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She shook her head as if dislodging a thought. “Anyways, you’re going to love it here. I can always tell.” Hefting herself from the table, she gave my shoulder a pat. “You go on an’ eat now, and if you run out o’ truffles you go on and let me know.”
Lil groaned. “I was hoping for a five-minute sit-down, Cee.” She made a show of pulling herself up from the chair. “She’d work me to the bone quick as look me.” She winked at me.
CeeCee narrowed her eyes. “Ain’t that the truth? The cakes don’t bake themselves, sugar plum.” I hid a grin at the way they teased each other. They were obviously the best of friends. I could imagine them confiding in each other, and always having someone on their side. It made me wish for a friendship like theirs. Could I ever be that open with someone other than 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.
Chapter Four (#ulink_831589ec-c3e8-5932-8c8b-28df1d24904d)
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 had held her back; she’d siphoned every ounce of joy from her life, before she was struck down. She’d squashed so much into her days, each hour counted. There was something timeless about it.
“Can I help you?” A man popped his head around the archway of the door, startling my reverie. My gaze darted to his sweater that read Take the plunge, visit New Zealand.
What would New Zealand be like? Another place to add to the one-day list.
“Have you got any brochures for Paris?” I stuttered, feeling put on the spot.
The slightly stooped man motioned me inside. I glanced at my watch—a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. After all, for once, I didn’t actually have to be anywhere. The sudden freedom gave me a sense of euphoria. The farm could wait another ten minutes. It wasn’t like Clay was expecting me…unless the Ashford grapevine had reached him already.
“I’ve got brochures for Paris, Pakistan, Peru. Whatever you want.” He was jolly, and ruddy-faced.
He rifled through a stack of shiny brochures before finding one with a picture of a couple smooching under the Eiffel Tower.
“Anything else?” he asked handing me the brochure. “I’m Henry, by the way.”
“No, that’s perfect. Lucy,” I said, and held out my hand to shake. I wanted to grab a fistful of brochures, to cut them and paste them into our scrapbook, but visiting these places might become a reality now, and without Mom, it didn’t seem right to fill the book anymore. It had been our project. Our wish list.
“Have you been to Paris?” I stalled, wanting to stare at the exotic locations, dream of another life, a different me. The wonderful things I could capture on canvas. Chance snapshots, like an over-ripe coconut felled from a tree, the bandy brown legs of its lopper.
“Paris? Sure have. Let’s see.” He ran a hand over his head. “Must’ve been thirty-odd years ago now. All I had was a few French francs in my pocket, and a backpack hitched over my shoulder. The people there, they were something else, inspired, eccentric.” There was glimmer in his eye as he recalled his vacation. “Always wanted to go back there.”
“Why didn’t you?” The eternal question. Why did people leave the places they loved?
He scratched the stubble on his chin. “There was always somewhere new to discover. Once you’re hit with the travel bug, well, you just want to go ahead and see it all.” His voice softened as he gazed over the top of my head, almost as if he were back in Paris, the young man he must have been thirty years ago. “I wanted to walk those back streets, and find joy in patches of the world that so many before me had been, leaving only their footprints, and maybe a piece of their heart, their lives indelibly changed.”
My mom would love Henry. She had that same faraway look in her eyes when she recalled her travels before she was housebound to a degree. It was hard not to feel glum. Mom should be here too, plotting her next trip, and following the summer. “Seems like there’s two types of people: those who wander the earth, and those who don’t,” I said.
He gave me a wide smile. “If everyone had the means, I’m sure it’d be more prevalent. That’s all they’re missing, that first big trip…the weight of the world someone else’s problem. What about you—where are you staying?”
He wanted to know which type I was. “At Rose’s B and B.” I shrugged. “Everything depends on a job.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said with a genuine smile.
“Me too. And I hope you get to visit more places soon, Henry.”
His smile waned. “Sometimes, life gets in the way of our dreams. But I have the memories.” He tapped his heart.
I don’t know what his story was, but his wanderings had been cut short, just like Mom’s. He couldn’t know that I understood—it was almost like caging a bird. Instead, I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Memories last forever,” I said, hoping it was true.
He nodded. “So, what about you, Lucy? Is Paris on the cards? Or are you still in the planning stage?”
I grappled with the same inner turmoil. Would I apply to the institute? Was I even good enough to try? But Adele was in Paris, so either way, if I continued to travel, Paris would be my first port of call. It wouldn’t hurt, to keep an eye on flight prices, while I saved up the money.
“I don’t know for sure yet,” I said, “but if any cheap flights become available will you let me know?” I knew, deep down, if I went to Paris, I would regret not applying for the institute if I had to walk past it every day. Even though I still felt like a novice.
“Sure! And if I can be of any assistance just let me know. I’ve got a bunch of maps, and well-thumbed travel guides, feel free to stop in and peruse whenever you like.”
“Thank you,” I said with a smile. I folded the Paris brochure and tucked it into my backpack. “I’d love to. I’ll get myself sorted with a job and I’ll be back.”
We said our goodbyes, and I walked outside. Across the road a second-hand bookstore had a display window of travel books. It was like the universe was showing me the way. Instead of stepping inside, I kept on, heading to the Maple Syrup Farm. There was no point dreaming of foreign locales until I’d secured a job. And in a town as small as Ashford, there was likely to be minimal work available. I’d have to prove to Clay I was more than capable of farming, whatever the heck that entailed.
And heeding Becca’s advice, I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Glancing down at my outfit, I grimaced. Really, I should have worn something more practical. It was icy cold, and I was layered in a pink knit sweater, with bling-y beading across the bust, topped with a faux fur coat. I was a little on the bohemian side for Ashford, with my feather earrings, and bangles, which clinked together as I strode. If Clay said yes, I’d have to spend some money on more suitable work clothes.
Alone with my thoughts for the long walk to the farm, I couldn’t stop thinking of all the things Aunt Margot needed to know. Mom needed help with even the simplest tasks like showering, and I wanted to make sure Aunt Margot did it in such a way that Mom’s dignity was protected. I decided to call her myself, even though Mom had expressly asked me not to. Reaching into my bag I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. It had been years since we talked, and I wondered how she’d act.
“Lucy, how lovely to hear from you after all this time.” Her words were soft, measured.
“Yeah…it’s been a while.” I was a touch frosty, remembering the way she erased us from her life. I knew she would be footing the bill now, for Mom’s medical needs, but that didn’t make me any less wary.
“Your mother says you’re off gallivanting, just like she used to,” she said with an air of distaste.
I rolled my eyes, safe she couldn’t see me. “Yeah, something like that. Only for a year.”
“You should think of college. It’s not too late you know.”
“Yeah.” No, college wasn’t for people like me. “So, I wanted to touch base about Mom, and a few things—”
A guttural laugh came down the line. “There’s no need,” she said. “Everything is organized.”
I frowned. “That may be, but there’s a plastic chair in the bathroom you just need to—”
She cut me off again. “As I said, your mother will be fine, Lucy. Don’t worry about chairs or bathrooms for goodness’ sake. Do think about what I said about college. We can probably help you too. It’s becoming a pattern.”
I stiffened. We didn’t want her help, and if I was home we wouldn’t need it now. She was infuriating. “I can get by just fine, Aunt Margot. But with Mom, I want to make sure she’s looked after right.” It was all I could do to keep my tone even.
“Darling, don’t be mad. I can hear it in your voice. You’re so much like her, you know. Stubborn, and silly, at times. She threw her life away; you don’t need to as well.”
I’d always felt Aunt Margot was jealous that Mom was so carefree, and that the American dream—a house, two point five kids, and a nine-to-five job—didn’t appeal to Mom at all. Did it really matter how you chose to live your life as long as you were a good person?
I breathed in deeply, letting her toxic words float away before responding. “She hasn’t thrown her life away, in fact she’s lived more than most people double her age have!”
She clucked her tongue. “Living out of a suitcase is not living. And you’re on the same path. I worry about you, Lucy. With a role model like that what can you expect?”
I held in a scream. “Aunt Margot, don’t talk about Mom that way,” I managed through clenched teeth. “Did you get the list I left there?” I’d left detailed instructions, but still, I wanted to clarify things.
“Yes, yes. You know your mother, Lucy. It would be easier if she was more upfront sometimes.”
“What does that mean?” My mother was as transparent as water.
She sighed. “I can keep a promise,” she said. “Unlike her. So I’ll leave it at that.”
“What? Is she OK?” What was she talking about?
“She’s fine, Lucy. Jesus, I’m not a monster. If anything happened I’d let you know. I’m just saying, as usual, your mother does things her own way, and as usual I don’t agree with her. But let’s not rehash the past—it’s already colliding with the future.”
She was referring to the promise Mom apparently broke all those years ago. “Put Mom on,” I said.
“Sorry, darling, she’s asleep. You’ll have to try again later.”
“Fine, I will,” I said, and hung up as anger coursed through me. This was why we didn’t need help. Someone like Aunt Margot holding it over us. She had the power, and poor Mom was probably stuck there every day having to listen to her bring up her issues every five minutes.
I stomped toward the farm, even more determined to get the job, and send money home to Mom.
***
I’d eventually calmed down, as my feet found a rhythm while I walked. Thirty minutes later, the farm appeared. With my head inclined, I stopped, shoved my hands deep in my pockets and surveyed the place.
The Maple Syrup Farm was, at best, a ramshackle mess. The front gate hung off its latch, creaking in the wind, pitching backward and forward like an invitation to enter. In the distance you could make out the cottage. Gnarly old vines twisted around porch posts as though they were slowly strangling them. Cottage windows were smashed, leaving only dirty shards of glass clinging to their perches. Mountains of junk had been abandoned across the land for so long that grass had grown over them. Odd sticks of wood protruded like arms in supplication. The decaying façade of the place was somehow compelling rather than confronting.
Behind the gate, the property spanned for miles. Long snow-dotted grass swayed like green ribbons and grew into everything, wild and free. Even down the graveled driveway the grass had crept over like it was intent on taking over, burying the vestiges of ground.
I pushed the creaky gate open and walked purposefully, convincingly, like I’d been on a million farms before and knew what to do. As I neared the cottage music blared from inside. I stepped onto the porch. It was rotted in places, worm-wooded. I covered my ears against the noise as I dodged holes and hoped to God I made it inside without tumbling into trouble in my boots.
Whoever was inside the small cottage was belting out lyrics to “Pony” by Ginuwine like he was the only person in the world. Clay? I couldn’t really see an old farmer type listening to such provocative music, but it took all kinds to make a world, as my mom was keen on saying.
