“Fred had the rope in his bucket, and we was goin’ to wait till the feller came through the fence. I’d be on one side of him with my end of the rope, and Fred would be on the other side with his end of the rope. When the snooper came through, we’d trip him up and hog-tie him to the ground. We was just goin’ to haul him right down to the jailhouse. That way, it wouldn’t upset Miss Caroline.”
Sam pounded the patio table with his fist. “You mean he was here, and you let him get away?”
“Well, yes and no. He was here. But here’s what happened. Fred got the rope out of the bucket and handed me my end. I crawled down the fence line real quiet like where I could see the boards about to give way to this knockin’. But when Fred got his end of the rope and started comin’ toward me, he tripped over my bucket, hit his head on the fence, and hollered. You ever heared what a tin bucket full of RC Colas sounds like when it’s knocked over at midnight?”
Caroline finally broke her silence “I know what it sounds like. That was the sound that startled me.”
“Well, it’s been a long night, boys, and we all need some sleep. Caroline, you’re coming with us to the big house tonight,” Sam said, continuing to give orders.
“That’s a good idea. ’Specially since you done blowed a hole through her window.” Ned moved toward the broken glass. “We’ll board it up for the night, and I s’pose you want us to come back and fix it tomorrow.”
“You mean you’d do that after I said you had a few stupid bones in your body?”
“Yessir, Mr. Sam, we would. That’s what heroes do.”
Peach Brandy and
Thoughts of Blue Grass
Angel held Caroline’s hand as they walked the stone path up to the main house. Sam carried his shotgun. They’d left Ned and Fred securing the broken window with plywood, all the while grumbling about missing their opportunity to nab the snooper. Plywood might secure the window for the night, but Angel knew it didn’t solve the problem.
“Angel, would you just look at yourself? I cannot believe you’ve been traipsing around in your gown and that bathrobe and your old house slippers. That’s not like you,” Sam said.
“Well, what did you expect? I wasn’t planning on entertaining the sheriff and Ned and Fred after midnight.”
Sam opened the back door. “How about entertaining us with a cup of chamomile tea? I could use something to settle my nerves.”
“Cuppa chamomile tea? My hind leg. I have just the thing.” Angel pulled her step stool to the refrigerator and started to climb.
“What in the world are you doing, woman?” Sam headed toward her. “We’ve had enough excitement for one night. We don’t need you tumbling off this stool and breaking something.” Sam steadied her and stood ready to break her fall.
Angel stood on her tiptoes and stretched to open the cabinet atop the refrigerator. She pulled out a brown bottle. “Oh, hold your tongue and take this bottle,” she muttered as she held on to Sam’s shoulder and stepped down from the stool. She grabbed three glasses and went to the table. “Sit. Tonight’s no night for tea. We’re having peach brandy.”
Caroline raised her eyebrows. “You mean the peach brandy I tasted at your fifty-fifth anniversary party?”
“Yes, the peach brandy.” Angel opened the decanter and poured a respectable amount into each glass. “Why, we could have all been killed, and there’s still peach brandy in the cupboard. A lot of good it’ll do me dead.”
Angel always enjoyed telling the story of how she came to have the recipe. Her aunt Alice had lived in the Texas hill country during hard times nearly a century ago. She’d provided the nuns in a local monastery with beef and homegrown vegetables for years. The nuns returned the favor with bottles of peach brandy. After years of deliveries, the nuns finally gave Alice the recipe with the understanding she could only share it with one trusted family member. Angel had been the anointed niece in her generation. The recipe involved fresh peaches, sugar, a large jar, a dark closet, a secret ingredient, and six months’ time. But that’s as much as Angel had ever shared, and she only made the brandy when the peach crop was exceptional.
“Well, dear ones, this is it. The last bottle. We’d better pray for the best peach crop ever.” Angel swirled the brandy in the glass, held it to the light, and sipped it. Sam and Caroline observed the ritual too. The brandy was sweet and smooth, and only a few seconds after swallowing it, Angel felt the warmth in her throat. “Oh, this will do better than a cuppa tea.”
“You’re mighty right, but I’m not so sure this is such a special occasion,” Sam growled.
“When you’re as old as dirt, you can’t expect too many more special occasions. At our age, every day is a special occasion, and I guess it took nearly getting my head blown off to remind me of that.”
Caroline put her glass down. “Angel, don’t say things like that.”
“But it’s true. No reason not to drink peach brandy every day.”
“Sounds like a mighty fine idea to me.” Sam drank the last drop. “Now, don’t you go climbing up on that stool to put the bottle up, especially if your head is spinning like mine is.” Sam got up from his chair.
“Brandy always goes to his head.” Angel turned to Caroline. “Why in the thunder would I want to put the bottle up? Climbing to the top of the refrigerator is not near the top of my list of favorite things to do. I’ll leave it right here on the counter tonight. Then tomorrow I’ll pour it into that crystal decanter Aunt Alice left me, and it’ll be on the counter when I want a little sip.”
“Well, sounds like you’re dead serious about this.” Sam rinsed his glass.
“Surely just as serious as I am about getting back to bed. It’s nearly one thirty in the morning, and a girl needs her beauty rest. Caroline, you take the bridal suite.” Angel had decorated the upstairs guest room in shades of white and lace a number of years ago. Another of her canvases. Occasionally she changed the curtains or the pillows to add a bit of color or seasonal décor. “You know where everything is. Hope you rest well, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks, Angel. I hope the brandy does the trick for all three of us. After all, we’ve had quite a night.”
“Well, I think those Texas nuns and Aunt Alice would be happy to know their peach brandy had settled our nerves,” said Angel as she left the kitchen. “Sam, is your head still spinning? You need my help?”
Sam’s voice trailed as he walked down the hall. “I can see it now—nuns sitting around a long table passing the bottle for a sip just after they fought off a whole tribe of Indians and saved the orphan children.”
“Shootin’ Indians makes a better story than blowing up a flowerpot when you drop your shotgun.”
This was Caroline’s final teaching day and the last day to get things ready before her Ferngrove crowd arrived, so she rose early and tiptoed out, trying not to wake Sam and Angel. She left a note for them in front of the coffeepot, which would be Angel’s first stop after her feet hit the floor, and walked the garden path to the studio, tiptoeing into the great room to avoid the broken glass of the shotgun’s blast. The buckshot had shattered a large ceramic planter on the terrace and broken the bottom panes of glass in the alcove’s bay window. The piano had been spared.
Ned and Fred would return early to finish their job, but she swept up as much glass as she could before getting the vacuum cleaner. Vacuum cleaners were wonderful contraptions in spite of the noise. They sucked up all the dirt and debris and evidence of disaster, making it safe to walk barefoot again. She wished her problems could so magically disappear, leaving no trace of trauma.
The cleanup taken care of, Caroline tidied herself and went to the grocery store early. A quick trip dressed in sweats without makeup was not an option, because anonymity did not exist at the market or the post office in Moss Point. Women gossiped over the grapefruit and planned parties over the pears, and someone always engaged her in conversation.
She looked over the list as she placed the whippi
ng cream—her last item—in the grocery cart. She was home free and on her way to the checkout counter in record time when she heard an unfamiliar voice calling her name weakly.
“Miss Carlyle?”
Caroline turned to see a woman in the aisle behind her. She had seen the woman before but did not know who she was.
“Miss Carlyle? Aren’t you Miss Carlyle?”
“Yes, I’m Caroline Carlyle.”
“And you live at Twin Oaks and teach piano lessons?” She pushed her cart nearer Caroline.
Caroline studied the woman’s face. “Yes. I don’t believe we have met.” She extended her hand.
The woman kept her grip on the grocery cart and only nodded her head, keeping a safe distance. She was fiftyish and slight of stature with silver hair pulled back severely. Only when she turned her head slightly could Caroline see the bun of braided hair wrapped and secured at the nape of her neck. She was struck by the woman’s porcelain skin, which gave no evidence of having seen much of the southern sun. Silver-green eyes were like none Caroline had ever seen. The absence of a smile hinted at previous pain, but the stillness in her eyes suggested a resigned peace.
Beside the woman was a striking girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen. Caroline observed the adolescent had the same unblemished, pale skin, platinum hair falling in curls below her shoulders, and silver-green eyes—which were also still and fixed on Caroline’s face.
“No, ma’am, we have never met,” the woman said. “I’m Gretchen Silva, and this is Bella. We live not far from Twin Oaks, and we hear you play the piano on occasion. You play so beautifully.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Silva. That’s very kind of you.”
“I love the music of the piano. I grew up listening to my grandmammá play, and I miss it so much.”
“Yes, there is nothing quite like the piano and its music. Do you play?”
Mrs. Silva lowered her head. “Oh, no. No. I only wish to hear it.”
“Bella, what about you? Do you play?”
Bella stood reticent and motionless. Caroline found her silence intimidating.
Mrs. Silva quickly answered, “Oh, yes, she loves the piano. Do you think you could teach Bella to play the piano?”
“Well, we could set up a time to get together next week. The spring recital is this weekend, and I’ll be putting together my fall schedule next week. I don’t teach during the summer.” Caroline’s eyes darted to see Bella’s expression. Neither Bella’s eyes nor any facial muscles ever moved.
“I see. I know so little about piano lessons.”
“Perhaps you and Bella would like to come to the recital Saturday afternoon. You would enjoy it, and it might inspire Bella.”
“Oh, I don’t think it would be possible.” She paused. “No, that would not be possible at all.”
Caroline observed the immediate tension in Mrs. Silva’s face. “Well, then, maybe it would fit your schedule better if you and Bella came to my studio next week, and we could talk about lessons in the fall.”
Mrs. Silva’s face softened.
“I’ll brew a pot of tea, and we can get acquainted.” She reached into her bag for her card. As Caroline neared their cart and extended her card, Bella moved quickly behind Mrs. Silva and hid her face.
Mrs. Silva took the card. “Thank you, Miss Carlyle. I’ll try to call next week. I hope we were not too much of a bother today.”
“Heavens, no. I’ll see you next week.” Caroline started toward the checkout counter.
“Miss Carlyle?”
Caroline turned to answer.
Mrs. Silva hesitated. “Oh—I’m so sorry. Not to bother . . . God bless you, Miss Carlyle.” She and Bella turned and walked away.
Caroline had put away her groceries and started on some baking when she heard the knock at the door. She had already glimpsed the pea-green truck through the kitchen window.
“Good morning, Ned.” Caroline opened the door to Ned and Fred standing in their usual stances in overalls, plaid shirts, and caps in hand.
“And to you, Miss Caroline. We didn’t rightly tell you how sorry we were ’bout last night. We didn’t mean to upset nobody. We just thought we would take care of the problem and catch that snooper. Then you wouldn’t have to give it not one more thought.”
“And I don’t think I rightly told you how grateful I am that you would even attempt such a thing. Why, both of you could have been injured!”
“I guess we been watchin’ too much TV, and we decided there wasn’t nothin’ keepin’ us from bein’ heroes except our own selves. It’s hard to be a hero when you just sit and watch ’em on TV. At least that’s what Papa woulda said.”
“Well, thank you both. You’re certainly heroes to me.” She watched Ned and Fred redden simultaneously.
“Well, now, Miss Caroline, whoever that snooper is, he’s still out there, and you gotta be careful.”
Fred elbowed Ned.
“You gotta keep your doors locked, and I’ll be talking to Mr. Sam about nailin’ your windows shut so nobody can break in ’em. Why, it might be a purty good idea to put some curtains over them windows.”
Fred elbowed Ned again.
“In fact, you might want to talk to Mr. Sam about some wood shutters.”
Fred tugged on the hammer hanging from the loop on Ned’s overalls. “Shut up, Ned,” he said and turned to walk off.
“Excuse me, Miss Caroline. Better git my tools and start to work. We’ll be done in a little while, and we’ll try not to be much bother.”
“I’ll be baking cookies, so you gentlemen do whatever you need to do.”
Ned picked up his toolbox and joined his brother on the terrace as she closed the door. Through the open window she could hear them talking as they walked away.
“Did you hear her, Fred? She called us gentlemen. Now, ain’t that a lady for you? Nobody ever calls us gentlemen.”
“Hmmph, you ain’t no gentleman, Ned, so just git that outta your head. Ain’t no gentleman in the whole wide world, and then some, woulda kept on talkin’ about things that scare ladies to death. Lockin’ doors, nailin’ the windows shut. Now, what kinda gentleman talks to a lady about things like that?”
With a grin, Caroline went back to her work and soon had the cookies finished. She packaged up a few for Ned and Fred and began working down her to-do list, adding items as she checked others off. She looked at her schedule. She really needed to choose a date for her recital in Kentucky.
Okay, June. What have we got going? she asked herself as she perused the squares of her calendar. She was dismayed to realize the answer was quite a lot. With a grimace, she flipped the page to July. After some consideration and counting, she chose a date later in July. That would give her a few weeks to prepare and schedule at least two lessons at the university for critique.
Caroline was looking up Roderick Adair’s number when the phone rang.
“Hey, Caroline, hate to bother you. I know you’re busy.”
“Why, Angel, I’m surprised. I haven’t heard from you all morning. I just figured you had a hangover.”
“No hangover, but I slept like a baby. Got your note earlier, so I know you have a full day. Sam and I’ve been talking. We think it best if you stayed up here for a few days. Your mom and Betsy and Josefina are coming, and I know that you were planning on Betsy staying with you, but we just don’t think that’s wise right now.”
“Oh, Angel, that’s so much trouble, and with all of us, your inn will be full.”
“The more the merrier. Do your parents know about this intruder?”
“Not unless James has broken his promise to me. Oops, that reminds me. I promised James I’d call him if anything new developed. But maybe I’ll wait until next week.”
“I still think you should stay with us for a few days anyway. We have plenty of room, and when Martha gets here, she can do all her cooking in my big kitchen. You could share the bridal suite with her, and Betsy and Josefina could stay in the blue room down the hall.”
>
“Angel, did I ever tell you that your mother surely named you right?”
“Oh, just about four hundred and ninety-two times.”
“What would I ever do without you and Sam? Thanks. I’ll take the bridal suite, and you won’t even have to change the sheets.”
“Good. Will you be here for supper? Creole casserole.”
“The one with all the bacon and green peas?”
“The very one.”
“I’ll be there with fresh cookies.”
“See you then.”
Caroline reached for her day planner for Roderick Adair’s number and took a deep breath. Talking to Liz equaled making a dental appointment, she decided. She slowly dialed the number, thinking of how she would begin the conversation. After several rings, however, she heard a click and assumed the machine would answer. She tapped her pencil on the tile counter and hummed while she waited for the beep.
“Good morning, Caroline. Ah, ‘Plaisir d’amour’! I believe that’s ‘The Joy of Love’ you’re humming. A very romantic melody coming from a lovely voice, I might add.”
Caroline was stunned. “ ‘Plaisir d’amour’ it is, and thank you, Roderick.” She wondered how he knew such and why he’d answered the phone.
“Giovanni Martini?”
“Right again. You seem to know your music and your composers.”
“Perhaps it was a fortuitous guess. Make my day and tell me you’re calling to accept my invitation to play this lovely piano sitting in my parlor.”
“Yes, I am, but I’m surprised to hear your voice. I expected to speak with Liz.”
“She must have stepped away from her desk, and the marvels of modern technology flashed your name on my caller ID.” Roderick paused. “I hope you prefer me to some computerized voice asking you to leave your name and number.”
“Well, actually—” Caroline was about to respond when she heard a loud click and another voice on the line.
Return of the Song Page 9