Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm. Rebecca Raisin

head. This was her way, sensing an energy in things: trees, grass, flowers, and teaching me to really see them, look at them like they meant something. And while it probably sounded cuckoo to most people, it had given me a greater appreciation when it came to painting or sketching. But I jibed her anyway, “You’re one step away from pulling the tarots cards out, Mom.”

      “Oh, please, I’ve been doing your cards since you left. And I see a bright future for you, full of all the things you should’ve had already.” Mom’s voice cracked. She paused, pulling herself together before changing the subject. “Tell me the owner of the farm is some hot, buff, love god.”

      I spluttered into my hands. “Mom!”

      “What?” I pictured her face, the expression she pulled when she was trying to appear innocent, when she was far from it. “A vacation romance is a must! So tell me about this mysterious man.”

      I stifled a giggle. “Well he’s certainly buff, and I did see him shirtless—”

      “SHIRTLESS!” She said the word so loudly it was in capitals.

      “Shirtless, and sweaty. It was as good as you imagine it to be.” We’d always talked more like best friends than mother and daughter, and when it came to men it was no different. Back home, my relationships had been sporadic, life was too busy, but on the rare occasions I dated Mom knew all the details. Well…almost all. A girl has to keep a few secrets.

      “You’ve been in town all of five minutes and you’ve seen a half-naked guy?”

      “What can I say? Just lucky, I guess. And while he is nice to look at, he’s so far from my type he’s not even on the maybe list. Besides, I’m not looking for love, I’m looking for…” What was I looking for? Except a way to fulfill my mom’s wish.

      She interrupted. “Oh yes you are!” Her cackle rang out. “Go on, what’s he like?”

      I weighed up how to answer without causing undue worry. “He’s recently inherited the Maple Syrup Farm, which is really run down, and he’s kind of…angsty.”

      “A moody jerk in other words?”

      I bit my lip to stem the giggles that threatened to pour out. “A major moody jerk.”

      Mom harrumphed. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus, you’ve found yourself a bad boy. He won’t know what hit him, meeting the likes you of you. He’s one fortunate guy. I want to be kept informed. Promise me?”

      Mom knew I could be fiery at the best of times. Life was far too complicated as it was without anyone trying to bring me down a peg. My ex-manager at the diner had tried his damnedest to break me—I don’t know why, but he had it in for me. He’d steal my tips, which I relied on, and say customers had complained about me. Or he’d roster me on when I’d specifically asked not to fill that shift because of one of Mom’s appointments. A weasel of a man who knew he had me over a barrel because I needed the money. He was swiftly sorted out with a glass of ice-cold water over the head, and a phone call to the owner of the diner about the deficit in the takings. No one had the right to treat me that way, especially not someone who did it just for kicks.

      “I’ll let you know every single thing I do on the farm, tree hugging, raking, hoeing, erm…”

      “No,” she interrupted. “Keep your hoes to yourself. I mean about the love god!”

      “Clay?” I feigned surprise.

      “Oh Lord, his name’s Clay?”

      “Right?” I knew she’d understand.

      She sighed. “It couldn’t be more perfect. I bet he’s a hulking muscle man with an intense scowl. Gosh, ring me tomorrow and tell me everything.”

      Mom’s enthusiasm for my news brought a smile to my face and I said, “I will, I’ll be energized from the outdoors and ready for anything life throws at me.” With daily phone calls to her, maybe I could enjoy this adventure. Mom sounded brighter just hearing about Ashford. Would that invigorate her, living vicariously through my travels?

      “The tarot did throw up the lovers’ card each and every time I shuffled.”

      I scoffed. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m going to love those maple trees something bad.” If only she’d seen Clay in the flesh, then she’d know he was a no-go zone. Someone that frosty wasn’t in my dreamboat book, no matter how gorgeous he was. But it was nice to make Mom happy even if it was all hot air.

      The chat had fatigued her. Her voice came back barely audible. “And paint what you see. I know you’ll find beauty there.”

      We rang off, and I fell back against the bed, my heart tugging. Mom spoke about beauty as though it were a person, a real tangible thing. She saw it everywhere: in the reflection of a raindrop on a leaf, or the way a cloud moved across the sky as though it were searching for a mate. So far, without her my world was tinged with gray. Though the edges colored a little as I thought of my new job, and the girls at the Gingerbread Café.

      I moved the bedside table away from the wall to use as a makeshift desk, and took my watercolor paints from the drawer. Taking some water from the bathroom, I leaned over my new space, tapping the brush against my chin. Of course, I’d paint him. I couldn’t think of anything other than the lines of his body, the way he held himself taut, like he was afraid to let go, to show too much of himself. The psychology of art helped me to see through a person’s actions, right to the core of them. And somehow I knew Clay wasn’t what he made himself out to be. As the painting took shape, the fluid brushstrokes softened the fire in him. I’d have to use oils; he was too intense for dreamy watercolors.

      ***

      After washing my paintbrushes up I joined Rose in the front room. We sat drinking tea out of dainty cups. “Where would I find a clothes store?” I asked, taking in the way she did everything elegantly, from sipping, to crossing her ankles.

      “There’s only the grocery store, my dear,” she said with a shrug.

      “The grocery store? For clothing?” I tried to mimic her, by sipping the tea, and not slurping.

      “Yes,” Rose smiled. “They sell everything, from groceries, to clothes, even kayaks. It’s a one-stop shop.”

      Small-town living would take some getting used to. What was I expecting, a mall full of boutiques? “Right. Handy then. Do you need anything while I’m out?” I placed my teacup on the saucer and stood.

      “No, dear, you just tell Bonnie I sent you. She’ll look after you.”

      The grocery store had the most eclectic range. Thin aisles were jam-packed with toys, bedding, even a range of beside lamps. From what I could garner there was no particular order. I was yet to see any foodstuffs, but I’m sure they were crammed in there somewhere.

      I went in search of Bonnie, who helped me find the clothing section.

      “Now what exactly are you after?” she asked, with a Texan twang. Ashford was full of a multitude of rich accents. Maybe what CeeCee said was true—people came here, and never left. I could see the appeal, the way most of the locals were warm and welcoming, though I’m sure just like any other place, there were less perfect people.

      I folded my arms. “Clothing to suit farm life. So I’m guessing some kind of slicker, and maybe some rubber boots?”

      “Great! We supply all the farm folks round here, so I’m sure we have just the thing.”

      Bonnie shuttled around the store, yabbering to herself, as though the thought of helping me excited her. She unearthed everything she thought I’d need and led me to a change room.

      “I’ll wait here.” She shooed me in, and pulled the curtain closed. “You holler out if you need another size. These clothes are the very latest in farmer’s attire so I think you’re going to be super excited.” Her high-pitched twang had a tinge of hopefulness to it.

      “OK,”