Kristin Hardy - Vermont Valentine

She’d always adored maples. Too bad she hadn’t come to the state in the autumn, in time to see the legendary wash of glorious color. Instead, she saw the flat brown and white of a dormant winter landscape. Of course, she knew it wasn’t really dormant at all, not in late January. Already the drumbeat of spring was beginning to pulse in the trees as the sap gathered for the rise that triggered rebirth.

And already the threat was stirring.

Celie squinted at the page of directions in her hand and checked her odometer again. When she’d fled Montreal for a career in forestry, she’d done it partly out of a desire for open space and a conspicuous absence of concrete.

She hadn’t thought about the conspicuous absence of road signs.

Of course, she should have been used to it by now. In the past four years she’d been sent to hot spots in seven different states, always moving around. Living somewhere new every few months wasn’t a hardship—generally, she enjoyed the variety, she enjoyed a chance to get out of the same old rut.

These days, though, a rut didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

The sign by the building up ahead read Ray’s Feed ’n’ Read. It made her grin. She couldn’t pass that one up without a look. With luck, she could also get directions to the Institute.

When she opened the front door, the blast of heat made her forget the winter chill outside. To the left of the door stood a checkout counter, the wall behind it decorated with a lighted Napa sign and a calendar advertising cattle cake. The smile of the balding man at the register faded as he pegged her as a stranger. He gave her a sharp nod.

“Good morning,” Celie said. Beyond him lay the swept concrete floor and pallets of goods of a standard seed and grain store. To the right, she saw an incongruously cozy book nook with a dozen shelves and a few comfortable, over-stuffed chairs. It called to her irresistibly. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

He grunted.

“Is this Eastmont?” she asked, drifting to a stop in front of a display of lurid thrillers.

“Last time I checked.”

Celie fought a smile. “Is this the part where I ask directions and you say ‘Cahn’t get theah from heah?’”

His lips twitched. “Well, if it’s Eastmont, Maine you’re asking about, that’s different. We have a translation book for Mainers,” he added.

“So I see. No translation book for Vermonters?”

“None needed. We don’t have any accent. Now you, you’re not from around these parts. What’s that I hear in your voice?”

Even after all these years, the whisper of a French accent still lingered. “Canada. I grew up in Montreal.”

“Ah. The wife and I went up there about twenty years ago for an anniversary. Nice town, especially the old part.”

“My parents own a bookstore in Vieux Montréal.”

“Do tell? I thought you looked like a book person when you walked in.”

She couldn’t tell him that she’d moved away because the bookstore had suffocated her. Instead, she picked up a thriller and headed to the counter. “So what’s more popular, the feed or the read?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Folks around here will pick up a book, especially in winter. Shoot, we’ve got one guy buys so many books I don’t know how he gets any sugaring done.” He passed the book over the bar-code scanner.

“Maybe he’s trying to improve himself.”

He snorted. “I think Jacob would say he’s as improved as he needs to be. That’ll be $6.25,” he added, slipping the book into a plain brown bag.

Celie passed him a twenty. “I wonder if you could help me out. I’m looking for the Woodward Maple Research Institute. It’s around here, right?”

“Close enough.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me how close?”

He considered, making an effort to look crusty. “Oh, a couple miles as the crow flies.”

“Any chance I could get there if I weren’t a crow?” she asked, reaching out for her change.

“Oh, you’re wanting directions.”

“Assuming you can get theah from heah.”

The smile was full-fledged this time. “Well, you’ll want Bixley Road.” He rested his hands on the counter. “Turn right out of the parking lot and go until you see a sign that says Trask Farm. The second left after that is Bixley Road. You’ll know it because it heads uphill at first. You’ll pass maybe three roads and you’ll see the signs for the Institute. If you see the covered bridge, you’ll know you’ve gone too far.”

“Thank you kindly,” she said.

“You working at the Institute?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

She grinned. “Whether I find it.”

“Well, Jacob Trask, who would have thought you were such a good-looking boy under all that hair?” Muriel Anderson, the comfortable-looking clerk at Washington County Maple Supplies gave him a long look up and down. “I almost didn’t recognize you. I see those Eastmont girls took you to task.”

Those Eastmont girls had trimmed and tidied and upholstered him until he could hardly stand it. In the first stunned moments when he’d stared at his newly shorn face in the salon mirror, all he’d been able to do was calculate feverishly how long it would take to grow back. He’d been shocked at how naked being clean-shaven made him feel.

He’d grown the beard at twenty and left it on. Without it, he almost hadn’t recognized himself. In the intervening sixteen years, his face had grown more angular, the chin more stubborn, the bones pressed more tightly against the skin.

It was the face of someone else, not him. A week, he’d figured, a week to get covered up.

He hadn’t figured on noticing the mix of gray hairs among the black in the new beard as it sprouted. More, far more than he’d recalled before. There certainly weren’t any on his head. He could do without the ones down below. After all, a man was entitled to some vanity, wasn’t he? The beard, he’d decided, would stay gone.

“Hi, Jacob,” purred Eliza, Muriel’s twenty-year-old daughter, as she walked past.

Or maybe it wouldn’t, he thought uneasily, taking the fifty-pound bag of diatomaceous earth off his shoulder and setting it down on the counter. He was all for having a personal life, but the non-stop scrutiny he’d begun attracting from women felt a little weird. He liked cruising along below the radar; he had from the time he’d looked around in third grade and realized he was a head taller than any of his classmates. Cruising below the radar had gotten hard, though, all of a sudden.

“Did you hear they found some cases of maple borer over in New York?” Muriel asked as she started ringing up Jacob’s order. “They had to take down 423 trees from the heart of a sugarbush to get it all. Sixteen-inchers, most of them.”

Four-hundred-some-odd trees? Nearly ten acres, maybe more. That would be a financial hit, and one that would persist for decades. After all, sugar maples didn’t grow old enough to tap for thirty or forty years. “Are you sure they’re not exaggerating?”

“Tom Bollinger said it, and he can be trusted.” Muriel shook her head. “You should spend less time looking at books in Ray’s and more time around the stove talking to people, Jacob. You might find out something you can use.”

“I’d rather hear it from you.” He winked at her, as he had so many times over the years. And to his everlasting shock, she blushed.

“Oh, you.” She shook her head at him. “Talking isn’t nearly as hard as chopping brush.”

For Jacob talking was harder, except in the case of a handful of people, such as Muriel.

“Everything I hear tells me we’ve got something to worry about here,” Muriel continued. “Some of those Institute fellows were over at Willoughby’s sugarbush a couple of weeks ago, poking at his trees and muttering.”