Rebecca Raisin - Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm

“It’s right this way.” Her skirt swished around her ankles as she strode.

We went through the kitchen, its wooden benches orderly, and continued down a hallway with walls lined with family pictures.

“Is this you, Rose?” I pointed to a picture of a glamorous woman, soaking up sunshine in a striped bathing suit, and big Jackie-O style sunglasses.

“Yes, quite the starlet wasn’t I?” she joked. “That was me back in my beach bunny days—I spent far too long tanning myself to leather beneath the Californian sun, until I moved here, and swapped the sunbaking for hiking.”

“You look great.” Despite her age, I could still see that twenty-something woman in Rose, the quick smile, the grace.

“These are my grandbabies.” Rose pointed to a picture of three boys with cheeky smiles and dimples.

“Are they in Ashford?”

She shook her head sadly. “They’re all the way in Australia. My son moved there for work, so I rarely see them these days. The distance is too much for me to travel. My old bones suffer from the flight. Just because we said our goodbyes, doesn’t mean they’re not in my heart. Never mind.” She grabbed my hand. “I’ve got you to look after now.”

I returned her hand squeeze. She had no idea how much her words meant to me. I was missing my mom fiercely, but maybe Rose would help curb that loss a fraction. Even though I was hesitant making friends, Rose had a grandmotherly way about her. “Thanks, Rose.”

Girls my age probably had a much better hold on themselves at twenty-eight than I did. But I was all sorts of lost without the anchor of my old life. Regret sat heavy in my belly, as I rued making Mom the promise in the first place. It was a foolish idea to jet around the world like a carefree itinerant. The year was going to drag on, until I could finally go home where I belonged.

Rose pulled me down the hallway until we came to a door. With a flourish she pushed it open. The room smelt musty, like it had been closed up for a long time, but it was neat. There was a double bed, and a small dresser. We shared a room in Detroit—usually I flopped on the sofa when I crept in. A whole bed to myself would be a luxury.

“Here’s the bathroom.” She opened a door off to the side, and my breath caught. “Everyone always does that.” She laughed. While the bedroom was small the bathroom was huge, spacious enough for a double vanity and an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. “I made some renovations a few years back, and they knocked a wall through from the other side so the bathroom would be bigger.”

“Wow, you did a great job. No flowers?”

She chortled. “I thought maybe one room should be flower free.” She scratched her chin. “But I regret that choice every day.”

The bathroom was all white, with touches of cream in the tiling. Thick, fluffy towels were stacked next to the bath. It was like an oasis for my tired, overwrought mind. I knew I’d spend a lot of time soaking in the tub. We didn’t have one at home, and just the thought made me want to buy bubble bath, and a book to while the hours away indulgently.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” she said. “There’s soap and a few toiletries under the sink, and you just yell out if you need a hand.” With that she stepped from the room leaving only the scent of her perfume.

Casting another cursory glance around the room, I placed my art portfolio on top of the dresser drawers, and swung my backpack to the end of the bed. Time to unpack, and make the room my temporary home.

From the front pocket of my bag, I took out a picture frame. In the photo Mom had her arms looped around my shoulders. The wind whipped around us making her strawberry-blonde curls tangle into my flaxen hair. Behind us the sun shone, making it look as though we had haloes, but it was our faces, the sheer happiness that radiated that I loved. It was taken pre-diagnosis, where the world had been ours for the taking, and the only routine we had was waking up each morning. I gave the photo a quick kiss, and put it on the windowsill.

When we found out about Mom’s condition, and how easily it could deteriorate, our world swung dangerously off its axis for a while, until we regrouped, and collected ourselves. We’d hit a fork in the road, and veered the wrong way for a time, but eventually we had to accept it. There was no choice. We couldn’t change the diagnosis; we could only do our best to make Mom’s future as bright as possible.

Responsibility was thrust on us. Medical appointments and money woes ruled our days, but that didn’t stop us dreaming. It hurt to walk in and see Mom staring at the TV, a filmy light casting shadows over her face, her ready smile gone.

I tried a multitude of ways to cheer her up in those first dark months. One night I found a bunch of old magazines, and bought a sunny yellow scrapbook. I told her to find pictures that inspired her, that made her happy.

We cut and pasted tiny squares of shiny paper every night. It was our dream travel book—we visualized what could be. It didn’t take long for us to fill the pages with cuttings of spicy tapas in Spain, or diving with dolphins in Australia. The ruins of Rome. Tulips in Amsterdam. Famous paintings I wanted to see. Museums we wanted to wander inside. That was the thing about dreams—they could be as big and bold as you liked. Mom took a shine to scrapbooking, and unlike her other hobbies, she stuck with it.

With a wobbly smile, I took our dream travel book from my backpack, and flopped onto the plush bed. I creaked it open, its pages fat with cheap glue. The very first picture: a cutout of the Eiffel Tower, standing tall and proud, its night lights twinkling bon jour .

Did she know, all that time ago, that I should end up there? Maybe she’d always hoped I’d try out for the Van Gogh Institute. I’d often talked in an awed hush about visiting the Musée d’Orsay to ogle Van Gogh’s portraits. Or taking a day trip northwest of Paris to see the garden where Claude Monet painted the Water Lilies . Pipe dreams, or so I’d thought.

Pleasure bloomed in my heart at the thought I might get to do these things, despite not having my mom with me. Once-in-a-lifetime adventures were within reach, if only I could do it on my own. Carefully, I tucked the scrapbook into the bedside drawer. There’d be time enough to flip its full pages. I yawned, so tempted to sleep. Without the usual rush of my life, I was as drowsy as a cat in summertime.

But I had to find a job. I’d dillydallied enough this morning. I could easily end up stranded and penniless here. Mom didn’t have the same fears as me, always believing the universe would provide, that a solution would appear. As much as I loved the universe, real fear of being broke sat heavy on my shoulders.

With a groan, I pulled myself up and went to wash my face. The cool water refreshed me. The thought of breakfast at the Gingerbread Café was enough to inspire me to get going.

Chapter Three

I recognized a booming laugh before I’d even got to front door of the Gingerbread Café. It was quickly followed by a shriek. As I approached the window, CeeCee’s round frame was bent double, hooting as amusement got the better of her.

Pushing the door open, a jangle of bells announced my arrival. The café was busy. Customers lolled on chairs by the window, or cupped their chins, bent over a table with friends. By the fire an elderly gentleman had fallen asleep, a newspaper crumpled in his lap, his snores punctuating the chatter in the café.

The scene was completely opposite to the old diner I’d worked in, where men hung their heads over weak cups of coffee, their eyes vacant, as though their lives had passed them by. Night-shift workers, truck drivers, and women dressed in flashy sequins, holes in their stockings, their heels scuffed; they all had that same pall, a kind of defensiveness in their faces, a clenched jaw, stiff posture.