you see it?”
“A sugarbush on the way here. I’m not sure where. I ran into the owner while I was out there—a big, tall guy with black hair.” And shoulders to die for but she didn’t figure he wanted to hear that.
“Jacob Trask,” Ford said. “He’s got about a hundred acres of maples adjoining the Institute.” He shook his head. “Let’s hope this is just bark in here. He lost his father last spring. That family doesn’t need any more bad news.”
He hadn’t looked like someone’s son but like some wood-master sprung out of the earth to walk the forest, with his black hair and those cheekbones and those eyes, those impossibly blue eyes. And he’d stood there staring at her until all she’d been able to do was babble like an idiot and scramble away before she just started whimpering and salivating right there in front of him.
“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Ford said, handing the sample vial back and rising. “You’ve got to do your job. Come on, I’ll show you the cube and the lab you can use.”
The cubicle was small but more than adequate for her purposes. The lab facilities were what counted. It was there that the major detective work went on, there that the test she’d developed could confirm or deny the presence of the maple borer.
Setting down her computer bag, Celie began to pull out files and hook up her computer to the network.
“About damned time you showed up to do some work,” said a voice from the doorway.
Celie whipped around to stare at the rangy blonde who leaned against the cubicle entrance. “Marce!” She jumped up and threw her arms around the newcomer. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You, too.” Marce gave her another squeeze and released her. “I thought you were coming in last night.”
“I left you a message. I got a late start yesterday so I just stopped somewhere overnight and finished up this morning.”
Marce eyed her. “Tell me it wasn’t some rest stop.”
“Why do you think I got the camper shell put on?” Celie said reasonably.
“It was one thing when we were in grad school,” Marce protested. “You’ve got a job now. You can afford to stay in a real hotel with real locks and a real bed.”
“On a government travel stipend?” Celie snorted. “Anyway, I’m going to be staying in a real bed while I’m here, aren’t I? Didn’t you tell me you got rid of your futon in the guest room?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s already a step up from my camper shell and what I’ve got back in Maryland.”
“You’re still sleeping on a futon? Celie, you’re practically thirty.”
“And I spend a day or two there a month if I’m lucky. I ought just to rent a storage unit and bunk there.”
Marce rolled her eyes. “You’re no better than you were in grad school.”
“Hey, your average storage facility is miles better than that pit we all lived in during grad school.”
“Agreed.” Marce grinned. “Anyway, it’s almost the end of the day. Why don’t we knock off early and get you settled? I made a pot of barley soup last night.”
“Still into the junk food, I see.”
“I don’t consider burgers and potato chips two of the major food groups, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well I do. So I’ve got a better idea: let’s knock off early, get me settled and scare up a pizza.”
“All right,” Marce sighed, “I can tell when I’m beat.”
“I can’t believe you. I live here for three years and I barely see anyone human. You stop in the woods to sample a tree and you stumble across a god?” Marce shook her head and bit into a slice of pepperoni pizza.
“It’s not like he was falling at my feet or anything,” Celie pointed out. “In fact, I think he was pretty pissed that I was in his trees. All I wanted to do was get out of there.”
“Before or after you decided to have his baby?”
“His baby? Maybe in a parallel universe.”
“Are you sure you didn’t see him in a parallel universe? I can’t think of anyone around here who looks like that. Trust me, I’d have remembered.”
“Bob Ford said it was someone named Jacob Trask.”
“Jacob Trask?” Marce almost dropped her pizza. “Wait a minute, the Jacob Trask I know looks like the kind of guy who trapped beaver during the Gold Rush. We can’t be talking about the same person. I mean, he’s big enough but…”
“Well, I didn’t describe him in exhaustive detail to Bob. Maybe he had it wrong.” Celie raised her beer bottle.
“Let’s hope so. Jacob Trask is not the friendliest guy around, I’ll warn you. I had to go out and help him thin his sugarbush last year. I think I got two words out of him the whole time. Of course,” she said thoughtfully, “that’s not exactly going to be a problem for you.”
Celie froze with the bottle at her lips. “Are you suggesting I talk too much?”
“Far be it from me to suggest. I mean, I do use semaphore with you when you get on a roll, but I’m sure there are times when you’re merely voluble rather than garrulous.”
“I just talk a lot when I’m nervous,” Celie protested.
“I guess you spend all your time nervous, then,” Marce replied, ducking when Celie tossed a wadded-up napkin at her.
“Serve you right if I never talk again.”
Marce snorted. “That’ll be the day.”
Jacob walked the hall of the James Woodward Elementary School, remembering the days he’d run down the tile floors to the playground at recess. He’d always hated being cooped up inside; he didn’t fit. He fitted outdoors, in the sugarbush. Going into class was something to put off until the last minute.
The passage of years had made it no different, even if he was going to a growers’ meeting now instead of a class. It still meant a room full of people and making conversation. Granted, the talk was mostly about sugaring, but still, he’d rather be at home with a book or playing guitar than standing about searching for things to say.
The auditorium echoed with the voices of sugar-makers, louder than usual. When he saw the cluster of people crowded around the coffee machine, he wondered if some kind soul had brought in free food. And then the crowd parted enough for him to see what was attracting all the attention.
Or who.
It was the pixie he’d stumbled over in his maples. She wasn’t enveloped in a parka now but stood in narrow red trousers and a shiny white blouse with a little black and white checked
