then we count the money and announce the winner.”
Perfect. “When’s the makeover?”
“A week later. Don’t worry, we won’t do it ourselves. We’ve got stylists all set up in Montpelier. You’ll be in good hands. It’d just be some of your time.”
Time, something that was at a premium on this, the first year he was working the maple sugar farm after the death of his father. Every hourcounted and so did every dollar. “I don’t think—”
“We really want to get to the championships,” she pleaded. “This is the only way we can think of to get the money. Won’t you help us, Mr. Trask? Please?” Kelly risked another glance. Over her shoulder, Jacob’s mother, Molly Trask, watched him from the gift shop’s café, her arms crossed.
“Can’t I just donate a hundred bucks and call it good?” Jacob asked with a tinge of desperation.
“Oh, with your help we can raise a lot more than that,” Kelly said in a tone that suggested she knew she had him beat. “We polled the local storekeepers to see who they wanted to see done over and your name came up most often. You’ll get us lots of votes.”
And he could just imagine the amusement it would stir up in the maple-sugaring community.
“I think it sounds like an excellent idea,” Molly put in briskly. “It’s been almost fifteen years since I last saw your face, Jacob. It’ll be a nice change of pace.”
He didn’t need a change of pace. Steady and predictable, that was what Jacob wanted. He didn’t need one more thing to worry about.
He liked things just the way they were.
Chapter One
Vermont, January 2006
Celie Favreau muttered an impatient curse and dragged her fingers through her short brown hair. Trees, trees and more trees: beech, ash, birch, the occasional startling green of a pine, and maples, always maples, as far as the eye could see. Sugar maples, Vermont’s state tree.
She’d always adored maples. Too bad she hadn’t come to the state in the autumn, in time to see the legendary wash of glorious color. Instead, she saw the flat brown and white of a dormant winter landscape. Of course, she knew it wasn’t really dormant at all, not in late January. Already the drumbeat of spring was beginning to pulse in the trees as the sap gathered for the rise that triggered rebirth.
And already the threat was stirring.
Celie squinted at the page of directions in her hand and checked her odometer again. When she’d fled Montreal for a career in forestry, she’d done it partly out of a desire for open space and a conspicuous absence of concrete.
She hadn’t thought about the conspicuous absence of road signs.
Of course, she should have been used to it by now. In the past four years she’d been sent to hot spots in seven different states, always moving around. Living somewhere new every few months wasn’t a hardship—generally, she enjoyed the variety, she enjoyed a chance to get out of the same old rut.
These days, though, a rut didn’t seem like such a bad thing.
The sign by the building up ahead read Ray’s Feed ’n’ Read. It made her grin. She couldn’t pass that one up without a look. With luck, she could also get directions to the Institute.
When she opened the front door, the blast of heat made her forget the winter chill outside. To the left of the door stood a checkout counter, the wall behind it decorated with a lighted Napa sign and a calendar advertising cattle cake. The smile of the balding man at the register faded as he pegged her as a stranger. He gave her a sharp nod.
“Good morning,” Celie said. Beyond him lay the swept concrete floor and pallets of goods of a standard seed and grain store. To the right, she saw an incongruously cozy book nook with a dozen shelves and a few comfortable, over-stuffed chairs. It called to her irresistibly. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
He grunted.
“Is this Eastmont?” she asked, drifting to a stop in front of a display of lurid thrillers.
“Last time I checked.”
Celie fought a smile. “Is this the part where I ask directions and you say ‘Cahn’t get theah from heah?’”
His lips twitched. “Well, if it’s Eastmont, Maine you’re asking about, that’s different. We have a translation book for Mainers,” he added.
“So I see. No translation book for Vermonters?”
“None needed. We don’t have any accent. Now you, you’re not from around these parts. What’s that I hear in your voice?”
Even after all these years, the whisper of a French accent still lingered. “Canada. I grew up in Montreal.”
“Ah. The wife and I went up there about twenty years ago for an anniversary. Nice town, especially the old part.”
“My parents own a bookstore in Vieux Montréal.”
“Do tell? I thought you looked like a book person when you walked in.”
She couldn’t tell him that she’d moved away because the bookstore had suffocated her. Instead, she picked up a thriller and headed to the counter. “So what’s more popular, the feed or the read?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. Folks around here will pick up a book, especially in winter. Shoot, we’ve got one guy buys so many books I don’t know how he gets any sugaring done.” He passed the book over the bar-code scanner.
“Maybe he’s trying to improve himself.”
He snorted. “I think Jacob would say he’s as improved as he needs to be. That’ll be $6.25,” he added, slipping the book into a plain brown bag.
Celie passed him a twenty. “I wonder if you could help me out. I’m looking for the Woodward Maple Research Institute. It’s around here, right?”
“Close enough.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me how close?”
He considered, making an effort to look crusty. “Oh, a couple miles as the crow flies.”
“Any chance I could get there if I weren’t a crow?” she asked, reaching out for her change.
“Oh, you’re wanting directions.”
“Assuming you can get theah from heah.”
The smile was full-fledged this time. “Well, you’ll want Bixley Road.” He rested his hands on the counter. “Turn right out of the parking lot and go until you see a sign that says Trask Farm. The second left after that is Bixley Road. You’ll know it because it heads uphill at first. You’ll pass maybe three roads and you’ll see the signs for the Institute. If you see the covered bridge, you’ll know you’ve gone too far.”
“Thank you kindly,” she said.
