Chapter 3
I grabbed the burlap sack and the plate of maple cream puffs from the passenger seat of my car, then headed to the front door of the Carver home. It was strange to be here so soon again after so many years away.
I knocked on the door firmly but not aggressively, wondering if I’d have to go off looking for May in the woods. A pair of dirty boots sat beside the door, making me think she probably wasn’t out in the sugarbush, though.
Sure enough, the door opened.
“Sadie,” she said with pleasant surprise. “How you doin’, darlin’?”
“I’m good, thanks. I thought I’d bring back the bag you lent me”—I held it up—“and a little treat to say thank you.” I held up the plate of cream puffs in my other hand.
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing since honey on a biscuit! Come in, come in.” She stepped aside and motioned me in.
I stole a glance at her eyes, which were rimmed with red, like she’d been crying. She seemed plenty happy, though. Maybe she was just good at pretending. Or maybe she’d just finished watching The Notebook.
She invited me to sit at the kitchen table, then poured two glasses of tea.
I’d forgotten how central to the Carver experience sweet tea was.
You didn’t spend half an hour with May without a glass of it.
I’d hated it the first time I’d tasted it, but I’d been too polite to ever refuse, and in time, I’d developed a taste for it.
A taste that had survived an eight-year sweet tea drought.
“You didn’t have to bring me anythin’, darlin’,” she said. “You didn’t even need to bring back the bag.”
“I wanted to, though. And I was hoping to run an idea by you anyway.”
Her brows went up as she set my glass in front of me and took her seat. “What sort of idea?”
I took in a breath, then launched into an explanation of what Mrs. Keller and I had discussed. It was a million times easier to tell it to May. Mrs. Keller had given me the hand-on-the-hip response; May’s eyes glistened, and she pulled me up from my seat and into a hug.
I settled into it. May was a skilled hugger, and she doled them out almost as freely as her tea. My parents were wonderful, but they were native New Englanders and not quite as demonstrative.
“This all depends upon my being able to bake something worth selling,” I said, trying to temper her expectations.
May pulled back and dashed away a tear. “I have no doubt about that.” She looked at me, her eyes brimming with warmth. “Just the plain fact that you thought to do this means the world to me.”
I gave a bracing smile as guilt pricked my heart. May Carver must not have been shown much love or care from Autumn Ridge in the past few years to be so moved by my half-baked idea.
“I have an idea or two for products we might sell,” I said, “but I need to do some brainstorming.” Having no constraints on my ideas was so novel, it was overwhelming.
May laughed, then looked at the plate. “Are these one of your ideas?”
“Maybe,” I said. “My brother Wade stole four more after eating one, but he also puts pineapple on his cottage cheese, so I can’t trust his judgment.”
Sitting down again, she grabbed one from the plate and took a bite.
I tried not to seem too tense while I took a seat and waited. In movies, food barely touched someone’s lips before they gasped out, “This is incredible!” Real life was terrible because people actually had to chew first.
“There are a few things I’d tweak,” I said. “I don’t have everything I need in my kitchen.”
May shut her eyes, a reaction that told me nothing.
Movie reactions were too quick, but it felt like we’d swung too far the other direction now.
She shook her head. “I forbid you to change a single thing about these! They are delicious, darlin’.”
I couldn’t stop a smile. “I’m glad you like them. Let’s hope the tourists do too.”
“They’ll gobble them up quicker than sweet rolls on Sunday mornin’.” She took another. “So, how can I help?”
“Well, I was wondering if I could take a look at the kitchen in the sugar shack? My own kitchen is really more fit for a toddler.”
“Of course! It’s bound to be dusty in there—hasn’t been used much for years—but it’s nothin’ a little elbow grease can’t fix.” She got up and went to one of the drawers, then pulled out a key. “I can come with you if you’d like.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine. I’ll just pop down to scope it out and bring the key back right after.” I took another sip of tea, then got to my feet.
“Don’t be surprised if all of these are gone when you do.” She popped another puff into her mouth with a wink.
The sugar shack at Carver Maple Farm was down a gravel path, a two-minute walk from the house.
It was a rectangular wood building with a little cupola on the top.
In winter and spring months, smoke billowed from it.
The far-left side of the building was open but covered.
Normally, wood was stacked to the ceiling, but it was only piled about a third of the way just now.
The key May had given me was a rusted one that I wriggled into the equally rusted lock. The maple farm had been around for even longer than Keller’s.
I stepped inside to the subtle but familiar scent of burned sugar and wood smoke. The Carver sugar shack was bigger than most I’d seen, with a large evaporator, a bottling area, and a bunch of stainless-steel tanks and barrels in the main room.
I moved past the equipment and through the door to the kitchen.
It was a large room with a long wooden table in the middle—one Mr. Carver had built by hand, if memory served. Most sugar shacks didn’t have kitchens, but the Carvers had added on to theirs with the intent to make products on-site. Mr. Carver had passed before that vision had been fulfilled.
The entire room was covered in a layer or two of dust from disuse. The floor had dried tracks of mud and dirt, with the odd crushed leaf or twig to make things interesting. Oddments and boxes and containers sat on the counters, like the room had become a storage area.
Using my phone to jot down notes, I went through the cupboards to take an inventory of what was there and what I’d need to bring or buy.
It seemed a shame to have all of this equipment sitting here unused—two large ovens, a wide stovetop with six burners, drawers and cupboards, a large sink, and plenty of prep space. In my own kitchen, I could barely turn around, much less hide in one of the cupboards.
With a nostalgic smile, I set my phone on the counter and opened the cupboard I’d hidden in so many times as a kid. No one had ever found me there. Of course, sometimes that was because they’d forgotten I was playing, but the point was I’d spent a lot of time in that cupboard.
It had seemed huge, but it was really just a broom cupboard. The latch had never quite worked, so I’d always had to hold it closed.
I smiled as a memory flashed across my mind—me holding the door shut with one hand, the other covering my mouth, which was full of maple taffy, to keep from giggling as James’s footsteps had shuffled across the cement floor in search of me.
I had to wonder if he’d really never thought to check the closet, or if he had just been too nice to spoil my delight.
I squinted at the sight of something in the bottom back corner. It looked like a leaf. Or maybe a maple taffy wrapper. I could almost see myself in there.
I hadn’t thought about this spot in years, but I had the sudden, irrational impulse to get in. To see if I could still fit.
A totally normal thing for a grown woman to do.
It might help me gauge how many flour bags could fit too, which was a practical bonus.
Crouching not to hit my head, I climbed in, turning around just as the door shut, the space went dark, and a click sounded.
I pushed on the door.
It didn’t budge.
The latch—the one that hadn’t worked since it had been installed—held tight.
Eyes wide, I reached for my phone to use my flashlight, then stilled as I realized I’d set it on the counter.
I pushed harder, but the broken latch was not only functional now, it seemed to have been upgraded to bank-vault grade.
My pulse picked up speed.
“Don’t panic,” I said to myself. It was just a cupboard, and I was a capable adult.
Pretty capable.
Probably more capable if I’d done something more than bake pastries for the past ten years.
I gave another mighty push, but there was no give.
I kicked the door, wincing at the pain in my toes. A broken toe was worth my freedom, though. I pulled back my foot again, and my heel hit the back of the cupboard. It wasn’t big enough for me to cock it back and really do damage.
I paused, trying to think.
Was this how I would die? Trapped in the cupboard of a sugar shack kitchen?
No. Of course not. After a while, May would realize I hadn’t brought the key back, and she’d come looking for me.
How long would it be, though? My thighs were already starting to whine from not being able to stand straight.
I slid my back down the cupboard wall, cringing as my knees pressed against the door.
The space wasn’t wide enough for me to squat all the way. Nor was it wide enough for me to straighten my legs without hunching my upper body.
I would be in this bent, awkward position until May came, and probably eternally stuck in the position afterward, like a statuesque warning to the world of the dangers of trying to recreate childhood memories.
My story would go viral on social media, with comments like “Darwin Awards gold medal winner” and “Self-selected out of the gene pool.”
Would a viral story like that be good or bad for Carver Farm?
I really didn’t want to find out.
I banged my fists on the door. “Help!”
Over and over, I pounded, willing the air to carry the sound to May in her cozy, insulated house.
I stopped and shut my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wood of the cupboard.
It was useless.
I’d die here and be remembered with the same scoffing as kids who ate Tide Pods on a dare, except I had a fully formed brain. Ostensibly.
A sound made me go still. I cocked my ear, afraid I was hearing things.
But I wasn’t.
There were footsteps. May had come for me.
Heart leaping into my throat, I banged on the door again. “Help!”
Her footsteps quickened.
The latch clicked, then the door swung wide, letting in a stream of light that had me shielding my eyes and blinking.
I lowered my hand as my eyes adjusted enough to see my rescuer.
It wasn’t May.
It was James.