Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (21 page)

Becca refilled my glass and flopped back on the sofa, pulling her feet underneath. “I don’t know, Lucy. Clay has clammed up. Last night I couldn’t get a word out of him! And I mean, let’s face it, he’s not usually a big talker anyway.”

“Last night?” I blushed. “So he didn’t say anything?”

She pointed a finger at me. “Aha! Something happened yesterday! I knew it! He was a bumbling incoherent mess! I kept asking him about the syrup, and just the word provoked a coughing fit.”

I blanked my face. “Nope nothing happened…”
Nothing happened today either…
I bit my tongue to stop the truth burbling out in one big fat confession. If it had been Lil I probably would have confided in her, but Becca was related to Clay, and was intent on playing match-maker anyway. The less she knew now, the better, just until I decided how I felt.

She knitted her brow. “Shame. You know, Clay’s more like my brother than a cousin. And I’d love to see him happy. With you. It’s not too soon to plan the wedding is it?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t make me throw something at you, Becca.”

“So pink for the bridesmaids?”

***

As soon as I arrived home I texted Mom. “Mom, I’m in a bind. I kissed Clay, well a few times, and now I’m not sure what to do. Xoxox”

The tips of my fingers hovered over the buttons on my phone, wanting to ask about her health, her appointments, but I knew she’d avoid the questions anyway. Part of my promise was to pretend the world was perfect, but it was hard to break the habit of worry.

I hit send, and was rewarded with an instant reply. “WHAT! Tell me everything!”

Smiling, I imagined her in bed at home, propped up on pillows, the filmy light from the phone shining on her face. “We made maple syrup! And I guess, feeling proud, we kissed! And then the next day, we kissed again. But why would I tangle myself up here, when I am all set to leave? Besides he’s a moody jerk at times.”

“Moody jerks are the lifeblood of romance. You go for it, honey. I’ll text you tomorrow. Sleep tight. Xoxoxo”

Before I took my sketch pad out, I read another passage of the journal.

My paintbrushes lean against each other, collecting dust. The canvas stays bare, propped up on the old wooden easel. I’ll never paint again, not without my muse. Instead, I sketch, bringing her to life on the page. If only it was that easy.

My eyes widened. He never painted again? I had to find out who he was. He spoke as if painting was a career and not just a hobby.

Chapter Fifteen

A week later, the vats were bubbling away, white clouds rising up, making the air foggy. We retreated to the porch, waiting for the sap to reduce. Clay took my hand in his. We hadn’t spoken about what was happening. I didn’t want to sully it with talk of leaving. And at that moment, I didn’t care whether we had something or nothing. I hadn’t been able to contact Mom again for a few days now, and Aunt Margot’s phone kept ringing out. It felt cruel, like I was being ignored, but mostly, I worried they were hiding something from me. I wanted to rage against the world at times like that. Where were they? I’d promised myself if I didn’t hear back I’d call the doctor and demand some answers.

“So you see we didn’t need the old man’s journals to make the syrup work,” Clay said, eyes on the vats. His voice irked me, the way he discounted his uncle so easily.

“How do you know that, Clay? Reading your uncle’s journals has been an eye opener. For my own life, and maybe for his. His story being read means he mattered, right?” He merely shrugged. When he had that look of feigned disinterest I wanted to lob something at him. “I think you should read them. I’m telling you now, you could learn a lot from him, just like I’ve done.”

“Why do you keep pushing me? I’m not interested in the old man, or his crazy ramblings. You talk like he’s gospel or something, like I need saving!” His voice rose, only angering me.

“Why are you so goddamn stubborn? I’m telling you this because you’re making the same mistakes he did! He shut himself off here, and the only friends he had were trees! He had a very good reason—she died—but what’s your excuse? Huh?” Heat radiated through me. “I just don’t get you, Clay! When you open up you’re like sunshine on a cloudy day, but then it’s almost like you catch yourself being happy, and you shut down. I want you to read the journals, and see if you recognize yourself in them!”

“And then what?” he spat. “Pretend to be someone I’m not? Would that make you happy? I don’t know what you’re trying to get outta this, but I’m not changing, if that’s what you’re hoping! This is who I am and if you don’t like it, then that’s bad luck! A few scribbles from some old man I never met won’t change anything.” His posture was rigid.

I dropped his hand and jumped from the love swing. “I never said I wanted you to change. I’m only worried that you’ll end up like him, when there’s no goddamn reason for it!” I blinked back tears, frustration coursing through me.

“There is a good reason for it, Lucy, but it’s none of your business!”

“Of course it’s not! Nothing is my business… I am nothing to you, I guess?” My words came out in angry bursts. “You’re not emotionally available, Clay. It’s like you’re numb. Dead to the world and all who inhabit it. I wanted you to read the journals, but I won’t ask again. Surely a dead man’s memories should amount to something…”

He gave me a hard stare. “I don’t see how it means anything! He is
dead
, Lucy.”

I glowered at him. “Do you want to know what the journals are about?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why? What does it matter?”

“How can you be so insensitive? The old fool, or whatever you call him, left you this farm. You’re an ungrateful jerk, Clay. I bet he wouldn’t have left you anything if he knew how icy cold your heart is!”

“Oh, yeah?” His lip curled.

“Yeah! You’re selfish, and pigheaded, and…”

“Dyslexic,” he spat, his eyes blazing.

“And, rude, and stubborn!” I stopped short. “What? What did you say?”

“I’m dyslexic, Lucy! I find it hard to make sense of words. There—you happy now? Let’s dredge up everyone’s secrets and have a group hug? Would that satisfy you?” His voice was guttural with fury.

My shoulders drooped. “I didn’t know.” What else could I say? I rubbed my face. My anger ebbed away and was swiftly replaced with guilt. What had I done? I’d pushed him to this point, with something he hadn’t wanted to share. A shamefaced blush bloomed up my cheeks. I thought back to all the times we’d stared at books, and he’d ask me to read the passages. The way he committed things to memory, like he depended on remembering.

“See what dwelling on the past does, Lucy?” He yelled, his fists curling. “I lost everything,
everything
, because I trusted people I shouldn’t have. And I wound up here, saved by a man I didn’t know. Given a second chance, and a place where I could hole up, and forget. You go around thinking the world’s this sunny place, where people are good and wholesome, but it’s not like that, Lucy! Not in the real world.” He stalked off into the barn, cursing as he went.

That’s where he was wrong. I knew what the real world was like. I knew the depths of despair, and heartache. My heart sank, watching him storm off. I wished I hadn’t pushed him to breaking point.

In the distance the maples were a more solemn color. It was like the landscape changed with our moods as much as they invigorated us. They were attuned to us too and felt the dips and changes in our psyches.

This kind of beauty, the quiet majesty of the maples, would fix the most damaged heart. His uncle had proved that much already. But could this place fix Clay? I swung back and forth, wondering if he was too broken.

***

“Jesus mother o’ Mary! There you be! Come inside quick, I got some good news!” CeeCee hurried over, wrenching my arm.

I laughed, relieved to run into her smiling face after the tense day at the farm. Clay had ignored my attempts to talk, saying he wanted to be left alone.

“What is it?” I asked. CeeCee’s hands were quaking. She played with her apron strings, unable to stop fussing.

“God’s gone and heard our prayers. I can’t even believe it myself!” She put her hands together like she was praying, and looked to the ceiling. “Seems someone’s been
real
busy.” She grabbed a scrunched-up tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “This morning some folk left a pile o’ furniture—handcrafted, no less—out the back of Walt’s store. Whole town’s in a tizzy over who made it. No one’s ownin’ up to it. It’s a real-life mystery. Ain’t that the greatest thing you ever heard?”

It took me a moment to unscramble CeeCee’s words—excitement made her speak rapidly. “What?” I said, surprised. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time!”

She chuckled. “You gotta see this for yourself!” She grabbed my elbow and marched me across the street, flinging open the door of Walt’s store. One of the locals I recognized from the town meeting was by the front counter, and welcomed us in. They must have been back to taking shifts to help out.

When I saw the furniture I stopped in my tracks. Beautifully carved tables, buffets, dining room tables and chairs. I walked to the table and ran my hands over the polished surface of the wood, just like Clay had done, when I’d watched him out of sight by the barn door. I recognized the markings in the wood, and the shape of the table, octagonal. The chairs were a work of art, with grooves and patterns worked into the legs. The cushions were royal blue velvet material, the very same that he’d just re-covered the old sofas with.

“Well,” I said, a lump in my throat. “Miracles happen, don’t they?” A rash of goose bumps broke out over me.

CeeCee patted my hand. “They sure do. Whoever did it just gone and saved Walt. I wish there was a way we could say thanks.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

“I’m sure there’s a way we can find out…” My words petered out. Instinctively I knew he wouldn’t want anyone to know it was him. The ground shifted almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t who I thought he was; he was better.

“I think,” CeeCee said, “it’ll come out soon enough. Rosaleen’s not gonna let this slide ‘til she finds out who it is. But ‘tween us, I got my suspicions.” She winked.

I hid a smile. She
always
knew. CeeCee had a way of reading people’s minds. “I’m sure you do, CeeCee. I’ve got mine too, but some secrets I’m not so sure need to be shared.”

“Well, then, we’re gonna have to find somethin’ else for Rosaleen to clutch on to ain’t we?” she joked, pulling me back across the road. “Let’s celebrate. How does a piece of pie sound?”

***

“The town’s buzzing, Clay. Did you know that?” We stood by the open barn door, the breeze whipping my hair backward.

“About what?” He turned away. I grabbed his arm and forced him to look at me, clamping my hands around his bicep.

“About the furniture.” I touched his chin, forcing him to look me in the eye.

He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged.

“I saw you, Clay. I know that wood was from here. What you did…it saved him.” It was hard to even think about the grieving Walt and all this friends in town who’d wrung their hands worrying how to stop the bank foreclosing. Now they were all celebrating because of an off-the-cuff comment I’d made to Clay, who’d decided to help save a man he didn’t know.

I pushed past him into the barn. In the corner sheets draped over mysterious shapes. I ripped them back, exposing dining room tables made out of oak, varnished to a shine. There were chairs to match. Small coffee tables, bookshelves. “You made all of this for Walt?” I couldn’t hide the surprise. Clay wasn’t who he portrayed; he wasn’t selfish, he was
selfless.
The long nights where sleep eluded him, he must have come out to the barn, and worked through till late. “These are beautiful, Clay.”

“Leave it be.”

“
Why
? Why can’t you just admit it was you, and it was a sweet thing to do? Why do you have to be the tough guy?”

He lifted his chin. “It’s not about being the tough guy, Lucy. You just don’t get it.”

It was hard to read his expression in the dim light of the barn. “So explain it to me?” What kind of person couldn’t understand gratitude? Why was he so messed up?

“It was nothing. I make furniture all the time. I wanted to help, that’s all. I didn’t do it for any other reason, and I don’t want anyone to know it was me. Period.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “I hope it helps. I know what it’s like to lose everything.”

I reached for him, but he brushed past. “Can we do some work?”

“You’re a good guy, Clay. No matter how much you try and hide it.” My heart beat that little bit faster, staring at him, and he wrestled with his response. Clay wasn’t such an enigma. He was kind and considerate, but for some reason didn’t want anyone to know it.

“Clay…”

***

While taking a different route back to the B and B, I couldn’t resist trying to catch my mom on the phone. It had been so long since I had heard her voice. No matter how old I was, I still looked to her for reassurance, especially after the conversation with Clay.

“Finally!” I said as Mom answered her phone. “I was about to send out a search party.”

She managed a small laugh. “Oh, you stop that worrying, honey. I was sleeping. I told you these new drugs are sending me straight to the land of zeds.”

“When Aunt Margot didn’t answer her phone I got worried.”

“You called her?” Mom said, concerned.

I bit my lip. I’d forgotten the cardinal rule: I was not to bother Aunt Margot. “Yeah, sorry, Mom. But you do have to understand, I’m so far away, and when I can’t get hold of either of you for days, I panic.”

Her tone softened. “OK, but try not to call her, honey. I don’t want her feeling all beleaguered. I’ll make sure I call you when I’m fresh instead.”

“Good.”

“So how’s farm life? And that gorgeous hunk of a guy?”

I laughed, continued walking through the woods and filled Mom in on what had happened since we last spoke, including all the details about Clay, and his desire to be alone on the farm.

Chapter Sixteen