Page 9

I WAS IN the prep room, elbow-deep in a box of fresh spiles, counting them out for the upcoming runs, when Mom’s voice floated over my shoulder.

“You know, Haider’s chocolates were a hit in the store yesterday,” she said, all casual, as if she wasn’t trying to bait me into another conversation about cross-promotion.

I was too busy waiting for day one of tapping to get into issues in the shop.

We hadn’t decided yet whether to carry them permanently because that would mean an investment in more stock, and that kind of thing was decided at a family meeting.

However, Dad was also there when I glanced up, so this could be a family meeting.

Typically, we’d sit in the kitchen with coffee and cookies, and the air here was chilly, but at least it smelled of woodsmoke and syrup—two scents that had been part of my life for as long as I could remember.

“You mean the chocolates he made with our syrup?”

“The very same,” Mom replied, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips.

With her arms crossed, she was leaning against an old worktable, while Dad sat on a stool nearby, tinkering with a hydrometer as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

“He’s calling them ‘Golden Drizzle.’ I think they’ll sell like crazy if we do some boxed sets with our syrup.”

“‘Golden Drizzle,’” I muttered, shaking my head as I straightened up.

“Sounds like he’s naming a soap, not a chocolate.”

Dad snorted, and Mom rolled her eyes at him.

“It doesn’t matter what they’re called,” she said.

“People buy anything as long as it tastes good, and they do taste good,” Mom added pointedly, leveling me with one of her stares.

“I think we should talk to him about a partnership—maybe get our branding on those boxes.”

“‘Branding’?” I raised an eyebrow, wiping my hands on my jeans.

“I thought we were maple syrup farmers, not corporate executives.”

“Can’t we be both?” she shot back with a grin.

I didn’t argue because she was probably right.

Haider’s chocolates were excellent, and if they brought more attention to the syrup, then okay.

It was good business.

I crouched again, finishing my inventory, half-listening as Mom and Dad bickered over whether the Golden Drizzle needed a new name.

The place hummed with the quiet anticipation that always came right before the season started.

Mom had been fussing over a clipboard for three days, Dad was rechecking equipment like he always did, and I was finishing up with the spiles when Mom broke the silence.

“So, we need to decide on the date for the annual Tap the Year gathering,” she said, not glancing up from her notes.

Tap the Year was one of those traditions that felt as though it had existed forever—the kind of thing no one in town questioned anymore.

Every year, before the first tree was tapped and the chaos of sugaring season took over, we’d hold a small gathering out in the sugarbush—family, friends, a handful of neighbors, and anyone else who decided to drop by.

Mom would bring coffee and donuts.

Dad would say a few words about weather, history, or both, and then we’d tap the ceremonial first tree of the year together.

It wasn’t on a fixed date—it couldn’t be, not with how unpredictable the weather could be this time of year.

The gathering happened a couple of days before the real tapping began, that brief window when the season was close enough to touch but hadn’t quite started yet.

It was tradition, and tradition mattered around here.

“Feels like it’s going to happen early this year,” Dad said, straightening from where he’d been checking the evaporator valves.

“If the weather holds.”

I nodded.

He was right. You could feel it in the air—the mornings were cold enough to freeze your breath, but the afternoons were starting to get that little hint of warmth, and the snow was melting.

The freeze-thaw swing was coming, and once it started, we’d be racing to keep up with the sap flow.

“The weekend, maybe?” Mom suggested, tapping the clipboard with the end of her pen.

“That gives us a few days’ buffer before we start tapping in earnest.”

“Saturday works,” I said.

“After that, it will be too busy to stop for anything.”

Dad grunted in agreement, folding his arms across his chest. “It always sneaks up. One day, we’re waiting; the next, we can barely keep up.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Tapping season was a blur of cold hands, long days, and endless back-and-forth across the sugarbush.

Once the trees woke up and the sap started flowing, there was no stopping until it was done.

Mom smiled, her gaze softening as she glanced between us.

“The weather’s right. It’s been a cold winter, and the sap will be sweet this year. We’ll get everyone together for coffee and donuts and start the season right. Saturday.”

I ran my hand over the spiles, counting one last time out of habit.

It felt strange, this calm before everything started—like standing on the edge of something bigger.

Soon, the sugarhouse would be filled with steam and the smell of boiling sap.

Soon, we’d be chasing the flow, tapping hundreds of trees, moving fast to keep up with the season that waited for no one.

I glanced at Mom and Dad.

These moments, standing here with them before the rush hit, were the ones that stuck with me year after year.

Small, quiet, and significant in ways I didn’t always know how to put into words.

“Saturday it is,” I said, the words feeling like a promise.

“Tap the Year.”

The season was almost here.

I could feel it. And there was no stopping it now.

Mom’s phone pinged from her coat pocket, and she pulled it out, squinting at the screen.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly before she smoothed her expression as if I wouldn’t notice.

“We have to go,” she announced.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, fine,” she said too quickly, tucking the phone back into her pocket.

“I just remembered I need to check on something in the main house.” She turned toward Dad, placing a hand on his arm.

“Come on, dear, I need your help.”

Dad frowned, still bent over the hydrometer.

“I’m in the middle of—”

“ Now , Arthur.” She was firm, giving him a pointed look that clearly said don’t-argue-with-me.

Dad sighed, setting the tool down with a resigned grunt.

“Fine, fine.”

“Come on,” she said, already ushering him toward the door, her tone bright and just a little forced.

I stood and watched as they left, Mom herding Dad out like he was some unruly sheep.

“Uh… okay,” I muttered, half under my breath.

“Bye, I guess.”

The door closed behind them, leaving the prep room unusually quiet.

I stared at it briefly, then shook my head, returning to the spiles.

It wasn’t like Mom to make flimsy excuses—she wasn’t subtle when she wanted to get something done.

“What the hell was that about?” I muttered to myself but didn’t linger on it too long.

If it were something important, she’d tell me.

Eventually.

Probably.

I had sap lines to get in order and a season to prepare for, and whatever Mom was up to could wait—though I couldn’t shake the feeling she was up to something .