Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm. Rebecca Raisin
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kind of backwater hillbilly. Surely not? Was it so cold outside farmers dressed braced for an apocalypse?
“How do they fit?” she asked chirpily.
“Erm…” Laughter threatened to burble out of me at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. I was a ghostbusting, burger-selling, cowboy-hat-wearing farmer.
Bonnie drew the curtain back with a flourish. “Oh, now, don’t they just fit you real great?” She smiled so genuinely I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.
Clay hadn’t been dressed like this. I wasn’t sure farmers actually wore such clothing, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe Clay had been barely clothed because he was working indoors, and once outside we’d need to be protected from the elements. Because if there was one thing I was sure of, nothing was getting through the layers of plastic that now crinkled noisily over my body. I held on to the curtain. “I’ll take them.” Bonnie had the puppy dog eyes down pat, and rewarded me with a happy squeal.
“You’ve gone and made my day,” she said, closing the curtain, so I could change back. Her smile threatened to swallow her up, and it dawned on me that maybe Bonnie didn’t get many customers, just like the travel agent Henry, who appeared hopeful seeing a new face in town. “I’ll go and ring them up for you. And I’ll throw in a pair of socks, since you’ve been real nice. They’re a new brand. Meant to help with the circulation, you know, for the diabetes?”
I didn’t know. But I played along, anyway. “That sure will come in handy. Thank you, Bonnie.”
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