Free Be Sweet by Diann Hunt Page A

lifts the gas-powered drill in place and bores a new hole about a half-inch wide.
    â€œYou know, we drill a hole, then the following year, the only way we can find it again is by the smooth bark around it because the hole is already filled in.” I pull a spile—the metal spigot that’s used to tap maple from the trees—from my backpack, plug it into the fresh hole and ham-mer it into place. Then Janni attaches the metal top of the plastic bag onto the spile. She tugs at it a couple of times to make sure it’s secure.
    â€œYeah, that’s true. It’s pretty cool, really.” She holds the drill against her left shoulder and marches to the next tree. “Don’t you miss this, Char?” She positions the drill for the next hole, and we go through the routine again.
    The tangy scent of bark and forest mingle with the cold air. A clear blue sky shines above us as we crunch over the hard earth, crusted with the frigid layer of winter.
    â€œI do miss this place. The forest is so peaceful. I especially love to walk through the sugar bush,” I say, referring to the grove of maples that are tapped for sweetness. A melancholy mood sweeps over me as I realize there’s not an ounce of sweetness left in me these days.
    â€œNow you have quiet walks along the beach.” Janni drills the next hole. I plug in the spile, and we finish off another tree for tapping. “I can’t imagine having a view of the ocean from my living room the way you do.”
    â€œIt is wonderful,” I say, thankful for my life in Maine, yet wondering why my past life won’t let me go—or is it the other way around? “You should bring your friends up sometime.”
    Janni gives me a sideways glance. “This coming from Miss I-want-to-be-alone?”
    â€œI told you, you’re always invited. You know that.” We walk a little further. “It might surprise you to know that I entertain on a fairly regular basis.”
    â€œDo tell.”
    â€œYep. Peter and I together, really. He’s more of the socialite than I am.”
    â€œAnd do you have the meals catered?”
    â€œNo. Peter’s a frustrated chef. But if he didn’t make it, I’d send for a caterer.”
    Jani shakes her head. “Well, you’re doing better than me. I haven’t entertained in a couple of months. Just not in the mood for company—outside of family, I mean.”
    â€œLook Janni, I’m no doctor, but you seem a little depressed. Is every-thing all right?”
    She turns to me. “That’s just it. Everything is fine. I have no idea what’s going on with me. My moods are up and down.”
    â€œIt happens at this stage in our lives. Our hormones get messed up.”
    â€œI’m not as old as you, Char. No offense.”
    Okay, she’s in denial. “Well, I’m not exactly aged wood, but whatever.”
    â€œI have to say I’m impressed that you’re still seeing Peter,” she says, quickly changing the subject. “This one’s lasted—what?—six months?” We stop at the next tree and run through the routine for tapping. The smells of a hot drill and bark chips permeate the air while bits of wood spray about.
    â€œEw, that does sound serious, doesn’t it?”
    â€œWealth, a busy dating life, lots of friends—you’ve got it all, Char.”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t say that. But you can,” I tease to cover the shadow over my heart.
    â€œChar, this is just sister-to-sister here.”
    I brace myself.
    â€œDo you think you’ll ever be able to care about anyone again the way you cared about Eddie?”
    â€œEddie who?”
    â€œHa-ha.”
    We stand in front of another tree, and she turns to me. “I’m not going to drill until you answer.”
    â€œNo one has ever come close.” My throat clenches around the words, making them barely audible.
    Janni lifts the drill and