that entailed.
And heeding Becca’s advice, I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Glancing down at my outfit, I grimaced. Really, I should have worn something more practical. It was icy cold, and I was layered in a pink knit sweater, with bling-y beading across the bust, topped with a faux fur coat. I was a little on the bohemian side for Ashford, with my feather earrings, and bangles, which clinked together as I strode. If Clay said yes, I’d have to spend some money on more suitable work clothes.
Alone with my thoughts for the long walk to the farm, I couldn’t stop thinking of all the things Aunt Margot needed to know. Mom needed help with even the simplest tasks like showering, and I wanted to make sure Aunt Margot did it in such a way that Mom’s dignity was protected. I decided to call her myself, even though Mom had expressly asked me not to. Reaching into my bag I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. It had been years since we talked, and I wondered how she’d act.
“Lucy, how lovely to hear from you after all this time.” Her words were soft, measured.
“Yeah…it’s been a while.” I was a touch frosty, remembering the way she erased us from her life. I knew she would be footing the bill now, for Mom’s medical needs, but that didn’t make me any less wary.
“Your mother says you’re off gallivanting, just like she used to,” she said with an air of distaste.
I rolled my eyes, safe she couldn’t see me. “Yeah, something like that. Only for a year.”
“You should think of college. It’s not too late you know.”
“Yeah.” No, college wasn’t for people like me. “So, I wanted to touch base about Mom, and a few things—”
A guttural laugh came down the line. “There’s no need,” she said. “Everything is organized.”
I frowned. “That may be, but there’s a plastic chair in the bathroom you just need to—”
She cut me off again. “As I said, your mother will be fine, Lucy. Don’t worry about chairs or bathrooms for goodness’ sake. Do think about what I said about college. We can probably help you too. It’s becoming a pattern.”
I stiffened. We didn’t want her help, and if I was home we wouldn’t need it now. She was infuriating. “I can get by just fine, Aunt Margot. But with Mom, I want to make sure she’s looked after right.” It was all I could do to keep my tone even.
“Darling, don’t be mad. I can hear it in your voice. You’re so much like her, you know. Stubborn, and silly, at times. She threw her life away; you don’t need to as well.”
I’d always felt Aunt Margot was jealous that Mom was so carefree, and that the American dream—a house, two point five kids, and a nine-to-five job—didn’t appeal to Mom at all. Did it really matter how you chose to live your life as long as you were a good person?
I breathed in deeply, letting her toxic words float away before responding. “She hasn’t thrown her life away, in fact she’s lived more than most people double her age have!”
She clucked her tongue. “Living out of a suitcase is not living. And you’re on the same path. I worry about you, Lucy. With a role model like that what can you expect?”
I held in a scream. “Aunt Margot, don’t talk about Mom that way,” I managed through clenched teeth. “Did you get the list I left there?” I’d left detailed instructions, but still, I wanted to clarify things.
“Yes, yes. You know your mother, Lucy. It would be easier if she was more upfront sometimes.”
“What does that mean?” My mother was as transparent as water.
She sighed. “I can keep a promise,” she said. “Unlike her. So I’ll leave it at that.”
“What? Is she OK?” What was she talking about?
“She’s fine, Lucy. Jesus, I’m not a monster. If anything happened I’d let you know. I’m just saying, as usual, your mother does things her own way, and as usual I don’t agree with her. But let’s not rehash the past—it’s already colliding with the future.”
She was referring to the promise Mom apparently broke all those years ago. “Put Mom on,” I said.
“Sorry, darling, she’s asleep. You’ll have to try again later.”
“Fine, I will,” I said, and hung up as anger coursed through me. This was why we didn’t need help. Someone like Aunt Margot holding it over us. She had the power, and poor Mom was probably stuck there every day having to listen to her bring up her issues every five minutes.
I stomped toward the farm, even more determined to get the job, and send money home to Mom.
***
I’d eventually calmed down, as my feet found a rhythm while I walked. Thirty minutes later, the farm appeared. With my head inclined, I stopped, shoved my hands deep in my pockets and surveyed the place.
The Maple Syrup Farm was, at best, a ramshackle mess. The front gate hung off its latch, creaking in the wind, pitching backward and forward like an invitation to enter. In the distance you could make out the cottage. Gnarly old vines twisted around porch posts as though they were slowly strangling them. Cottage windows were smashed, leaving only dirty shards of glass clinging to their perches. Mountains of junk had been abandoned across the land for so long that grass had grown over them. Odd sticks of wood protruded like arms in supplication. The decaying façade of the place was somehow compelling rather than confronting.
Behind the gate, the property spanned for miles. Long snow-dotted grass swayed like green ribbons and grew into everything, wild and free. Even down the graveled driveway the grass had crept over like it was intent on taking over, burying the vestiges of ground.
I pushed the creaky gate open and walked purposefully, convincingly, like I’d been on a million farms before and knew what to do. As I neared the cottage music blared from inside. I stepped onto the porch. It was rotted in places, worm-wooded. I covered my ears against the noise as I dodged holes and hoped to God I made it inside without tumbling into trouble in my boots.
Whoever was inside the small cottage was belting out lyrics to “Pony” by Ginuwine like he was the only person in the world. Clay? I couldn’t really see an old farmer type listening to such provocative music, but it took all kinds to make a world, as my mom was keen on saying.
With a quick rap on the door, I set my shoulders, pulled my coat tighter and waited. No answer. There was no way he’d hear me with the volume up so high. With a shrug, I opened the front door, and stuck my head inside.
My mouth hung open at the sight before me. Clay was not old. Not weathered. Not wearing overalls.
He stood all six foot something of him, on the top rung of a stepladder, wearing only tight denim jeans, holding a drill. His broad shoulders moved to the beat of the music, his biceps flexing in time. As he turned and leaned I caught sight of his sculpted abs, the grooves and valleys of them, the color of his skin, tanned somehow in wintertime. He was the epitome of the perfect male model. I imagined him nude, and wanted to paint him in explicit detail because it would make such a stunning portrait.
The tight denim jeans accented his butt, and he thrust his hips to the rhythm of the song. That kind of taut, strong body would be a joy to paint. Just watching him made me uncomfortably warm. I had been wanting to capture a man on canvas, their intense lines and lengths, especially one as chiseled as this.
He flicked his dark blond hair back, and turned suddenly, one hand grasping the top rung of the ladder. When he caught sight of me the singing and, sadly, the thrusting stopped abruptly.
I walked to the stereo to turn the music down, before saying, “Hi, nice drill you have there.” Nice drill you have there? I promptly closed my mouth, and hoped my brain would catch up with my voice. In my effort to come across convincing, like I knew what a drill was, I sounded like I was flirting. Or just plain stupid. “What I meant was—”
His expression darkened and he spoke over the top of me. “You lost?”
I tilted my head, confused at the hostility in his voice. “No.” I appraised him—a hot guy with a bad attitude. I’d been expecting to see a middle-aged guy wearing overalls, not someone half-dressed, and mesmerizing from a painting point of view. The fierceness in his eyes—would I capture it?
He jumped down from the ladder, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his abs. From a sofa covered with plastic, he snatched up a crumpled tank top and pulled it over his head.
“No need to get dressed on my account.” I resisted the urge to clap a hand over mouth. “What I mean is, just be as you were…” The words were coming out wrong, in my effort to be someone I was not.
I blushed.
He scowled.
“Can I help you?” He let the drill drop, the cord slipping slowly through his fingers—he didn’t take his eyes off me, before it hit the ground with a clunk. For some reason the gesture seemed highly erotic. But the steely glint in his eyes told a different story.
Thoughts of traipsing back down the driveway, jobless, flashed through my mind. “I’m here about the job.” I raised my chin.
His face cracked into a cynical smile. He snatched a rag from the coffee table and wiped his brow, all the while chuckling to himself. I held his stare, while he gave me a once-over. His eyes were a mesmerizing, deep, dark brown, almost fathomless. I should have changed my outfit before I set off. He couldn’t take me seriously for the job, looking like some kind of bohemian.
“A job?” His mouth twisted. “I don’t think so.” His gaze traveled the length of my body once more and I tried hard not to squirm.
“And why not?” I asked, remembering Becca’s word of warning. Do not take no for an answer.
He sneered. “Do you even know what the job is?”
“Farming, or a farmer, or a farmer’s assistant. Who cares about the title? All you need to know is, I am more than capable of…farming.” Way to go, Lucy, I silently berated myself. Say farmer one more time. He had me on edge with his cool stare. I hoped the desperation wasn’t evident in my voice.
“Who sent you here?”
I tried to hide my smile at his phrasing—it was almost like a line out of a mafia movie. Was this guy for real? “Your cousin Becca. She said you can’t find anyone else.” And now I see why. If I wasn’t so desperate for a job I would have told him exactly what I thought of him and breezed out. But there was also a stubborn side of me that wanted to show him he was wrong about me. I could…farm, as well as anyone else.
He raised an eyebrow. “You think I can’t find anyone?”
“I don’t see people lining up to work for you.” He blanched. If it was a tug of war, I’d just retrieved a bit of the rope. “But I am perfectly able to do the work.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure is.” I pursed my lips.
He took two steps toward me and stood so close I could feel his breath on my face. My pulse quickened—for one second I thought he was going to kiss me. He said, “You think you can handle it?”
Shivers coursed through me. “I can handle anything,” I managed, gulping at his proximity. I didn’t know if he was referring to the job? Or himself? I was in two minds whether I could handle either, but the thought of getting back on a bus and being in the same predicament elsewhere firmed my resolve. There was no chance I’d let a guy like him peg me for a fool. I hadn’t worked my butt off my whole life to be judged on the spot by the likes of him.
“I bet.” He looked so deeply into my eyes I was sure my heart stopped.
I blinked rapidly and said, “I need a job. This job, and I’m not leaving until you say yes.”
A rivulet of sweat ran down his forehead. “Your threats usually work with other people?”
“Yes.” Well technically no. I was never in the position to threaten anyone, always relying on the mercy of managers, or landlords. I wasn’t desperate enough to let anyone hold anything over me, though. My pride wouldn’t allow that.
“Look, I don’t know who you are…”
“I’m Lucy,” I said levelly. If I didn’t find work, I wouldn’t have much more than the bus fare home. The universe wouldn’t provide, and I’d scurry back, tail between my legs, having failed and broken my promise. That would upset Mom. She’d think I did it on purpose because I wanted to be with her. “So what do you say?” I flashed him a smile, hoping it would lighten the tension that hung between us like fog.
“I need someone who can haul logs, and drive a tractor, help tap the maples. Somehow I can’t see you doing that, in your finery.” He flicked a hand toward me. Why the heck didn’t I change clothes? And finery? He was only wearing a pair of jeans when I walked in, in the middle of winter!
“I have other clothes, obviously.”
“Goodbye, Lucy.” He went back to the stereo and turned the music up to an ear-piercing level.
I wanted to shriek at him. Just once, I’d love for one person to give me a break, a chance. Instead, I stomped to the stereo and switched it off.
He spun to me, his eyes blazing. “What’s your problem?” He pressed his lips together.
How dare he! I pushed myself up close and poked a finger into his chest. “You’re my problem. Is this because I’m a girl? What, you don’t think women can work as hard as men?” If there was one thing I’d learned from my mom it was that I could do anything I set my mind to, and I wouldn’t allow a man to tell me otherwise.
The muscle along his jawline pulsed. “Well can you?” he hissed.
“Give me two weeks,” I said. “And if you don’t think I can handle it, I’ll leave.”
“Four weeks,” he muttered and turned the music up, but I could still make out his words. “Don’t think I’m gonna take it easy on you.” He grabbed his drill, and climbed back up the ladder.
My shoulders relaxed. With his back to me, I caught my breath, relieved that in the heat of our exchange I’d come out victorious. I knew he was desperate for help, and that’s the only reason he gave in. But I’d show him. I’d be the best goddamn farmer’s assistant there was.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled over the music, “I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.”
“Six,” he yelled without turning.
Did people really wake up that early? My shifts at the diner were always at night, until the early hours of the morning. I’d fall into bed at dawn for a few hours’ sleep before waking later to help Mom. If there was time I’d steal an afternoon nap before my shift started again. The body clock was going to get a shock, that’s for sure.
I left quickly, shutting the door with a click, just in case he changed his mind.
CeeCee said Clay was a loner. She forgot to mention he had a chip on his shoulder so big its missing piece could sink the Titanic. I walked back to town, my footsteps lighter.
I’d done it.
Secured a job in a tiny town and that would take the pressure off for a while at least. I felt like dancing down the street, the weight of the world forgotten for one brief moment.
I had to find a store that sold clothes for farmers. What exactly did farmers wear? First I had to ring Mom and tell her everything.
***
“A Maple Syrup Farm?” Her voice was groggy, as though I’d just woken her. “I bet it’s tranquil too. I knew you’d do great, honey.”
“Thanks, Mom. How’s it going with Aunt Margot?” From the background noise, I could tell she was still in hospital. Had Aunt Margot been with Mom when I called earlier, and somehow forgotten to mention the fact Mom was still in hadn’t been taken home yet? I couldn’t ask, because I’d told Mom I wouldn’t call and bombard Aunt Margot with advice.
“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s rosy here. Never mind all that.”
“I can hear the machines beeping.”
She coughed, the racking echo making my heart hurt. Eventually she continued: “Tomorrow, I’ll leave. Just waiting for some more test results. Aunt Margot is flying in soon and will drive me home. You’re supposed to be forgetting about this place,” she chided. “Tell me all about the job.”
“I was going to go over the list—”
“She knows all about that. Don’t you worry.”
I debated whether to argue the point. Mom’s care plan was convoluted at the best of times, without an emergency cropping up.
“Which tests are you waiting on? Did they take more bloods?”
Offhandedly, she said, “Same ones, the results were held up.” It’d happened a handful of times before and always resulted in her staying a day or two longer. Being so far away, and not able to consult the doctor like usual had me on edge. Mom was the type of person to go with the flow, not make waves, but sometimes, especially when it came to hospitals, you had to be that pushy person, the one who demanded explanations, otherwise you’d sink into the background, faded, forgotten because they were so busy, so understaffed.
“Usually when you speak to someone on the phone, you actually speak,” she said. “I can hear those cogs in your brain ticking over.”
Her voice was bright, despite the coughing fit. Maybe I was reading too much into it because I wasn’t with her. “OK. OK.” I said with a small laugh.
“Well, talk, honey! What’s the job entail?”
I smiled, thinking of what she’d make of the farm. “We’ll be tapping the maples for syrup, and driving tractors.” What else had Clay said? “The place needs an overhaul, but it’s beautiful, in its own ruined way.”
“And that’s fate, taking you somewhere like that, and with the click of your fingers, you land yourself a job.”
“Mm,” I mumbled. “But what if I’m not cut out for that kind of thing?”
“How hard can it be? Wake up when the birds do and get to work. All that fresh air will be a balm for your soul. You’re a tree-hugging hippy, just like me. You just haven’t found the right trees, yet. Maybe this is your chance?”
Laughter barreled out of me. “Yeah, maybe all I need is good ol’ hug from a maple tree.”
She clucked her tongue. “Trees have feelings too, Lucy. I think you’re on a winner.”
I shook my head. This was her way, sensing an energy in things: trees, grass, flowers, and teaching me to really see them, look at them like they meant something. And while it probably sounded cuckoo to most people, it had given me a greater appreciation when it came to painting or sketching. But I jibed her anyway, “You’re one step away from pulling the tarots cards out, Mom.”
“Oh, please, I’ve been doing your cards since you left. And I see a bright future for you, full of all the things you should’ve had already.” Mom’s voice cracked. She paused, pulling herself together before changing the subject. “Tell me the owner of the farm is some hot, buff, love god.”
I spluttered into my hands. “Mom!”
“What?” I pictured her face, the expression she pulled when she was trying to appear innocent, when she was far from it. “A vacation romance is a must! So tell me about this mysterious man.”
I stifled a giggle. “Well he’s certainly buff, and I did see him shirtless—”
“SHIRTLESS!” She said the word so loudly it was in capitals.
“Shirtless, and sweaty. It was as good as you imagine it to be.” We’d always talked more like best friends than mother and daughter, and when it came to men it was no different. Back home, my relationships had been sporadic, life was too busy, but on the rare occasions I dated Mom knew all the details. Well…almost all. A girl has to keep a few secrets.
“You’ve been in town all of five minutes and you’ve seen a half-naked guy?”
“What can I say? Just lucky, I guess. And while he is nice to look at, he’s so far from my type he’s not even on the maybe list. Besides, I’m not looking for love, I’m looking for…” What was I looking for? Except a way to fulfill my mom’s wish.
She interrupted. “Oh yes you are!” Her cackle rang out. “Go on, what’s he like?”
I weighed up how to answer without causing undue worry. “He’s recently inherited the Maple Syrup Farm, which is really run down, and he’s kind of…angsty.”
“A moody jerk in other words?”
I bit my lip to stem the giggles that threatened to pour out. “A major moody jerk.”
Mom harrumphed. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus, you’ve found yourself a bad boy. He won’t know what hit him, meeting the likes you of you. He’s one fortunate guy. I want to be kept informed. Promise me?”
Mom knew I could be fiery at the best of times. Life was far too complicated as it was without anyone trying to bring me down a peg. My ex-manager at the diner had tried his damnedest to break me—I don’t know why, but he had it in for me. He’d steal my tips, which I relied on, and say customers had complained about me. Or he’d roster me on when I’d specifically asked not to fill that shift because of one of Mom’s appointments. A weasel of a man who knew he had me over a barrel because I needed the money. He was swiftly sorted out with a glass of ice-cold water over the head, and a phone call to the owner of the diner about the deficit in the takings. No one had the right to treat me that way, especially not someone who did it just for kicks.
“I’ll let you know every single thing I do on the farm, tree hugging, raking, hoeing, erm…”
“No,” she interrupted. “Keep your hoes to yourself. I mean about the love god!”
“Clay?” I feigned surprise.
“Oh Lord, his name’s Clay?”
“Right?” I knew she’d understand.
She sighed. “It couldn’t be more perfect. I bet he’s a hulking muscle man with an intense scowl. Gosh, ring me tomorrow and tell me everything.”
Mom’s enthusiasm for my news brought a smile to my face and I said, “I will, I’ll be energized from the outdoors and ready for anything life throws at me.” With daily phone calls to her, maybe I could enjoy this adventure. Mom sounded brighter just hearing about Ashford. Would that invigorate her, living vicariously through my travels?
“The tarot did throw up the lovers’ card each and every time I shuffled.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m going to love those maple trees something bad.” If only she’d seen Clay in the flesh, then she’d know he was a no-go zone. Someone that frosty wasn’t in my dreamboat book, no matter how gorgeous he was. But it was nice to make Mom happy even if it was all hot air.
The chat had fatigued her. Her voice came back barely audible. “And paint what you see. I know you’ll find beauty there.”
We rang off, and I fell back against the bed, my heart tugging. Mom spoke about beauty as though it were a person, a real tangible thing. She saw it everywhere: in the reflection of a raindrop on a leaf, or the way a cloud moved across the sky as though it were searching for a mate. So far, without her my world was tinged with gray. Though the edges colored a little as I thought of my new job, and the girls at the Gingerbread Café.
I moved the bedside table away from the wall to use as a makeshift desk, and took my watercolor paints from the drawer. Taking some water from the bathroom, I leaned over my new space, tapping the brush against my chin. Of course, I’d paint him. I couldn’t think of anything other than the lines of his body, the way he held himself taut, like he was afraid to let go, to show too much of himself. The psychology of art helped me to see through a person’s actions, right to the core of them. And somehow I knew Clay wasn’t what he made himself out to be. As the painting took shape, the fluid brushstrokes softened the fire in him. I’d have to use oils; he was too intense for dreamy watercolors.
***
After washing my paintbrushes up I joined Rose in the front room. We sat drinking tea out of dainty cups. “Where would I find a clothes store?” I asked, taking in the way she did everything elegantly, from sipping, to crossing her ankles.
“There’s only the grocery store, my dear,” she said with a shrug.
“The grocery store? For clothing?” I tried to mimic her, by sipping the tea, and not slurping.
“Yes,” Rose smiled. “They sell everything, from groceries, to clothes, even kayaks. It’s a one-stop shop.”
Small-town living would take some getting used to. What was I expecting, a mall full of boutiques? “Right. Handy then. Do you need anything while I’m out?” I placed my teacup on the saucer and stood.
“No, dear, you just tell Bonnie I sent you. She’ll look after you.”
The grocery store had the most eclectic range. Thin aisles were jam-packed with toys, bedding, even a range of beside lamps. From what I could garner there was no particular order. I was yet to see any foodstuffs, but I’m sure they were crammed in there somewhere.
I went in search of Bonnie, who helped me find the clothing section.
“Now what exactly are you after?” she asked, with a Texan twang. Ashford was full of a multitude of rich accents. Maybe what CeeCee said was true—people came here, and never left. I could see the appeal, the way most of the locals were warm and welcoming, though I’m sure just like any other place, there were less perfect people.
I folded my arms. “Clothing to suit farm life. So I’m guessing some kind of slicker, and maybe some rubber boots?”
“Great! We supply all the farm folks round here, so I’m sure we have just the thing.”
Bonnie shuttled around the store, yabbering to herself, as though the thought of helping me excited her. She unearthed everything she thought I’d need and led me to a change room.
“I’ll wait here.” She shooed me in, and pulled the curtain closed. “You holler out if you need another size. These clothes are the very latest in farmer’s attire so I think you’re going to be super excited.” Her high-pitched twang had a tinge of hopefulness to it.
“OK,” I said, not convinced. The clothing looked like something the Ghostbusters would wear. The slicker was fluoro yellow, and plastic, and made a crunching sound as I pulled it on. The pants were so big at the thigh I felt like Ronald McDonald. Lastly, I donned the hat, which was as wide as it was tall. My reflection looked like some kind of backwater hillbilly. Surely not? Was it so cold outside farmers dressed braced for an apocalypse?
“How do they fit?” she asked chirpily.
“Erm…” Laughter threatened to burble out of me at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. I was a ghostbusting, burger-selling, cowboy-hat-wearing farmer.
Bonnie drew the curtain back with a flourish. “Oh, now, don’t they just fit you real great?” She smiled so genuinely I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.
Clay hadn’t been dressed like this. I wasn’t sure farmers actually wore such clothing, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe Clay had been barely clothed because he was working indoors, and once outside we’d need to be protected from the elements. Because if there was one thing I was sure of, nothing was getting through the layers of plastic that now crinkled noisily over my body. I held on to the curtain. “I’ll take them.” Bonnie had the puppy dog eyes down pat, and rewarded me with a happy squeal.
“You’ve gone and made my day,” she said, closing the curtain, so I could change back. Her smile threatened to swallow her up, and it dawned on me that maybe Bonnie didn’t get many customers, just like the travel agent Henry, who appeared hopeful seeing a new face in town. “I’ll go and ring them up for you. And I’ll throw in a pair of socks, since you’ve been real nice. They’re a new brand. Meant to help with the circulation, you know, for the diabetes?”
I didn’t know. But I played along, anyway. “That sure will come in handy. Thank you, Bonnie.”
Chapter Five (#ulink_910988af-90c4-550e-93ab-a8ce4a77b053)
My alarm shrieked, waking me from a deep sleep. Groggy, I rubbed my eyes, and yawned, taking an age to remember where I was. The shadows were unfamiliar. When I flicked on the bedside lamp, and the flowered wallpaper stared happily at my crumpled frame, it all came back. Begonia Bed and Breakfast. And day one of working with the half-naked, intensely arrogant Clay.
With a groan, I wrenched the covers back and dressed quietly in the shoebox-sized room. The last time I’d seen five a.m. was coming off a double shift at the diner. Maybe once I acclimatized this would be better, watching dawn break, fresh, after a good night’s sleep.
I tried to creep quietly but the garb I wore had other ideas, and crinkled like someone scrunching cellophane. Once outside, I breathed fresh air deep into my lungs. The sky was awash with gray, not even a bird chirp for company.
I crinkled along, wishing I’d made a cup of coffee for the journey. Rose had given me a travel mug for that very purpose but I didn’t want the shrieking of the kettle to rouse her. I turned the corner and headed down the main road of Ashford. It was gloomy, the store fronts somber without the light of day and their cheery owners.
A beam of light coming from the Gingerbread Café caught my attention. I resisted the urge to fist pump as thoughts of strong coffee danced through my mind. I jogged up the road, and spilled through the door in a flurry.
Lil jumped, her eyes wide. “You scared the bejeezus out of me!” She clutched her chest. “Coffee?”
“I will love you forever.” As much as I loved drinking cups of tea with Rose, a strong dose of caffeine would fire up the old brain synapses and enable to me to make sense at such an early hour.
She grinned and went to the percolator, poured two mugs, and motioned to a stool. “I bet you haven’t eaten.” She stared me down the way my mother would, even though Lil and I were probably around the same age, give or take a few years.
“No, I was going to but…”
“Say no more.” Lil expertly moved around the kitchen, gathering bowls and utensils before cracking a couple of eggs, adding some spices and whisking. “French toast, OK?”
“Do you always make people’s dreams come true?” I said faux seriously.
She threw her head back and laughed. “I try.”
There was something about Lil, something indistinct that made me act differently with her. She had a unique energy. I sensed her life hadn’t been smooth sailing, but she’d come out the other side. Studying people in the background for so many years had made me read people on a deep level, somehow seeing past the cosmetics of a situation and finding the heart of them. For that reason, I connected with her more easily than I usually would have.
While Lil worked, I walked around the café sipping my coffee and taking in every tiny detail. It was cozy and warm, not just from the fire, but also from the little touches they’d added to make it kitschy and cute. The walls were painted the color of dark chocolate, gingerbread-man bunting hung in garlands, twisted with rows of fairy lights, which pulsed like stars.
Hand-knitted throw rugs were tossed lazily on sofas. Fat fluffy mismatched cushions perched on chair seats. By the bookshelves was a veritable mountain of European pillows adorned with cartoonish dinosaurs or pink-swathed princesses. I imagined toddlers falling into them face first, shrieking with joy, the stack taller than their little bodies. In a corner a green plastic table sat tucked away, full of jars of brightly colored pencils, and craft supplies so kids could create while their parents took a break from their day over a cup of tea and a plate of something delicious.
Lil and CeeCee’s passion for their business and customers shone through from the way they greeted their customers, to the way they joked with one another, and the love they poured into baking. It was so far from the diner I worked in it was hard to reconcile the two. The diner had needed a damn good scrub, and some life poured into it, but it was always busy because of its location, and the customers who frequented didn’t seem to mind the seventies décor.
On the bench by Lil, knobbly loaves of bread cooled on a wire rack. The scent of fresh bread reminded me of my mother, and how once upon a time she loved baking, humming while she kneaded dough, flour dusting her forearms. These days, even baking was too much for her. Sometimes, it was hard not to let the bitterness creep in. She was such a vital person, and her condition snatched that away from her.
“What’s on your mind?” Lil asked taking two slices of freshly baked bread and dipping them into the egg mix. “You’re away with the fairies.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I walked back to the stool, cupping my face in my hands, and watching her work.
“Nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing.” She raised her eyebrows and gave me a look that meant share my woes.
People were so perceptive in Ashford. Maybe it was because they all knew each other, and could read moods like some people read the ocean tides. When they asked you a question they stared you full in the face, giving you their undivided attention. Like you mattered. That the words that fell from your lips were important.
“Every now and then sadness catches up with me, that’s all.” I ran a hand over the bench, wiping down bread crumbs. “I wonder if I’m making the right choice by leaving my old life.”
Lil clucked her tongue. “Leaving is always hard. But I suppose, you won’t know until you try, right?”
I toyed with the coffee mug, avoiding Lil’s sincere-eyed expression. Sensing my mood, she went to the stove and lit the element, then groveled under the bench for a frypan. She dropped a dollop of butter into it, which slipped and slid around the black pan, melting into a sunny yellow liquid.
“Waking up at five a.m. brings out the maudlin in me. I just need to get used it.” I tried to make a joke of it, lightening my tone, and forcing a wide smile. I hadn’t devoured the first coffee of the day; I was still half asleep at such a crazy hour of the morning—that’s all it was. In the still of the dawn, reality always seemed that much more frightening, and sometimes harsh and cold. Who was I pretending to be? I wasn’t an artist. I wasn’t anything, except my mother’s daughter, and running off to change that didn’t feel right. Shouldn’t I put her first always?
“You’ll get used to it, Lucy. Things will get easier over time.” Lil flipped the buttery brown French toast, and glanced back over her shoulder at me. “Viola.” She pushed the dish in front of me, and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“You’re some kind of miracle worker,” I said, gazing at the plate, glad for the interruption of breakfast so my somber thoughts didn’t fall out in a sad jumble.
“Wait!” she held up a hand and then dashed to the fridge, pulling a bottle out. “Maple syrup!”
“Of course!”
She drizzled a helping of syrup over the French toast and took the stool beside me. “As soon as you’ve made the first batch of syrup, you tell Clay we want some. Nothing better than locally made produce.”
I nodded. “Can you imagine making it? I can’t wait to see how it’s done.”
“It’ll be wonderful.” Lil picked up a fork. “Eat,” she said. “And remember to stop by tomorrow on your way. I love a bit of company in the lonely dawns. I’m not as good as Cee with dispensing advice, but if you need a shoulder to lean on, I’m here.”
“Thanks, Lil,” I said, truly grateful. CeeCee and Lil had a way about them, a genuine kindness that took the edge off my homesickness.
***

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