Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

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.