Page 40 of Love Story

I chuckled.“That’s one way to put it.”

I walked to the bookshelves along the wall, grabbing the pile of journals I’d set aside earlier.They were worn, their leather bindings cracked and faded, but they were intact—a tangible piece of the farm’s history.I set them on the table and gestured for Ben to take a seat.

“These are growing journals,” I explained, opening the top one with care.“Seasonal stuff—rainfall, frosts, dates, the growth of harvests.But my great-great-grandfather, Samuel P Caldwell, from your letters, also put personal notes in here.If you’re trying to match places, these might help.”

Ben leaned forward, scanning the stack with curiosity and reverence.“These are incredible.”

I flipped through one of the journals; the pages were fragile but still legible in most places.“We can look for the places mentioned in the letters if you want.The farm hasn’t changed much, not in the big ways.”

“You’d do that?”Ben asked, looking up at me with a hint of surprise.

“After the season, sure,” I said with a shrug.“If you’re still here?”

“I’ll be here a while,” was all Ben gave me, and it had to be enough.

As I flipped through another journal, my fingers paused on a particular entry.The handwriting was small and tightly packed, and the ink smudged in places.“This one’s interesting,” I said, angling it so he could see.“It’s from a trip to the city—though I’m not sure which one.He’s talking about buying a gift, but I can’t quite make out the writing here.”I pointed to the faded scrawl.“Thought you might have better luck.”

Ben glanced at me, his brow furrowing.“Don’t you want to go through it yourself?”

I hesitated, leaning back slightly.“I would but tapping season’s about to start.It’s short, but it’s wild.I won’t have much time until it’s over.”

He tilted his head, curiosity lighting his expression.“How insane are we talking?”

I smiled, shaking my head.“Up before dawn, out in the sugarbush at sunrise, sometimes before.It’s freezing, and there are sap buckets to check, tubing to clear, and spiles to replace.And that’s just the first hour.”

I could see him trying to imagine it, so I went on.“Once the sap’s flowing, we’re running back and forth, collecting it or checking the lines.By mid-morning, the sugarhouse is a wall of steam, and you’re boiling down hundreds of gallons of sap to make syrup.It takes about forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup, so the boil goes on all day—and sometimes all night.And while all that’s happening, we’ve got to keep an eye on the evaporator, ensure nothing burns, and stay ahead of the flow.”

“That sounds…” He trailed off, his lips quirking in a small smile.“Exhausting.”

“It is,” I admitted, but there was pride in my voice too.“It’s a rhythm, though.We have seasonal, temporary hires from the day after tomorrow, plus me, Mom, and Dad, and we fall into it, and by the end of the season, we’ve got something tangible to show for all the chaos.But it’s nonstop.There’s no room for distractions.”

“Did you ever want to do anything else?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, searching for the right words.“The farm.It’s… everything.It’s in my blood.My great-great-grandparents started it, and every generation since has poured their lives into making it what it is today.I don’t think I ever imagined doing anything else.This place isn’t just where I work—it’s who I am.”

Ben didn’t interrupt, just let me keep going, his silence urging me to dig deeper.

“I love it,” I confessed, my gaze dropping to my hands.“I love the rhythm of the seasons, the first tapping of a tree when the sap begins to flow, the smell of boiling syrup in the sugarhouse.I need the connection to the land.”I glanced at him, his soft expression encouraging me to continue.“The farm, and Caldwell Crossing is home in every sense of the word.My parents, friends, and this community… mean everything to me.It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

I paused, my chest tightening as I let myself be honest in a way I wasn’t used to.“But… sometimes I think about what’s missing.Someone to share it with.To build this life with.I mean… I have my friends and family, and that’s more than enough most days.But still…”

I let the words hang, unsure if I should’ve said them.The vulnerability left me feeling exposed, but Ben didn’t look away.He reached out, his hand resting on mine.

“You deserve that, Sam,” he said.“Someone to share it all with.Someone who sees this incredible life you’ve built and wants to be a part of it.”

I swallowed hard, his words settling deep in my chest.“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll find that person.If they’ll even want this kind of life.”

Ben’s grip on my hand tightened, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.“You might be surprised,” he murmured, his voice so quiet it felt as if it was meant for me alone.

I looked at him then,reallylooked at him, and something in his gaze made my heart skip a beat.Maybe I didn’t need to wonder anymore.Could someone like Ben, with the life of Boston in his veins, ever settle for something as small and simple as a quiet town and a maple farmer?

Ben blinked, stared at the journal in his hands, and then back at me.“You sound busy, so I’ll do the reading.”

That was a good change of subject.“Cool.”

“When you’re this busy, do you have any volunteers helping you?”Ben asked, glancing up from the journal in his hands.

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