Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

“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.