Читать книгу Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm - Rebecca Raisin - Страница 14

Chapter Four

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.

With a quick rap on the door, I set my shoulders, pulled my coat tighter and waited. No answer. There was no way he’d hear me with the volume up so high. With a shrug, I opened the front door, and stuck my head inside.

My mouth hung open at the sight before me. Clay was not old. Not weathered. Not wearing overalls.

He stood all six foot something of him, on the top rung of a stepladder, wearing only tight denim jeans, holding a drill. His broad shoulders moved to the beat of the music, his biceps flexing in time. As he turned and leaned I caught sight of his sculpted abs, the grooves and valleys of them, the color of his skin, tanned somehow in wintertime. He was the epitome of the perfect male model. I imagined him nude, and wanted to paint him in explicit detail because it would make such a stunning portrait.

The tight denim jeans accented his butt, and he thrust his hips to the rhythm of the song. That kind of taut, strong body would be a joy to paint. Just watching him made me uncomfortably warm. I had been wanting to capture a man on canvas, their intense lines and lengths, especially one as chiseled as this.

He flicked his dark blond hair back, and turned suddenly, one hand grasping the top rung of the ladder. When he caught sight of me the singing and, sadly, the thrusting stopped abruptly.

I walked to the stereo to turn the music down, before saying, “Hi, nice drill you have there.” Nice drill you have there? I promptly closed my mouth, and hoped my brain would catch up with my voice. In my effort to come across convincing, like I knew what a drill was, I sounded like I was flirting. Or just plain stupid. “What I meant was—”

His expression darkened and he spoke over the top of me. “You lost?”

I tilted my head, confused at the hostility in his voice. “No.” I appraised him—a hot guy with a bad attitude. I’d been expecting to see a middle-aged guy wearing overalls, not someone half-dressed, and mesmerizing from a painting point of view. The fierceness in his eyes—would I capture it?

He jumped down from the ladder, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his abs. From a sofa covered with plastic, he snatched up a crumpled tank top and pulled it over his head.

“No need to get dressed on my account.” I resisted the urge to clap a hand over mouth. “What I mean is, just be as you were…” The words were coming out wrong, in my effort to be someone I was not.

I blushed.

He scowled.

“Can I help you?” He let the drill drop, the cord slipping slowly through his fingers—he didn’t take his eyes off me, before it hit the ground with a clunk. For some reason the gesture seemed highly erotic. But the steely glint in his eyes told a different story.

Thoughts of traipsing back down the driveway, jobless, flashed through my mind. “I’m here about the job.” I raised my chin.

His face cracked into a cynical smile. He snatched a rag from the coffee table and wiped his brow, all the while chuckling to himself. I held his stare, while he gave me a once-over. His eyes were a mesmerizing, deep, dark brown, almost fathomless. I should have changed my outfit before I set off. He couldn’t take me seriously for the job, looking like some kind of bohemian.

“A job?” His mouth twisted. “I don’t think so.” His gaze traveled the length of my body once more and I tried hard not to squirm.

“And why not?” I asked, remembering Becca’s word of warning. Do not take no for an answer.

He sneered. “Do you even know what the job is?”

“Farming, or a farmer, or a farmer’s assistant. Who cares about the title? All you need to know is, I am more than capable of…farming.” Way to go, Lucy, I silently berated myself. Say farmer one more time. He had me on edge with his cool stare. I hoped the desperation wasn’t evident in my voice.

“Who sent you here?”

I tried to hide my smile at his phrasing—it was almost like a line out of a mafia movie. Was this guy for real? “Your cousin Becca. She said you can’t find anyone else.” And now I see why. If I wasn’t so desperate for a job I would have told him exactly what I thought of him and breezed out. But there was also a stubborn side of me that wanted to show him he was wrong about me. I could…farm, as well as anyone else.

He raised an eyebrow. “You think I can’t find anyone?”

“I don’t see people lining up to work for you.” He blanched. If it was a tug of war, I’d just retrieved a bit of the rope. “But I am perfectly able to do the work.”

“Is that so?”

“Sure is.” I pursed my lips.

He took two steps toward me and stood so close I could feel his breath on my face. My pulse quickened—for one second I thought he was going to kiss me. He said, “You think you can handle it?”

Shivers coursed through me. “I can handle anything,” I managed, gulping at his proximity. I didn’t know if he was referring to the job? Or himself? I was in two minds whether I could handle either, but the thought of getting back on a bus and being in the same predicament elsewhere firmed my resolve. There was no chance I’d let a guy like him peg me for a fool. I hadn’t worked my butt off my whole life to be judged on the spot by the likes of him.

“I bet.” He looked so deeply into my eyes I was sure my heart stopped.

I blinked rapidly and said, “I need a job. This job, and I’m not leaving until you say yes.”

A rivulet of sweat ran down his forehead. “Your threats usually work with other people?”

“Yes.” Well technically no. I was never in the position to threaten anyone, always relying on the mercy of managers, or landlords. I wasn’t desperate enough to let anyone hold anything over me, though. My pride wouldn’t allow that.

“Look, I don’t know who you are…”

“I’m Lucy,” I said levelly. If I didn’t find work, I wouldn’t have much more than the bus fare home. The universe wouldn’t provide, and I’d scurry back, tail between my legs, having failed and broken my promise. That would upset Mom. She’d think I did it on purpose because I wanted to be with her. “So what do you say?” I flashed him a smile, hoping it would lighten the tension that hung between us like fog.

“I need someone who can haul logs, and drive a tractor, help tap the maples. Somehow I can’t see you doing that, in your finery.” He flicked a hand toward me. Why the heck didn’t I change clothes? And finery? He was only wearing a pair of jeans when I walked in, in the middle of winter!

“I have other clothes, obviously.”

“Goodbye, Lucy.” He went back to the stereo and turned the music up to an ear-piercing level.

I wanted to shriek at him. Just once, I’d love for one person to give me a break, a chance. Instead, I stomped to the stereo and switched it off.

He spun to me, his eyes blazing. “What’s your problem?” He pressed his lips together.

How dare he! I pushed myself up close and poked a finger into his chest. “You’re my problem. Is this because I’m a girl? What, you don’t think women can work as hard as men?” If there was one thing I’d learned from my mom it was that I could do anything I set my mind to, and I wouldn’t allow a man to tell me otherwise.

The muscle along his jawline pulsed. “Well can you?” he hissed.

“Give me two weeks,” I said. “And if you don’t think I can handle it, I’ll leave.”

“Four weeks,” he muttered and turned the music up, but I could still make out his words. “Don’t think I’m gonna take it easy on you.” He grabbed his drill, and climbed back up the ladder.

My shoulders relaxed. With his back to me, I caught my breath, relieved that in the heat of our exchange I’d come out victorious. I knew he was desperate for help, and that’s the only reason he gave in. But I’d show him. I’d be the best goddamn farmer’s assistant there was.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled over the music, “I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.”

“Six,” he yelled without turning.

Did people really wake up that early? My shifts at the diner were always at night, until the early hours of the morning. I’d fall into bed at dawn for a few hours’ sleep before waking later to help Mom. If there was time I’d steal an afternoon nap before my shift started again. The body clock was going to get a shock, that’s for sure.

I left quickly, shutting the door with a click, just in case he changed his mind.

CeeCee said Clay was a loner. She forgot to mention he had a chip on his shoulder so big its missing piece could sink the Titanic. I walked back to town, my footsteps lighter.

I’d done it.

Secured a job in a tiny town and that would take the pressure off for a while at least. I felt like dancing down the street, the weight of the world forgotten for one brief moment.

I had to find a store that sold clothes for farmers. What exactly did farmers wear? First I had to ring Mom and tell her everything.

***

“A Maple Syrup Farm?” Her voice was groggy, as though I’d just woken her. “I bet it’s tranquil too. I knew you’d do great, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom. How’s it going with Aunt Margot?” From the background noise, I could tell she was still in hospital. Had Aunt Margot been with Mom when I called earlier, and somehow forgotten to mention the fact Mom was still in hadn’t been taken home yet? I couldn’t ask, because I’d told Mom I wouldn’t call and bombard Aunt Margot with advice.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s rosy here. Never mind all that.”

“I can hear the machines beeping.”

She coughed, the racking echo making my heart hurt. Eventually she continued: “Tomorrow, I’ll leave. Just waiting for some more test results. Aunt Margot is flying in soon and will drive me home. You’re supposed to be forgetting about this place,” she chided. “Tell me all about the job.”

“I was going to go over the list—”

“She knows all about that. Don’t you worry.”

I debated whether to argue the point. Mom’s care plan was convoluted at the best of times, without an emergency cropping up.

“Which tests are you waiting on? Did they take more bloods?”

Offhandedly, she said, “Same ones, the results were held up.” It’d happened a handful of times before and always resulted in her staying a day or two longer. Being so far away, and not able to consult the doctor like usual had me on edge. Mom was the type of person to go with the flow, not make waves, but sometimes, especially when it came to hospitals, you had to be that pushy person, the one who demanded explanations, otherwise you’d sink into the background, faded, forgotten because they were so busy, so understaffed.

“Usually when you speak to someone on the phone, you actually speak,” she said. “I can hear those cogs in your brain ticking over.”

Her voice was bright, despite the coughing fit. Maybe I was reading too much into it because I wasn’t with her. “OK. OK.” I said with a small laugh.

“Well, talk, honey! What’s the job entail?”

I smiled, thinking of what she’d make of the farm. “We’ll be tapping the maples for syrup, and driving tractors.” What else had Clay said? “The place needs an overhaul, but it’s beautiful, in its own ruined way.”

“And that’s fate, taking you somewhere like that, and with the click of your fingers, you land yourself a job.”

“Mm,” I mumbled. “But what if I’m not cut out for that kind of thing?”

“How hard can it be? Wake up when the birds do and get to work. All that fresh air will be a balm for your soul. You’re a tree-hugging hippy, just like me. You just haven’t found the right trees, yet. Maybe this is your chance?”

Laughter barreled out of me. “Yeah, maybe all I need is good ol’ hug from a maple tree.”

She clucked her tongue. “Trees have feelings too, Lucy. I think you’re on a winner.”

I shook my 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,” I said, not convinced. The clothing looked like something the Ghostbusters would wear. The slicker was fluoro yellow, and plastic, and made a crunching sound as I pulled it on. The pants were so big at the thigh I felt like Ronald McDonald. Lastly, I donned the hat, which was as wide as it was tall. My reflection looked like some kind of backwater hillbilly. Surely not? Was it so cold outside farmers dressed braced for an apocalypse?

“How do they fit?” she asked chirpily.

“Erm…” Laughter threatened to burble out of me at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. I was a ghostbusting, burger-selling, cowboy-hat-wearing farmer.

Bonnie drew the curtain back with a flourish. “Oh, now, don’t they just fit you real great?” She smiled so genuinely I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.

Clay hadn’t been dressed like this. I wasn’t sure farmers actually wore such clothing, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe Clay had been barely clothed because he was working indoors, and once outside we’d need to be protected from the elements. Because if there was one thing I was sure of, nothing was getting through the layers of plastic that now crinkled noisily over my body. I held on to the curtain. “I’ll take them.” Bonnie had the puppy dog eyes down pat, and rewarded me with a happy squeal.

“You’ve gone and made my day,” she said, closing the curtain, so I could change back. Her smile threatened to swallow her up, and it dawned on me that maybe Bonnie didn’t get many customers, just like the travel agent Henry, who appeared hopeful seeing a new face in town. “I’ll go and ring them up for you. And I’ll throw in a pair of socks, since you’ve been real nice. They’re a new brand. Meant to help with the circulation, you know, for the diabetes?”

I didn’t know. But I played along, anyway. “That sure will come in handy. Thank you, Bonnie.”