Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (22 page)

Mid-April rolled around and with it the end of the tapping season. We were busy with plans for the Sugaring-Off Festival, which Clay had grudgingly agreed to, knowing he needed the visibility the festival would bring otherwise it’d be a long and frugal year for him.

We’d cleared the land by the lake, and mowed the lush green grass, which seemed to grow overnight now that the weather had warmed. Daisies grew wild and free in bright yellow bunches, and bees buzzed gaily around them, making me yearn to make honey. How hard could it be, I could picture Clay dressed in beekeepers’ garb, pilfering the sweet nectar they made. Maybe one day, he could do it. I made a mental note to tell him.

I’d left the barn, where I’d been sorting a string of tangled fairy lights, and headed to the porch for my water bottle. Clay wandered over.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a five-minute break, boss. You?”

He stroked back my hair. “Why don’t you take today off? I’m going to fix up the old applecart, give it a lick of paint.”

“A day off? Did you bang your head this morning?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

He gave me a lopsided grin. “You’ve worked hard, Lucy. Harder than I ever imagined.”

I rested my head against his shoulder. “Well, you won’t hear me argue,” I said. “I’m might go sit by the lake, and soak up the sunshine.”

Clay stood, and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. It was something so simple, but it spoke volumes to me. It was loving, unlike the passionate clinches that sometimes overcame us.

I went into the cottage and found my backpack, hefted it onto my shoulder, and trekked to the lake at the back of the farm. The water was flowing freely, its gentle waves lapping against the embankment. I found a shady patch of grass to sit on and took my sketch pad from my bag.

I sketched the maples, their long languid trunks, their marks and scars. Each tree unique as a fingerprint, the names Jessup gave them easy to recollect after spending so much time with them. I drew an elderly couple, legs entwined, hair splayed out, as they embraced under the leafy canopy.

Twigs snapped, and I turned to the sound.
Clay
. I bristled.

It was too late to cover the sketch; he’d seen it already. I closed the book anyway, and squinted up at him, half annoyed he didn’t warn me of his approach, and hoping he wouldn’t mention the picture. He’d know it was us I had recreated. But it was the us of the future. If he’d looked long enough he would have seen the gnarly, arthritic hands of age—the seventy-year-old Clay. And the elderly me, beside him, trapped for eternity on the parchment. Did it mean I wanted to grow old with him?

“Finally,” he said crouching next to me. “I get to see a masterpiece.”

He prized the book from my hands, my protests falling on deaf ears, but left it closed. A ray of sun shone, landing in a soft shard on the sketchbook in his hands. It sparkled under the light, and I thought of my mom, and her love of signs from the universe… What if he liked what he saw? What if he didn’t? Did it matter? I knew him well enough now to know he’d be supportive, that under all that gruffness Clay was more genuine than almost anyone.

“Why are you so scared, Lucy?” His gaze burned into mine. “About showing your art to anyone?”

I stiffened. “It’s private.”

“But why?” he probed. “Come on, you’ve grilled me. Answer me this one thing.”

I swallowed back my fear. “Because it’s the only thing I can control. It’s the only thing in my life where
I
get to decide its fate. And I don’t want to fail at the
one thing
that’s mine.” How could I tell him…with my mom, I had no say, I had pleaded with the gods, all of them, to spare her. I’d prayed, and bawled, and begged, and she continued to deteriorate. She would leave soon; I felt it like a whisper on the wind. And I would have no one. Who would I be without her? How could fate be so cruel as to try to take away a woman so vital? My art was like a friend,—that shadow who was always there for me, a way to help deal with the pain. And if I failed at that, I would be alone. But how to say all this without Clay reassuring me it would all be OK. Because I didn’t want reassurances. They were just hollow words.

“And you think me seeing a picture will somehow hurt you? I would never hurt you, Lucy. Ever.” His voice was husky with emotion.

“But how can you know that, Clay? None of us know what’s going to happen. We can make promises, but that doesn’t guarantee things won’t change. Life is fickle…love, health, happiness, it can all change in an instant.”

“Do you see what you’re doing, Lucy? Because life can change, you don’t really live it. You hover on the outside looking in, trying to protect yourself from future hurt
that may never happen!
You say I hide, but you hide too.”

My mouth hung open with surprise. “I don’t hide, Clay. I’m here, aren’t I? In a strange place a million miles away from home—”

“Stop,” he said, twisting his mouth in frustration. “Don’t sit there and give me the same old lines you use to convince yourself. I want to see your work. I want to know why you take such pains to keep it secret, and then volley a bunch of words to hide behind.”

“Fine,” I lifted my chin. “Be my guest,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry.

Clay knelt down, and leaned his face close to mine, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m not going to judge you, Lucy. I get that this is your secret. The thing you turn to when you need to make sense of the world. But I want to see it. It will be like looking through your eyes, seeing life the way you do.”

My heart hammered. He knew exactly what my art meant to me. “That’s the part I like to keep to myself, Clay. What if we look at the world differently?”

I’d painted us in the
future
, for crying out loud. Something a love-struck teenager would do. I wanted to kick myself for making it so obvious.

“So what if we do? I know you better than you think.” He gave me such a heart-wrenching look, like he missed me, like I was gone from here already.

His face was inches from mine, his breath on my lips, I could almost taste him. “You don’t know anything about me, Clay. And I don’t know much about you.”

“What do you want to know, Lucy?” For the first time, he looked open, interested, and not held so tight by his own past.

I wanted more. I wanted to know everything about him—what he liked, what he loathed, what made him unable to sleep, what he’d lost that made him hide here.

“Have you ever been in love before?” I’d meant to ask about his past, but the words tumbled out before I had a chance to stop them.

“And that, I am not prepared to talk about,” he said.

“Of course not,” I sighed.

He sat on the shady patch of grass next to me and flicked open the sketchbook. My spine hardened.

Instead, I thought of us. I was leaving; none of this mattered. What I had here was nothing more substantial than the wind. Clay was all bluster, and when it came time to get to know him, he flicked the switch, and avoided it. And begrudgingly, I kind of understood. We both had parts of us we didn’t want to share. There was no point knocking down the invisible wall that stood between us.

“This is us?” He pointed.

I mumbled, “Yes it is.”

He didn’t say anything, just held it closer and surveyed it like he was looking for clues. “When we’re old.” He said it so wistfully, with so much hope, I turned to him. A smile lit up his face. “I love it, Lucy. I really, really love it. Sometimes, you know love when you see it.”

“And you see it there?”

“I see it on their faces, in the way they hold each other.”

We fell against each other, and I heard his breathing quicken. His gaze burned into me, and I thought if I never felt like this again my life would pale.

***

Our legs were tangled in sheets, as Clay ran a finger along my back. “So the institute, it’s a six-month course?”

“Mhmm,” I mumbled sleepily.

The fan spun overhead, making shadows dance around the room. “You should apply. They’d accept you, I’d bet on it.”

I stiffened in his arms. Did he want me to leave? I tried to mask the hurt I felt. “Whether I apply or not, I’m leaving here after the festival. You’ll get all the time in the world to be alone.”

“I didn’t mean that, Lucy.” He clenched his jaw.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I said, trying to make my voice light. I rolled from bed, dragging the sheet with me. He’d said the very first time we’d met he didn’t want a girlfriend, said it on a number of occasions, that he wasn’t ready for that after whatever the hell had happened to him. It stung though, that feeling of rejection. I hadn’t been searching for love either, but had stumbled on it, and I couldn’t tell anyone. Again, another goodbye was going to darken my days.

“Come back to bed.” He patted the empty space beside him.

“No, I have to go,” I said, dropping the sheet and searching the floor for my clothes. It was mid-April, and I’d already decided to apply for the institute. Clay’s words only steeled my resolve to be accepted.

***

In the cupboard, rows of canvases lay stacked against each other—paintings I’d done since I arrived in Ashford. Some soft watercolors, others intense and dramatic oils. One by one I leaned them against the wall where the light was bright, and knelt down to scrutinize them.

The first was called
Wake me this way
. It was the imaginary little girl, her rosebud mouth the same color as her cheeks, her blankets ruched up under her chin. The open window, the full moon a speck in the distance, landing in soft shards on her face. The scent of Lil’s fresh bread melding its way in light and glittery, like fairy dust, pulling her from her dreams.

The second painting made my heart tug. I’d called it
Friendship
. Lil had an arm draped over CeeCee’s sturdy shoulder, their shiny white teeth showing, as they laughed over a joke. CeeCee’s brown crinkled face shone and she had one hand over the soft swell of Lil’s belly. Their unconditional love for one another radiated from the canvas, and for the first time ever, I couldn’t find fault with my work. I narrowed my eyes and leaned closer. Surely there was something I could have improved? But I couldn’t see anything. Maybe it was because I’d managed to capture how they felt about each other.

The third and final painting was of Clay, and I’d called it
Unrequited
. At the time of painting it, we hadn’t even kissed. My stomach somersaulted as I gazed at it. I could never part with this painting. When I left, I’d always have this reminder of Clay, and the times we shared here, in Ashford. There he was gazing at me with that fiery look in his eyes, his full lips parted like he was about to kiss me, his strong jawline begging to be touched. I’d never met a man so magnetic, so irresistible. And I felt heartbreak, honest and real, that one day he would love someone, and it wouldn’t be me. Some girl would come along, and find the key and unlock
all
of him. As a desperate kind of envy washed over me, I hoped he’d be happy, with or without me. I loved him enough to wish him that.

I picked up the little-girl canvas, and the one of Lil and CeeCee. I’d send them to the Van Gogh Institute and hope they accepted me. Paris was calling.

Chapter Seventeen

A few weeks later, I walked the familiar road to Ashford, taking note of the yellow buttercups that sprouted in the bright spring day. I’d spoken to Mom earlier and she was cheerful, and sprightlier than I’d heard her for a long time. With the sun warming my back, and Clay on my mind, I felt as happy as I’d ever been. I was dressed like the real me: denim cut-offs, a cheesecloth singlet, and bangles galore. The town was busy. People sat outside soaking up the golden rays, and shielding their eyes as they spoke. I smiled and waved to them all, stopping here and there to chat before placing flyers for the festival on their tables with a backwards wave.

The paint was still drying on a canvas that I’d just
had
to paint, aptly named
The Darling Buds of May
. Ashford sure was a pretty town in springtime and with the new month colorful flowers were abundant. People here tended their gardens, and even helped plant seedlings along the roadside. I walked the length of the main street, asking storekeepers if I could hang flyers for the Sugaring-Off Festival in their windows. The faces were mostly known to me now, give or take a few. And everyone pulled me by the elbow for a chat, so instead of it taking thirty minutes, it’d taken me two hours.

“Hey, I wondered if I’d catch you today!” Henry said, standing on the stoop of the travel agency. “Have you got time to shoot the breeze for a minute?” He gave me a questioning look.

“Yes.” I laughed and followed him inside. Each local had used the same term to ask for a chat. “While I’m here, can I give you some flyers to hang in the window for the Sugaring-Off Festival?”

“Sure,” he said amiably. “I’ve heard all about it! The town’s buzzing with it all.”

I took a couple of flyers from my backpack, and handed them over. “I hope you can make it.”

He gave me a big smile. “Of course—wouldn’t miss it for the world. “Besides, Lil’s cooking and it’s all you can eat—you got a sure-fire winner there, and then there’s the maple-syrup-flavored
everything
. Lord, I wish it was June already.”

I laughed, again. The sentiment had been similar with the other locals I’d encountered. Lil’s cooking was famous around here, and they were mighty sure there was no limit to the amount they could eat.

He turned his computer monitor to face me. “After our talk about Paris, I’ve been keeping an eye out for flight specials like you asked, and one popped up today! It’s a round-the-world trip, for only a fraction more than what you’d pay to go to Paris. It’s a new airline, and they’ve got the most amazing specials. I’m half tempted to close up shop and venture off myself!”

“Around the world?” My eyes widened.

He grabbed a pen and pointed to the screen. “So, that basically means it’s open-ended. You can pick four destinations; you just need to nominate the countries you want to go to.”

“Wow, four countries. I could dash off after I’ve been to Paris. See some of the world.” I thought of Mom’s book, the places she’d loved in her twenties. Greece, Sri Lanka, Australia.