Merry Cherry Christmas

As Valerie drove them back up to the 400, which had finally cleared, she asked Max about Honey and the guys, and they chatted about his friends’ plans for the holidays. Jeremy realized after a few minutes that Meg was eyeing him. He smiled hesitantly.

She smiled back, but her gaze was assessing. “You comfy?”

“Uh-huh!”

“You seem a little tense.”

“No, I’m good. Just don’t want to squish you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not very breakable, I assure you.”

Valerie asked, “Okay? Is it too cold? Too hot?”

“Or just right?” John added.

“Just right,” Max and Meg chorused, like it was an old joke or something.

Jeremy stayed quiet as the family caught up with each other. They turned off toward Pinevale, and there was definitely way more snow than the slushy remnants in the city. Here, it was banked up along the sides of the road where plows had rumbled through.

“And…any other news?” John asked.

A strange silence filled the SUV. The radio was down low, and a faint, tinny carol played. Jeremy thought it was “Deck the Halls.” Yes, there was the “Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” A second before Max spoke, Jeremy realized what John had been asking.

“Not yet.” Max was tense beside Jeremy. “There’s some processing delay. They sent an email saying they might not post the results until after Christmas.”

Valerie tutted. “Oh, that’s frustrating, sweetheart.”

“But we know you aced it,” John said.

“We know you did your best,” Valerie added, which made Jeremy like her even more.

“Of course!” John agreed.

Max shrugged, a jerky motion. “I guess we’ll see.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “As if you don’t crush every exam you’ve ever taken.”

“Shut up,” Max muttered.

Should Jeremy pat his arm? Leg? What would a normal person who didn’t want to hump him do? He wasn’t sure, so he kept his hands in his lap. He also couldn’t help but wonder if there really was a delay on the results. There was something about the way Max usually tried to change the subject when law school came up. Probably just nerves.

Valerie slowed and turned into a laneway with a big, red wooden sign at the entrance. In black script, it read: Nadeau Family Farms. The lane curved for a few kilometers through endless trees that Jeremy assumed were all maples. The snow would probably be up to his knees. For a second, he thought there was a strange single-rope fence before realizing it was a line of blue plastic tubing strung horizontally along the trees.

“It’s beautiful,” Jeremy said.

“Thank you!” Valerie beamed at him in the rear-view mirror, her eyes crinkling. “I was born here, and my family’s been producing syrup for almost half a century.”

Meg sighed dramatically. “Are you seriously going to give him the full tourist spiel? Also, you were born in the hospital, not on the hearth in the middle of a blizzard like Mamy and Papy were pioneers.”

Valerie blew a raspberry and they all laughed. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by my darling daughter, this is my family’s pride and joy. We have fifty-five acres of maple bush here near the shores of Georgian Bay.”

“Wow. The tubes are for the syrup?” Jeremy asked.

“Yep,” Valerie said. “We operate thirty-four hundred taps during the season. These pipelines bring the sap to two collection points, where we transfer the sap to our sugar house in our tanker that holds four thousand liters.”

Jeremy asked, “How many liters of sap do the trees, uh, leak?”

“Oh, thousands a day. Keeps us hopping in the season.”

Meg jumped in, using a TV reporter type of voice. “The season can begin as early as February, but typically it’s March.”

“And how do you determine that, Meg?” Max asked, holding his fist to his mouth like a microphone.

“Well, Max, that all depends on Mother Nature. And we all know what a fickle bitch she can be.”

“Language!” John and Valerie scolded in unison.

Ignoring them, Meg added, “Frosty nights and thawing days get that sap running so farmers know it’s time to ‘tap that.’ The season typically lasts four to six weeks, although it can be shorter.”

“I see what you did there.” Max gave a fake laugh. “Very punny.”

Meg laughed falsely. “You know I can never resist a pun, Max.”

“Are you two done?” Valerie asked, although she was smiling. “Jeremy, I’m sorry for boring you with syrup talk.”

“No, you’re not! I’d love to learn more.”

Max and Meg groaned, and Max said, “You asked for it, Cherry.”

“Wait, what? Cherry?” Meg’s brows drew close.

“Oh, a dumb nickname I can never seem to shake,” Jeremy said. “My little brother Sean couldn’t pronounce my name at first. Called me Cherry.”

“Aww. Bless him.” Valerie slowed, and around a bend a clearing with buildings came into view. “Here we are. Home sweet home.” She pulled up to a freestanding garage and shut off the engine.

“It looks like a postcard,” Jeremy said, peering at the brick farmhouse, two stories with a covered porch in front, red shutters, and a yellow door. Snow covered the gable roof, smoke curling from the chimney.