Page 4 of Forbidden to Fall

Part of me wondered if she’d kept everything the same because she longed for the time when she still had her husband and son around.

“Was it a big season for you, then?” I asked.

She gave a soft laugh as she rose up on her tiptoes to reach the cupboard shelves. “No. I’m gettin’ slower, that’s all. Can’t quite keep up anymore.”

I’d heard rumors that the farm was struggling. How could James let his mom run the entire farm without his help? “Do you really think you won’t be able to sell what you’ve got?”

She handed me a mason jar full of amber liquid. “No thinkin’ required; I know it.” She handed me another bottle of a darker, richer color, and finally one that was almost golden. She closed the cupboard, then smiled. “Don’t you worry, Miss Sadie. You just enjoy that syrup, and I’ll be happy as a clam at high water.”

I smiled at a New England saying in her Georgia drawl.

How I would manage to consume three bottles of maple syrup was a question I kept to myself. I’d have taken some to my parents or brothers, but that would inevitably lead to questions about where the syrup had come from and…like I mentioned…conflict.

I’d just use it in some baked goods—at home, obviously. I didn’t want to give Mrs. Keller a heart attack by desecrating the bakery’s official offerings, even with something as delicious as Carver maple syrup.

May wrapped the bottles in butcher paper and put them in a burlap sack for my ride back to the stables, and I thanked her and waved goodbye.

When my maple horde and I were safely on Granny—not without his taking exception to the burlap bag—I looked one last time at the house, thinking of my trek into enemy territory.

I’d been wrong. The Carver house had changed. Everything was more weathered, like it had been tossed up in a tornado and landed right back on its foundations. May had been left to weather that storm on her own. James had left her, but so had Autumn Ridge.

A whoosh of regret filled my chest for my part in it. May had always been so kind to me, letting me hang out at the house and the sugar shack when James and Ryan hadn’t welcomed my presence.

I’d repaid her kindness by deserting her right when she’d needed a return in kindness the most.

But maybe it didn’t have to be too late. Maybe I could lighten her burden just a bit.

I already rode on Carver land multiple times a week. It wouldn’t take much to reattach some sap tubing while I was at it.

Not even May had to know.

Subtle. Surreptitious. Conflict-free. The right hand didn’t need to know what the left was doing. It was the perfect way to help May Carver without stoking a fire whose embers I hoped were just about ready to die out for good.

Saturday mornings were our busiest at Keller’s Bakehouse.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Saturday mornings during leaf peeper season took that prize by a long, exhausting shot. Peeping was a misnomer. These tourists weren’t subtle about wanting to experience the magic of autumn in Vermont.

But even on this early September Saturday, from the time I left my tiny apartment over the bakery at 2:55 am until the morning rush began to die down around eleven, there was no time for anything but kneading and shaping dough and restocking items as they flew off the shelves.

Mrs. Keller whisked around, in her element. She excelled at warm efficiency, which was a nice way of saying she kept the line moving without offending anyone.

I moved the stepstool into place and took some chalk in hand. I’d been working at the bakery since I turned sixteen, but only in the last three years had I been granted the high honor of managing the menu board. It wasn’t a complicated task. With a few seasonal exceptions, we kept the same offerings, year in, year out. The Keller’s Bakehouse slogan could easily have been Maintaining the Status Quo Since 1974. Or maybe Innovation Kills.

Okay, that might have been a bit extreme, but Mrs. Keller had married into the Keller tradition, and she took her role as Keeper of Keller Recipes seriously. In her mind, adding glazes or tweaking spices was tantamount to heresy.

The door closed behind a customer, its chime ringing for the seven-zillionth time that morning. Mrs. Keller and I both let out a breath.

“Looking to be a busier season than ever.” She reached into one of the glass display cases and nudged a tray a half an inch to the left. She liked everything centered—trays, pastries, the chairs around the few small tables we had. She could sniff out asymmetry like a bloodhound.

“That’ll be good for the town,” I replied, erasing maple bars off the menu board with controlled precision. I thought of May Carver’s oversupply of maple. She’d made it sound like not even a particularly busy season could put a dent in what she had.

“Yes,” Mrs. Keller said absently as she wiped down a counter.

I toyed with the idea of suggesting we add a couple more maple-based products to our list, only to discard it.

The Keller’s Bakehouse menu is set.

That would have been her response. I’d learned long ago to stop making suggestions.