Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm. Rebecca Raisin
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somehow. All I could imagine was trying to capture it on canvas, painting daubs of russet and taupe, lashings of cloud white. Hoping my brushstrokes would reflect its bygone charm.
“Town folk believe there’s a ghost there, but it ain’t true. Old Jessup passed on not long back, and he left the farm to his nephew, Clay. Don’t stop people talkin’ out o’ turn saying they seen Jessup wandering around those trees. He used to love them, talk to them as if they was real.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.” When I painted a landscape like the one in front of me, it was easy to get lost in pondering what had gone on over so many decades—the history of the place, and not just the facts, but the heart and soul of it, the real story. Who slept under that cottage roof a century ago? Did they dream of other places, or were they happy there? Did kids frolic by the lake, swim, climb trees, tumble down hills? Was there a woman at the hearth, stoking up fires and baking? Imagining lives long forgotten piqued my curiosity and made my fingers itch to pick up a paintbrush.
She yawned, and stretched her arms above her head. “Sure is. And Clay’s only addin’ to it by being reclusive.”
I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “Ashford’s own little mystery.”
She guffawed. “Sometimes there ain’t much more to do than speculate about folk.”
I laughed. The town must be a hotbed of gossip because of its size. “I guess so. What’s he doing with the place? Is he going to stay?”
“Word is, he wants to tap the trees for maple syrup, like his uncle used to do before the arthritis got the better of him. Can’t seem to find anyone who wants to work there though. It’ll be a tough job, getting it all done without any help.”
My ears pricked up. “Really?”
How hard could farmwork be? Physical, sure, but I was fit and capable. It’d be something new, rather than pouring endless cups of coffee for weary truck drivers. Or serving plates of greasy bacon and eggs to night-shift workers. Each day bleeding into the next with the monotony of it all.
How was maple syrup made? All I pictured was their beautiful red, almost carmine, colored leaves, ones I used to take from parks when I was a child and press between the pages of my diary, until they dried, holding their shape, like an exotic fan.
Farmwork would surely be a damn sight better than being cooped up in an old diner.
“Do you think he’d consider me for the job?” I couldn’t contain my eagerness. A job on day one would surely be a good sign.
“I don’t rightly know,” she said thoughtfully. “You see, I don’t know him like I know most folk, but there ain’t no harm in tryin’.”
Knowing Ashford was a small town, I seized on the idea of working at the farm. I doubted there’d be many other opportunities, and if I didn’t snag something quick I’d have to move on and try my luck elsewhere. “I really need a job, CeeCee. Keep your fingers crossed for me.”
Her big brown eyes softened. “You go on and see if he’ll hire you, and then if he does, get yourself some wet-weather clothes. Being outdoors all day, that cold will surely sink into your bones.”
“Thanks, Cee.” Out of all the buses in the world, all the ways I could have traveled, I ended up next to CeeCee, and I thanked my lucky stars. With her help, I might have found a job, and at least I’d know one friendly face in town.
As we neared Ashford, the houses bunched closer together. In a driveway a group of kids were riding bicycles side by side in a languid, just-woke-up kind of way. Siblings, or next-door neighbors? I thought back to my childhood, moving from place to place, making friends, and then having to leave them. Mom’s itchy feet, her gypsy-like wandering, kept us on the road right up until my teenage years. I turned to look back at the kids. It must have been nice, settling in one place as a kid, knowing nothing would change except that their bandy little legs would fill out, and they’d eventually ditch their bikes for cars. A lifetime of friendship built right next door to one another.
Just as the driver promised, ten minutes later the small town came rolling into view. Snow drifted down, making the place look as pretty as a picture on a postcard. Neat store fronts lined the road, and for a small town, they had quite a variety. Jimmy pulled the bus into a park, and turned off the engine.
I gathered my belongings, and inched my way down the rubber-floored aisle to the front. “Sorry for the scare,” he said, his face brighter now we’d stopped. “Enjoy your day.”
“You too. Thanks, Jimmy.” I gave him a wave as I stepped off the warm bus and onto the curb.
Behind me, CeeCee marched from the bus and gave me a great big launch hug that almost bowled me over. “Begonia Bed and Breakfast is thatta way,” she said pointing to the far end of town. “The only accommodation Ashford has.”
“It’s like you can read my mind!” Though I suppose it was obvious, a girl heading into a small town would need a place to stay.
She tapped her nose. “I always know. You go on and get settled then come back here for some breakfast. On the house,” she added as I went to protest. “You need a decent meal ‘fore you head off to the farm, if you sure that’s the kinda job you want.”
***
Meeting the exuberant CeeCee put a smile on my face and took some of the ache away. I wasn’t used to being alone. Mom was always on my mind in Detroit, whether I was working or not. But the invisible cord that bound us was still there. Being so far away, the cord seemed infinite, and tugged, making me think she needed me.
Soft winter sun warmed my back as I walked, my steps heavy. I was so far from home I was almost under a different sky. I took in the charming streetscape, mentally framing up every view as a potential sketch, one that I could post home, show Mom where I was.
Cheery store owners nodded hello to me. I gave them a shy smile and averted my eyes. I headed toward the bed and breakfast, hoping the owner would have a room, something affordable too. When I passed a hardware store, I turned left at a sign advertising the lodgings, and meandered along until I found the B and B. Flowers spilled from pots in a riot of red, their sweet perfume wafting up.
The door opened, catching me, hand balled ready to knock.
A squirrely voice greeted me: “You must be Lucy! Come in, come in. I’m Rose.” Rose was rail thin, maybe in her seventies. She had a full shock of gray hair pulled back from her face in a bun. Her hands were liver-spotted and quivered slightly.
“Yes, I am, err, how…?”
“CeeCee called,” she said briskly, opening the door wide. “Said she met you on the bus. And that you were a dear little thing and I’m to make you comfortable, quick sticks. She’s never wrong about people, you know.” She gazed at me over the brim of her spectacles. “I see you are as pretty as a picture, all that lovely long blonde hair of yours, and those blue eyes… You know my mother, God rest her soul, used to call that shade of blue China blue… Did you know that?”
“Umm, no I didn’t…thank you.” I followed Rose inside, slightly overwhelmed by her scrutiny of me.
“Come on in. You’ll get used to me. I tend to say the first thing I think. Most of us do, being so used to one another, I suppose. Jimmy had another deer incident did he?”
The small town grapevine sure would take some getting used to. In Detroit, you could be invisible if you wanted. There was no way of knowing who was new, and who wasn’t. It was a big, busy town, and easy to be just a faceless member of the crowd. It might be nice to have friends, people who didn’t know me, or my past. “He managed to avoid it, but it was pretty close,” I said, sure that CeeCee would have told Rose the story already with a lot more oomph.
When I caught sight of the living room my head spun. Everything was floral. The curtains dusty pink with carnations, the carpet a ruby-red hibiscus, the wallpaper dotted with lemon-yellow daisies. I blinked the spotty vision away.