"Storm's getting serious. We need to move faster," I say, ignoring the momentary contact and what it did to my pulse.
We descend through the maple stand, the landscape familiar enough that I could navigate it blindfolded. The sugar shack appears first, beyond it my cabin, partially sheltered by ancient pines.
"You tap all these trees yourself?" she asks, gesturing to the lines visible between trunks.
"No, my army of invisible helpers does it. Yes, myself."
She either misses or ignores the sarcasm. "That's a lot of work for one person."
I shrug. "Keeps me busy."
We reach the sugar shack first, and I push open the heavy door. Heat and steam billow out.
Sage steps inside, and I watch her take it all in—the collection tanks, the filters, the graduated bottles lined on shelves. Her expression shifts from cold-numbed relief to something like reverence.
"Wow," she breathes, moving toward the evaporator. "This is incredible."
I'm surprised by her appreciation. But she's looking at the equipment like she understands what she's seeing, which is unlikely given her age and those impractical boots.
"Stay back from the edge," I warn as she leans slightly toward the evaporator. "It's running at 219 degrees."
She nods, respecting the boundary but continuing her inspection. "Single-source? Or do you blend from different parts of the property?"
I narrow my eyes. "Single-source, mostly. Different batches for different elevations and tree ages."
"You can taste the difference between them?"
"No, I just do it for fun." I roll my eyes. "Of course I can taste the difference."
She smiles slightly, like I've confirmed something. "I'd love to try them sometime. I bet the higher elevation produces a lighter, more mineral profile."
Now I'm certain she's parroting something she read in a food magazine. Nobody her age has a palate sophisticated enough to distinguish elevation nuances in maple.
"The cabin's through that path," I say, nodding toward the door on the far wall. "You can warm up there while I finish the batch."
She glances at the process underway. "Actually, would it be alright if I stayed and watched? I'm fascinated by traditional food production methods."
I want to say no. Having her in my workspace feels like an invasion. But the snow drives sideways outside, and sending her alone to an empty cabin seems unnecessarily harsh.
"Fine," I concede. "But there are rules. Don't touch anything without asking. Don't stand where I need to move. And don't..." I search for the right warning, "...don't get in the way."
She raises an eyebrow, seemingly amused rather than offended by my curtness. "I understand. I'll be a ghost."
Doubt that.There's nothing ghostlike about her presence—it fills the space, alters the air pressure, makes my usual movements feel self-conscious. I turn back to the evaporator, checkingtemperatures and flow rates, trying to ignore her as she slips off her coat.
Beneath it, she wears a simple gray sweater, fitted enough to confirm my earlier impression of curves.Focus on the damn syrup, old man.
"That's a beautiful setup," she says, moving to view the process from a different angle. "Much more sophisticated than I expected up here."
"What were you expecting? A bucket over an open fire?"
She laughs, the sound unexpectedly rich in the steam-filled space. "Maybe not quite so primitive. But this is professional-grade equipment."
"This isn't a hobby," I say, more defensively than intended.
"Clearly not." Her eyes travel over the neat rows of bottles, the filtering setup, the precise organization of tools. "How long have you been making syrup?"
"Twenty years, give or take."
