“So lovely to meet you. You’re the talk of the town,” she said as the kids finally clambered out of the vehicle. “Callie says you’re a brilliant educator.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I settled for bland pleasantries. “This is such a lovely town. Everyone has been so friendly.”
“I’m glad. This is a wonderful place. America’s Most Charming Small Town, you know.” Her cheerful expression faded. “Despite recent … events and the vicious rumors Birch Hollow is spreading.”
Clearly there was a story there, but I didn’t dare ask, hoping she’d leave quickly.
“But I won’t keep you. Here.” She thrust the stack of Tupperware at me. “That’s from Bitsy, and Olive’s famous snickerdoodles are on top.”
I steadied them and gave her an awkward smile. “Thank you.”
“There’s more in the car.” She shuffle-walked to her small sedan and pulled out two shopping bags. “Basil sent a loaf of sourdough and some Munster. There’s a bouquet of flowers here from Lorraine, and Tony included a few coupons, since you have already enjoyed his pizza. Also, if you need school supplies for the kids, Bitsy has a whole selection at the general store.”
I nodded, confused by this level of generosity. It was sweet but also concerning. How were so many people aware that we’d moved to town, and what did they know about me?Anonymity was important to me. It was one of the reasons I’d chosen to relocate to rural Vermont. No matter how good that bread looked, I couldn’t help but worry.
She drove off with a wave and a smile, and I was left stunned and shaken.
“Look at this cheese,” Ellie said, holding up a block that looked very delicious and very expensive. “We’re gonna have a feast.”
“Can we tour the farm now?” Maggie pleaded. “Pretty please? I wanna see the animals.”
I sighed. “Let me get this stuff inside.”
And make a new birthday wish: that I’d survive this tour without crying, yelling, or spontaneously combusting.
Chapter 4
Josh
Though I didn’t want to delay my chores, I’d made a promise, and at least the chickens had been fed, and I’d checked on both greenhouses, even ordering new panels to replace the ones that were cracked. We didn’t grow a lot here, but I maintained a half-acre garden, growing mainly fresh herbs and greens along with a bed of strawberries I’d planted with my mom when I was in kindergarten. Every summer, I ate the first fat, juicy strawberry and cried.
In a matter of weeks, I’d be knee-deep in winter prep. In the maple business, we called the fall “training camp.” The autumn months were filled with prepping for winter’s game time. I’d check miles of sap lines for cracks, squirrel damage, and weather wear. I’d replace tubing, clear brush, and inspect the tap holes from last season to make sure they closed properly.
The repetitive rhythm of the work soothed me. So did logging tree health and modeling out yield projections.Documenting the weather and inspecting trees and estimating yardage for food-grade plastic tubing were all tasks that made sense to me. People, however, did not make sense.
Here and there I’d hear whispers about the Wall Street suit who freaked out and became a farmer. But life here wasn’t all that different from what it’d been like there. Either way, I was under constant pressure. Except out here, Mother Nature fucked up my life, not the stock market. The repetitive nature of the work was comparable. So was the need for precision and strategy, and ultimately, the inevitable moment where one had to start over and do it all again.
And fall was my favorite. The weather was mild, giving me ample opportunity to work hard and run through the checklists. This year, especially, I was anticipating the way muscle memory and sweat would carry me through Thanksgiving, giving my brain a bit of downtime to recover from the shit show of the past year.
None of it made sense, but a young guy had confessed, and he’d been arrested. It was a terrible tragedy, but now that he was locked up, we didn’t have to walk around paranoid about a murderer being on the loose. The hit to the business had been intense, but now that law enforcement wasn’t crawling around, I had hope that I could get things back to normal. That is, if normal had ever even existed in Maplewood.
I pulled out my phone, intending to leave myself a note to call Gabe tonight to get the latest news, when screams floated through the air. My shoulders tightened on instinct. This was a workday. A real one. Not a petting zoo open house.
My heart took off at a gallop. Was thisthe fun kind of screaming or the call 911 kind? I’d gotten good at distinguishing between the two when my nephews were little and running around this farm like wild animals.
And a moment later, when Celine and her kids came into view, I let myself believe that it was the fun kind.
Her children had not forgotten about my promise to give them a tour, and clearly, they were eager for it. It was sweet, but also annoying. When Callie had come to me asking if I’d be willing to rent out the cottage, she’d been insistent. So, wanting to get out from under her scrutiny, I hadn’t asked as many questions as I should have. Not that it would have mattered. I’d never say no to a single mom with three kids needing a home to start over. Even without Callie’s pressure and no doubt the full force of the Maple Street Mafia. My mom, God bless her, would haunt the shit out of me if I didn’t do what I could to help her. And after what my sister Jess had been through as a single parent, I was even more committed to helping.
Callie had been light on details, but I’d read between the lines, and after last night, it was obvious to me that Celine had run from something. But I wasn’t one to pry, so with any luck, I’d satisfy the kids’ curiosity about the farm and then go back to work. I couldn’t possibly rearrange my life around a tenant and her kids. This was a courtesy. Nothing more.
It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, anyway. Thirty tops.
At my feet, Wayne snorted.
I peered down at him. “They’ll probably have a lot of questions.”
He barked once in agreement.
