Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm. Rebecca Raisin
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Mom? I’d never had the chance to create a lasting bond with any of the girls I’d met on our travels, because we’d never stayed long enough. It would be nice to have someone to confide in, someone who’d keep your secrets.
Lil gave me a dazzling smile, and said, “CeeCee’s excited because she’s making apple tarte tatin—from a recipe given to her by a certain Frenchman who shall remain nameless.”
CeeCee put her hands on her hips. “You gonna keep razzin’ me about Guillaume, I’m gonna march over the road and tell Damon that you the one who ate the pie he ordered especially for a customer o’ his.” I wondered how all these people fit together: friends, lovers, customers?
Lil’s eyes went wide. “OK, OK. Sheesh, how was I supposed to know it was for his customer? You can’t just bake something that smells like heaven itself and leave it in front of me like some kind of invitation. Anyone would have done the same.” She glanced at me for hoping for an ally. I grinned, and stared into my mug.
“But the whole pie?” CeeCee shook her head and faced me. “The amount that girl eats—must have hollow legs. Come now, Lil, let’s bake and you forget all about my Frenchman.” She blushed. “I’m too old for this kinda carry on,” she said, her voice lilting.
Lil laughed and bent to whisper, “It’s her new boyfriend but we’re all supposed to pretend he isn’t!”
The girls were like a breath of fresh air, their routine comical, as they badgered each other with good nature.
“Don’t think I didn’t hear that,” CeeCee said mock sternly. “Eat, Lucy, ‘fore you waste away on us.”
With my head spinning from it all, I bit into the first chocolate truffle, and closed my eyes as I savored the flavor. The taste sensation exploded in my mouth—dark chocolate, and cherry with a hit of liqueur, encased in a tiny ball of goodness. All of life’s problems could be forgotten when you ate chocolate as delectable as this. While I was still jittery about being here, the girls somewhat assuaged that with their antics.
A young woman dashed into the café, flicking her glossy brown curls over her shoulder. “I need coffee!” she yelled dramatically. “Preferably by an IV, if you can.”
CeeCee cackled like a witch. “And let me guess, chocolates served up by the pound?”
The girl pretended to be surprised, clapping a hand over her mouth. “How did you know? You’re like…the chocolate whisperer!”
“Probably because you say that every day, my sweet cherry blossom. Lucy this here’s Becca—works at the hair salon up the road.” CeeCee turned back to Becca. “Why don’t you go sit over there with Lucy. She’s new here, looking for work.” CeeCee gave her a pointed stare. “And we drove right on past the Maple Syrup Farm this mornin’ if you get my drift.”
Becca gasped. “You did? Let me go speak to this exotic creature.”
I would have blushed like crazy if people back home spoke of me in such a way, but here it was done with such humor and warmth. So far the townspeople were lively and funny, and so open it was like watching a play being performed, and I was the audience.
With a sweep of her hand, Becca sat regally at the table. “Lucy, my lovely. Work you say?” She arched an eyebrow in a theatrical way.
“Why?” I said, oddly out of step with the latest customer to spill through the doors. Was no one here quiet and unassuming? Each person I met one-upped the last with their antics. I’m sure it would make living in Ashford fun but it was so foreign to me. I played along, hoping I’d get the hang of their easy camaraderie. “Are you expecting me to dance on tables or something?” I said, safe in the knowledge that was probably not the case.
She whacked the table, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “No, no!” she said. “But are you really looking?” Her voice dropped to a more neutral tone.
“I really am.”
“It’s not a pretty job…” Her forehead furrowed, and she surveyed her nails, as if buying time. “Actually, it’s rather, well…messy.”
I surreptitiously glanced at my own nails. They were chipped, the light pink polish bitten to the quick as I’d made my way here. “That’s OK. I’m in no position to be fussy right now.”
“Great!” Her voice carried around the café. “My cousin needs a hand.”
CeeCee piped up. “Becca is Clay’s cousin. That ramshackle property we passed on the bus…the Maple Syrup Farm.”
The very same job I was intent on applying for. The chance meeting with Becca was great timing—maybe she could give me some pointers on what to tell the so-dubbed reclusive Clay. “So what should I do, Becca?”
“Just mosey over there and say you’re ready to work. He needs someone urgently so don’t take no for an answer.” She wrinkled her nose. “But it’s not going to be easy.”
I waved her away. Easy? How hard could farmwork be? Outside surrounded by the beauty of nature, I’m sure it would be as easy as ABC. And something my hippy mom would enjoy hearing about.
More important was landing the job. My whole future hinged on it. “Any advice on how I can convince him that I’m the girl for the job?” My voice pitched, giving away the worry I felt. No doubt he’d prefer someone who knew exactly what farmwork required, but I was convinced I could do it. Maybe it was desperation speaking, but given a chance, I’d show him I was more than willing to work hard.
Becca cocked her head, grimacing slightly. “Stand your ground. Clay’s…sort of used to being alone. But he really does need help, otherwise he won’t get the trees tapped for syrup.” The words spilled out quickly, like she was trying convince me.
Stand my ground? I imagined Clay—a man used to being alone—as some crinkle-faced, weathered farmer, set in his ways. “OK, any other tips?”
She waited a beat. “Don’t take anything he says to heart.”
I frowned. “I’ll keep that in mind. So no need to spout on about my love of the outdoors, or my urge to…farm?”
Laughter spilled from Becca’s bright-pink lips. “No, definitely no need for that. Just be confident, and don’t give in when he says no on sight. He seems to think he can do it all alone sometimes, and then resents the fact he can’t.”
“OK. I thought maybe I should be the full bottle on farming equipment or something, so he knows I’m capable.”
“Nope.” She flashed a smile. “He can teach you the basics. You’ll be fine.”
“Right,” I said, feeling strangely confident. “Thanks, Becca. It’ll be a beautiful place to spend time. I’ll head over and see what he says.” I caught the wide-eyed look Lil and Becca exchanged and wondered just what kind of man Clay was.
Not an easy one, by the look of it.
After leaving the café, I strolled along the main street of Ashford, peering into store windows, soaking up the atmosphere, when a travel agency caught my eye. I gazed at posters of exotic locations. One had Indian women dressed in vibrant-colored saris. Another an orangutan with an almost human-like face, the text below suggesting a vacation to Sumatra. Gondoliers in Venice. The Eiffel Tower in Paris.
The wanderlust in my DNA pulsed a little quicker. Before Mom had me, she’d hotfooted it around the globe—these posters reminded me of her travels. I had albums of her twenty-something face, carefree and lit with wonder as she stood, wrapped in sky-blue cheesecloth, next to an elephant that dwarfed her. She’d been on safari in Africa, before heading to the UK to work in a pub, where there were photos of her holding a pint glass filled with black stout, saving for her next jaunt.
Nothing