Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (13 page)

I blushed. I don’t know why I was so shy when it came to even talking about my art. “Maybe. They’re out-of-this-world good. I’m not even remotely close to that level.”

She gave me a stern look. “I doubt that. I’d like to see your work. Maybe I could buy something from you to hang in the café. That way when you leave, we’ll have something else to remember you by.”

“Oh, no, no. I have a long way to go before my work can hang on anyone’s wall.” Just the thought was enough to make my toes curl.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

Some of my paintings were murky with grief, red with anger, or sunny yellow with love. They weren’t good enough to share, and they told too much about me for me to feel comfortable.

“Soon,” I said. There’d be nothing worse than Lil flicking through my portfolio and feeling compelled to choose a picture because she had to. I’d never be able to look her in the eye again.

“When you’re ready,” she said, giving me a dazzling smile.

***

When I stepped into the cottage my breath caught. The walls were painted, the floorboards polished to a shine, highlighting the whorls in the wood. Even the furniture had been re-covered and rearranged. If you looked from outside, the way the cottage leaned, it’s chipped and faded face, you’d never imagine inside was functional, and remodeled.

“Wow,” I said, leaning against the door jamb. “This place looks amazing.” The furniture had been his uncle’s cast-offs, but Clay had re-covered the sofa in royal blue velour and sanded back the coffee table, and lacquered it. I admired the fact he didn’t simply replace it with new stuff. I had a thing about people ditching memories like that. I guess it had been ingrained in me to use whatever I had at hand, and not to waste even
if
we could have afforded it. By the front door there was a buffet I didn’t recognize. “Where did you get that?” I knew Walt’s furniture store was empty, and I couldn’t imagine where he’d get something so well made around here.

“I’m a carpenter,” he said. “Well, I was.” His eyes shadowed.

“Was? What happened?” His mouth set into a tight line.

“I don’t have that business anymore.” He wasn’t as closed off today. Usually he would have told me to forget it, and stalked off. I weighed up whether to push for more details. “Seems trust isn’t always a two-way street.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” I said lamely.

He let out a hollow laugh. “No, it wasn’t. But I’m here now, thrown the proverbial lifeline.”

So had the inheritance come at the right time?

“Will you concentrate on bottling and selling maple syrup?” We wandered back the living room. The plastic cover was gone from the sofa, so I flopped into it, hoping to rest after the long walk to the farm.

He stood in front of the fire, and watched me, like he was deciding whether to respond. I waved a hand in the air to say go on.

“Yeah, maybe.”

I sighed inwardly. To get Clay to participate in conversation was almost impossible. I hoped he was thinking ahead business wise, if he had no other options to fall back on. I changed tack. “I made some maple walnut fudge at the Gingerbread Café this morning. Lil’s excited that she’ll be able to buy syrup from you. She’s a great cook, and I think she really tries to help people in business here—sounds as though it’s tough to stay afloat.” I knew I was babbling, but I wanted Clay to at least try, to help himself.

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t go into town much.” He tidied the living room, picking up strewn bits of newspaper, relics from when he’d painted the walls.

“Why?”

“Why does it matter?”

Here we go. He was so testy, all the time. “Well, I’m thinking of
you
, Clay. If you’re big old plan is to sell maple syrup, you’re probably going to have to meet the locals, and tell them about the farm, since they’ll be the ones buying it.”

“They either will or they won’t. I’m not one to get all pally with people.”

“Geez, I hadn’t noticed.” I gave him an eye roll. “They’re good people, they look out for one another.”

“Look, Lucy, I didn’t come to Ashford to make friends, I came here to fix up the farm. Shall we?” He stalked outside, so I followed behind, wondering what the hell had happened to him to make him so short with people.

I caught up with him at the entrance of the barn. “You think people will buy from you when you’re so dismissive?”

He frowned. “Not all of us are like you, Lucy. Some of us prefer our own company.”

What could I say to that? He was so moody, maybe it was best if he kept away from the people of Ashford, who seemed genuinely happy to band together and help each other out. “Well, I hope you find someone to work for you.”

“You’re not staying? Farm life not what you expected?” He strapped his tool belt on in the gloom of the barn.

“I’m staying.” I pushed my chin out. “But not forever. Farm life suits me just fine, but I’m heading elsewhere eventually. Sure it’s fun for you hiding out here, but after a while, won’t you be bored?”

The tools clanged together on his belt as he walked outside. It was like playing catch-up, chasing after him as he moved on. “How
could
I be bored here? Look at this place.”

It was breathtaking, the way the farm slowly came to life with soft dappled sunshine poking through clouds. The air fragrant with possibility.

“Yeah but what about night-time? What do you do?” From the amount of work that was done before I returned each morning, I knew Clay just kept on going. How he wasn’t exhausted was beyond me, but didn’t he want to relax? Have a beer with a friend? Head into town for dinner?

“I fix the cottage, or sort out the barn. I don’t sleep much, so I work.”

Obviously he was in much better shape than me, just hearing the word sleep provoked a yawn. “I fall into bed and sleep like a baby, a very loud, snoring baby. I’m amazed you don’t as well with all the physical work.”

We got to the fence line and Clay dropped to his knees near the posts of my nightmares. I’d spent so long on freeing them from ivy, they invaded my dreams. “Sleep tends to dodge no matter what I do.”

“Doesn’t it catch up though, and you eventually go to bed zonked for like a day?”

“No, never does. Anyway, now we’re all caught up about our sleeping patterns, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like some help removing the broken posts so we can replace them.
If
you’ve finished your inquisition?”

I sighed. “Yeah regular old chitchat can be tough if you’re used to using a scowl to convey meaning. You’ll hear no more from me.”

***

We took a break for lunch. Clay made us sandwiches, which I wolfed down with an insatiable hunger. The hard work gave me an appetite I’d never had before.

“I only managed a few pages of the journals,” I said to Clay, who was still chewing. Everything he did was measured, from the way he ate to the way he spoke. Often he stared at me for an age, like he was deciding if what he had to say sounded OK in his mind first, as opposed to me who blurted out any old thing to stop the conversation from stalling.

“What were they about? Farm life, and all its bedazzling glory?” he said, his face twisting sarcastically.

“
No
.” I stretched my arms behind me, turning my face to the winter sun. “Diary entries, eloquent and poetic. A man who’d lost his wife, or girlfriend. I don’t know if she died, or just left. And beautiful drawings, you have to see them. Does that sound like your uncle?”

Clay shrugged. “No idea, all I know is he was a crazy old man. He didn’t keep in touch with anyone except my mom.”

I closed my eyes, the desire to sleep strong now I had a full belly, and time to sit down. “How did you know he was a crazy old man, if you didn’t meet him?”

With a wave of his hand, he said, “Family gossip. I don’t get into it much, not my problem.”

He was infuriating. “But he gave you his farm? Aren’t you curious at all?”

“Nope.”

“Right.” I bit into the sandwich, to stop myself from hollering at him.

“Let’s get back to work.”

I shook my head. What kind of mean-spirited person was he? A man, poetic and artistic, gives him his farm, his legacy, and Clay doesn’t give a damn.

Chapter Nine

Back at the bed and breakfast, I was clattering around Rose’s kitchen, a little more invigorated than I’d been for an age. After a month a bit in Ashford everything still ached, but I was almost used to the heavy-legged sensation at night-time, knowing bed was close.

Mom had sent me a bunch of text messages saying she was having an early night, and not to forget to drink three liters of water each day, and chant some affirmations. She’d signed off with love heart emojis, having just been shown them at the last hospital visit by a young nurse. I’d held off from responding in case the ping of the message woke her.

Rose sat at the table, sipping a glass of white wine. “Are you ready to be impressed?” I asked, carefully balancing two bowls of spiced pumpkin soup.

“I’m ready.”

I placed the soup in front of her and a grabbed a basket of sliced sourdough I’d picked up from the café on the way home. “CeeCee’s recipe?” Rose asked.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I’ve been a regular down that café for years now. You tend to get to know who cooks what. This soup’s been a winter warmer favorite of mine for aeons.”

“Oh no, so you can compare the two. Bad news for me!” I laughed. CeeCee had scrawled down the recipe for me when I’d stopped past to buy some soup only to find they were all out. I’d wanted to make a nice meal for Rose, but something simple I couldn’t mess up.

“It’s delicious,” Rose said, dipping her spoon. “All those long days, and you’ve managed to make a lovely dinner. Are you still enjoying the farm? I don’t know how you manage all those hours.”

I blew out a breath. “I actually am. While Clay’s not the sunniest person in the world, he’s fun to look at. And there’s something inspiring about standing up, a crick in your back, at the end of the day and knowing you’ve achieved something.”

Rose took a sip of wine. “We were all excited to hear the farm had a new owner. Poor Jessup hadn’t been able to keep up the place for years. We were sorry to hear he passed on, but happy to know his farm would stay in his family and not be sold to some developer. We hoped maybe whoever took it over would continue to tap the trees, make the place new again.”

“Clay says he was a crazy old man, but somehow I can’t see that.” I’d told Rose all about the journals, and she said it they were definitely Jessup’s.

A cuckoo clock in the living room chimed eight o’clock, so Rose waited before saying, “He wasn’t crazy, far from it; he was a recluse. Didn’t like to get out much, didn’t accept any invites when people tried to befriend him. He was always polite about it, but that was just his way.”

“Well, his nephew isn’t much different, except he’s not as polite about it.”

Rose gave me a small smile. “The town, of course, was rife with gossip about what brought Jessup here, lots of conspiracy theories flew around town for the first few years, until his sister visited town, and brought with it his story—well a version of it anyway. Word was, he’d lost his wife in an accident, and retreated to the farm, which had been vacant for a long time—so long most locals weren’t sure who’d owned it previously. Jessup was so mired in grief, we all just backed away, and hoped he’d come to town when he was ready. But he never did. That sister, the one who visited all that time ago would be Clay’s mom.”

So many secrets for such a small town. “What did you make of it all?”

Rose put a hand to her heart. “He was a shadow of a man by the time I met him. Like the life had been zapped out of him… But he was nice, just lost, and broken by then. He sold maple syrup, so eventually he had to chat to locals, but he still held back, didn’t make small talk for the sake of it.”

“You think he would be proud his farm’s getting fixed up?”

“I think so, dear. He had plans for that place—that was one of the only things he talked about that brought some color back to his face. But age got the better of him. And by himself, he just couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t accept help from anyone. Some people are just private like that.”

I buttered a piece of bread and dipped it into my soup. “That explains all the half-done projects around the place. He must have struggled to do it all.”

Rose placed her wineglass down, and said, “People say they see him there, at dusk, a silhouette by the maples. But it’s just the memory of him they’re seeing. That’s where he always seemed to be, right near those trees, almost as if he was talking to them.”

My skin broke out in goose bumps at the thought. He was still there in spirit. Wandering behind us, stepping lightly on our footprints. CeeCee had said something similar about Jessup when we met on the bus. It was a bittersweet notion, that the man loved that place so much he was loath to leave, even in death.

“Did you ever see him painting or sketching?” I asked.

She cocked her head, thinking. “No, but then, I only ever saw him by the applecart. That doesn’t mean he didn’t. Who knows what he did behind closed doors. Gives me comfort thinking he had something like that to pour his heart into.”

“There’s something about his work,” I said. “I was flicking through it again, and it’s almost like I recognize it, but how could I?” The style, the complexity, it was as though I’d seen it before. It was the way he accentuated the woman’s eyes, so full of depth, so intricate that it was hard to focus on the rest of the drawing, almost as though the eyes told their very own story—the reflection in them, the density. But an old farmer? I didn’t know any artists with the name Jessup. Still, that nagging feeling irked me.

“Do you think it’s a sign you should be concentrating on your work more, dear?” She gave me a half smile. “There’s no point wasting a gift like yours. You can’t keep it secret forever, can you?”

I’d shown Rose a sketch I’d done the year before of some yellow daisies, because she was a flower fanatic. She had such a gentle way about her, I’d felt confident enough to see what she thought. “You think it’s fate that I found the journals that just so happened to be full of sketches?”