“He said something about his mother last night.”
“Died on her way home from the hospital,” Jessie says, placing her hand over her heart. “That family is full of all the tragedies money can’t fix.”
“They have a lot of money, huh?”
“Most all of it, I think.” Jessie laughs.
“So, what do they actually do?” I ask. “I mean, I see they do a lot of charity work, and I know he owns that club, but what is the family business?”
“Oh, you know…” Jessie trails off as she puts the milk thistle bottle back on the shelf and then begins to rearrange all the bottles beside it. “Real estate, maple syrup…a lot of stuff. I don’t gossip about such things.”
“Their business is gossip?”
“It’s always best not to talk about other people,” Jessie says. “I might babble, but I don’t gossip. Did you know that there is a gossiping club over on the West Side? Those people!”
“They have a club that actually calls itself that?”
“They say it’s a book club,” she says, “but everyone knows what it’s really for. I’m pretty sure half of them haven’t read a book in years!”
I consider telling her that a lot of “book clubs” have nothing to do with books—or gossip—but I don’t want to be rude.
“I should probably get going,” I say instead.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Here you are taking time out to help me, and I’m keeping you from the day with all my yammering! You have yourself a wonderful hike.”
“Thank you! I’m sure I will.”
I step back into the hallway, and as I’m about to head outside, Jessie calls to me.
“Cherry, hunny?”
“Yes?” I tilt my head, wondering why she looks so pensive.
“I’m not your mom,” she says, looking down at her hands, “and I’d never tell you who to hang out with or how to run your life, but…”
“But?”
“Just be careful, hunny. You’re like a babe in the woods, and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Chapter 8—Maples
I leave my phone in the car, not wanting to chance any sort of disturbance. I need a little time to just be by myself and do a little communing with nature. Though it’s a Sunday, very few people seem out and about as I walk to the trailhead and start the trek up a steep hill.
The trees are beautiful.
The trail is well-maintained with short logs embedded into the path, allowing me to keep my footing a little easier as I head uphill and deeper into the forest. At the top of the hill, the trail splits. A small wooden post displays the length of the trail in either direction, and I choose the longer option.
For a while, I don’t think of anything at all. I absorb the cool, moist air through my skin and lungs, feel the earth beneath my feet, and listen to the crackling of dry leaves. Looking around, I see a few squirrels and birds but nothing any larger than those. I do see evidence of white-tailed deer and coyotes in the area, but they camouflage well and are hard to see.
“Aunt Ginny would have loved it here,” I murmur.
I feel tears beginning to well up in my eyes. It’s not that I haven’t thought about Aunt Ginny, but I have avoided thinking about losing her. My chest tightens, and I swallow past the lump forming in my throat, but I can’t stop the tears from falling.
I haven’t cried since my first day here. I guess I’m overdue.
Moving here—to Cascade Falls—allowed me to pretend she was back at home, rummaging through her antiques and playing bridge on Saturday afternoons, but my heart still knows she’s gone. If she were still alive, I’d be in the antique shop with her and not in this town, digging further into the documents I found after her funeral.
I take a long, deep breath. The cool air dries the tears on my cheeks, and I focus once again on the beauty of the nature around me.
I stand just off the trail, looking up at a huge sugar maple—one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. All around it are smaller maples and a few birches, but they all reach high into the sky. In a few weeks, their new leaves will come out, and the sun won’t be able to touch the forest floor.
I try to imagine working in a place like this, walking all around, counting maples and measuring the diameter of their trunks. Challenging it was not, but it would be a botany-related job, and that could be good for me later. I do love it out here.
Sitting down with my back against the wide trunk, I take a long, deep breath, enjoying the scent and the silence of the wilderness. I run my hand over one of the maple’s protruding roots, enjoying the bumpy texture on my palm, and try to remember everything I already know about maple trees.
I start with the basics. Maples are deciduous with palmate leaves that tend to have some of the most brilliant fall colors. They flower early and help with honeybee populations. I remember trying to catch their helicopter-like seeds as they fell in the summer months of my childhood. With their subterranean roots, they pull water from far below the ground to the top layers of soil, providing more moisture for nearby plants.
Sugar maple sap has a high sugar content, and the trees are some of the best for making maple syrup. When I look around, I see small, dark circles on the trunks of many of the trees, showing those that have been tapped for sap in previous years. A handful of trees still have small metal buckets attached to their trunks.
I rub my lower lip with my teeth, realizing
