Rebecca Raisin - Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

After that the Van Gogh Institute Scholarship came up about a hundred times, but I shrugged her off. I needed time. At this stage I didn’t know if I’d make it without her.

“Where you from?” the woman asked, bringing me back to the present. She crossed her arms over her midsection, as we bounced softly along.

With a smile, I said, “Detroit.” I pivoted a fraction to face her. She looked like the type who would chatter on regardless.

“Ah,” she said, “the birthplace of Motown? Ain’t that something?”

“It is.” I missed it already. It was home. Where my heart was.

She studied my face intently. “Why the long face?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t about to share my story with a stranger. Besides, there was no way I could say Mom’s name. I held on to the promise I made as though it was something tangible, my secret. “Just saying goodbye.” I tried hard to make it sound breezy and bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself to stay focused and not well up. Honestly, I was like a child going off to camp the first time. I knew Mom wanted me to “find myself” but I didn’t think I was lost. She did.

With a raise of her eyebrows she said, “Goodbyes…surely are difficult. But sometimes, you gotta take the plunge. Life is for living.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. My mom had said something eerily similar when I’d visited the hospital to say my goodbyes.

Snatching her purse from under the seat, she rifled around in it, before brandishing a brown paper bag full of something spicy-scented. “Here, eat. You as skinny as a rake.” She handed me a chocolate-dipped gingerbread man. “Ashford—where we goin’—is about the nicest place on earth. Problem is, once you visit it’s kinda hard to leave.”

“That so?” I took a bite of the cookie, ravenous now I’d awoken. “I’m not staying for good,” I said. “Just stopping by for a while.”

She hemmed and hawed. “That’s what they all say.”

I smiled at the woman in thanks, all the while thinking maybe the bus simply slipped off the road because of a deer, and not because I’d made a bad decision walking away from my mom, when she needed me so badly.

“Did you make this?” I asked, holding the remnants of the gingerbread man, just his little chocolate-dipped legs.

“Why I most certainly did. I work at the Gingerbread Café. I’m CeeCee.” She held out her hand.

“It’s delicious.” I shook her hand. “Lucy. Nice to meet you.” It wasn’t like me to chitchat so easily. Mom was the extrovert, the babbler; I took a while to warm up. Instead I people-watched, always lost inside my mind with how I’d paint the planes of their faces, or whether I could catch the question in their eyes, their own unique gaze.

I guess it was a safety mechanism of sorts, my lack of involvement with people. We’d moved so often, it was easier not to make friends than risk losing them. But alone, maybe I’d have to change that.

“We be seeing a lot more of each other, mark my words.” There was something comforting about the woman, the way she spoke, the warmth in her.

***

After snatching some nap time, I awoke, squinting. The sky had lightened. The bus burbled along, making its way to Ashford. My sketchy plan was to find a job, anything . The money Mom had borrowed from Aunt Margot, I stubbornly refused to take. I used it to pay her rent a paltry few more weeks, and restocked her fridge and freezer—a surprise, for when she got home. All I had was the wages from the last few shifts at the diner to see me through, but I knew how to be frugal, and how to work hard.

I had to find a job quickly, and hoped at the end of each week, there’d be enough left over that I could save and send some home. I’d sleep better knowing my mom had a back-up plan and some independence when it came to money.

Resting my head against the cool glass, I watched as meadows dotted with the odd home or two flashed past.

The driver hollered out, “Ashford’s ten minutes away, folks.”

I nodded to him as we made eye contact in the rearview mirror. His face was lined with fatigue. He was probably dreaming of bed, while commuters snoozed fitfully behind him.

In the distance a property appeared. It was flanked by lots of trees, bare of leaves, and stood out beside the rolling snow-drizzled meadows.

As the bus lumbered closer, I pushed my face up against the glass again. My breath fogged up the window; I hastily wiped it with my hand. As we neared, I could make out an old cottage, decayed with age. Twisted vines snaked around porch poles like skeletons.

I pulled at CeeCee’s sleeve. “Would you look at that place!” It was mesmerizing.

She sat up straighter, popping specs on the bridge of her nose. “That there’s the Maple Syrup Farm. It’s gone and got itself a new owner too. A real handsome guy but he tend to keep to his self.”

“Why’s that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Folk say he’s just one o’ them lonesome types.” She clucked her tongue. “Whatever that’s ‘sposed to mean. He ain’t been there long, a month or two maybe. Still trying to make sense o’ the place. As you can see, it needs a lot o’ work. The cottage itself is over a hundred years old.”

The driver slowed for a bend in the road. “It’s eerie, like something out of a ghost story.” The property was bathed in a filmy light almost like that one patch of land was a different color to the rest of the world. Sepia, faded 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.