“Here, let me help,” Matt offered. “I don’t want Francesca’s Sweetchild to fall and hurt herself.” He also grabbed a bottle of something from the cupboard. He poured himself a glass, took only one sip and set the glass on the table.
“Well,” he finally admitted, “I’m not planning on any ceremony tomorrow, or anything, and neither is she. But marrying Fran isn’t the farthest thing from my mind, either. I do skirt around the idea once in a while.” I heard the tip of his shoe tapping the kitchen floor. “She’s as nervy as I am, you know. Who can predict how things would be between us? Oops … that’s another question, isn’t it? And again!”
“What about me?”
Matt cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “What about you?”
He threw up his hands then and started over. I watched him choose his words carefully.
“That would be up to your grandmother. It’d be tough for her here. You saw how the locals treated her … us tonight. It’s a small town with small-town thinking. That can be a good thing in some cases, of course.” He dragged his hands tiredly through his thick hair. “On the other hand, I can’t picture her except in this place.” He opened his hands to Home Farm. “Her rose garden and her vegetables … her whole history … this house. Apart from you or me or Rachael or anyone else, Fran has a connection to this plot of ground. It’s fertile because of her. It’s alive. She makes it that way.”
So why would you want to take her away?
I knew better than to ask, but I wondered if he would consider leaving without her.
“Francesca said you might take off one day because of your flying.”
I immediately regretted betraying a confidence, but since it was too late to withdraw the observation, I pressed with another.
“She said you wouldn’t be content here.”
There was a long pause. “She could be right about that.” He tossed back the remainder of the dark gold liquid.
“Do you love her?”
He answered almost eagerly, “There’s something grand about her, something fine,” he said. It sounded like he’d discovered that fact for the first time. Then he turned and looked at me again. “I think we’ve had enough hard questions for one evening, young lady. It’s time for you to go to bed and for me to sip a bit more.”
As Babe and I snuggled together, I held her protectively and tried not to think of what or who might’ve been lurking outside my window. I also had a knot in my stomach, thinking that Francesca could leave me … could leave Home Farm. In the same breath, I realized I’d hate it if Matt left her behind. She’d always and forever be thinking of him, missing him.
“Every way out of this is lousy,” I whispered into Babe’s ear.
Chapter 21
Changes on the Horizon
F
inally the Big Event loomed around the corner, the one Francesca had been training for and most everyone in town was chattering about — the County Fair car races. Mastering a powerful machine like the Doozy took hair-trigger reactions, muscle and a “feel” for clutching the up and down shifts. So many decisions had to be made in a tenth of a second: How much brake was too much? Which drivers got rattled when you passed on the inside? How much intestinal fortitude could a person muster?
Matthew had balanced the ideal amounts of patience and encouragement with Francesca. You could practically see her confidence growing with each spin around the makeshift track. She was ready.
As we were stowing our suitcases in the trunk, Francesca reminded me to grab my fishing pole and some hot dogs. Matthew looked at us questioningly. “Fishing?” he asked.
“Sarah here has a reputation to uphold,” Francesca said. “I’m not the only celebrity in Lost Nation.”
“Well, this I’ve got to hear,” Matt looked at me with real interest.
The year before, Daddyboys, Mother, Francesca and I went on a fishing trip together. It was the first extended outing without Grandpap, who had passed in 1943. Gasoline was still difficult to find, not to mention expensive, so we cashiered our first destination, Traverse City, Michigan, in favor of the more reachable Montpelier on the Mississippi.
It was a sweet little burg surrounded by lush countryside dotted with grape vines and cherry trees. The region had nearly 181 miles of Lake Michigan shoreline and 149 miles of additional deep blue-colored lakes. Because you could angle for game fish like trout, salmon, blue gills, even steelhead, it was a Mecca for rod and reel aficionados from all over the country.
Our trip took place over the July Fourth weekend, which coincided with an annual trout tournament. My dad, with his wizard-like hands, was an expert at tying lures. But I didn’t like those furry things, nor could I stand the way worms continued to wiggle long after they were pierced. Instead, I used hot dog slivers for bait.
We all registered to be eligible for cash prizes in the categories of First Catch, Biggest Fish and Most Caught.
We all certainly missed my grandfather. But since he was a bit of a purist when it came to fishing, he probably wouldn’t have enjoyed the free-for-all as much as we imagined he would. Instead, he would have been playing practical jokes off the water. Forget the fish; it was the fishermen Cox would have been after.
But it would have been sensational for him to have seen me win my prize. I caught the first fish of the day, reeling in my little trout four minutes and 17 seconds before the next official catch was tagged. I also won ten dollars and attracted a lot of media attention from a group of sports writers.
I was asked how I could be such an expert fisherman at such a young age. They smiled as I told them about all my training in our pond and how I had the best coach in the world. I pointed toward Francesca, and she curtsied as the writers swarmed in her direction. She made a totally believable pretense toward embarrassment with each photographer’s flash as she and I posed together.
What type of bait did I use? When I told the reporters it was hot dog slivers — slivers, not pieces — they roared with laughter. Several newspapers ran the story the next day, many making reference to my hot dog bait in their headlines.
Daddyboys began referring to me as his little genius. Francesca cut out all the articles and purchased additional copies of the papers that ran our photo.
Back in our driveway, my next-door neighbor, Isaac, who was lurking at the edge of the story circle, had heard this tale so many times he now knew it by heart. But like always, he just grinned and nodded his head.
“Wow,” Matt offered when I finished. “I am duly impressed.” Then, he snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. Isn’t it your birthday? Sometime soon, I mean? If there’s a celebration coming, I want to know all about it.”
Francesca looked smug. “We’re full of surprises, Mr. Mosley. Depending on how the wind blows or the stars are aligned, you just don’t know what little Sarah and I might conjure up.” Francesca twirled across the porch and winked at me.
Isaac was holding a package.
“I brung you … er brought, I mean, I brought you this,” he handed me a package wrapped in the funny papers from the Daily Pulse.
Suddenly, all fishing stories were on hold. What was this weird boy doing?
“What is it?” I asked, already starting to rip into the twine bow.
“Not now! You gotta save it for your birthday.” He raised his voice but didn’t shout. Then, he quick-stepped his way in the direction of the garage.
How weird … Isaac Teems giving me a present. I carefully put the package into my suitcase.
The luggage and fishing gear were neatly stowed, and Harry and Maude were ready to go. Francesca, of course, was attending to last-minute business. She always had a checklist to go through prior to traveling.
While we waited, we got a visit from Hunny Clack, who had more mail from the South of France. “How exciting,” she said and drove off. “Oh and have a grand time, Frances. Beat their overalls off …” Her voice trailed as she rattled into a cloud of dust.
Matthew offered to let Harry
drive, which thrilled my uncle down to his toes. As we pulled away from Home Farm, I realized that when I returned, I would no longer be nine. I was practically all grown up, going into double digits now.
Francesca came across a letter from Des Moines and decided to open it first.
“It’s from Professor Gump, Sarah. He responded about your dad,” Francesca said.
When Maude asked what we were talking about, we told her about finding Daddyboys’ essays and poems in the attic.
“He had a dream but didn’t pursue it. He had to quit, because Rachael was having a hard time with her pregnancy,” Francesca explained. She turned to me and said, “But look what we were blessed with.”
Professor Gump had included an enrollment packet for the journalism and English programs at the university in the fall. He also encouraged my father to complete his previous writing assignments and submit them for full credit.
“Hard to imagine a man in my family being a real writer,” sniffed Maude. She looked up at Harry, who was driving and humming to himself. “That’s quite an achievement, wouldn’t you say, dear?” she asked pointedly.
He continued humming, a steady drone. It would be a soft undercurrent to the trip.
Maude turned to Francesca. “I swear he’s becoming hard-of-hearing in his dotage.”
Francesca smiled. “More than likely a case of selective audio difficulty.”
Maude’s face took on the closed-down look it retreated to when some concept sounded too much like Greek for her to get. Francesca leaned over and whispered into her ear, “You know, Maude, they only hear what they want to hear.”
It was easy to see why Harry had drawn away from the rest of us like that. Though he was a joiner-in for the most part, opinionated and quick about it, he was undoubtedly thrilled with the pleasure of driving that amazing machine. The purr of the Duisenberg engine was like a Chris-Craft outboard. It welled up from deep inside the car’s workings, oozing through the burlwood paneling and into the tenor of the conversation, coloring it ever-so slightly with … dignity? For a car lover like Harry, that elegant rumble claimed his full attention, and he was ecstatic to attend.
“Sarah, why don’t you read us your daddy’s letter?” Matt suggested.
“Won’t she get carsick?” asked Maude.
I lifted my nose into the air and sniffed every bit as haughtily as Maude sometimes did.
“It’s okay; I read in the Duisenberg all the time.”
Hail and hearty hello to family and friends.
My bride and I have been in Cannes for three gorgeous days and nights. The sunlight is soft and sweet. We noticed a golden glow that appears to color everything—the sand and the town and the people.
The villa, or shall I be wicked and say our villa, comes with a butler and a maid, a chauffeur and three gardeners!
It boasts a clay tennis court and a pool and a private lagoon. I swoon to describe your mother in her brief bathing costume, tanned and full of youthful exuberance.
I glanced up at Matt before reading the next part, then at Francesca. And plowed ahead.
Frances, you must tell us more about that pilot fellow. Why haven’t you mentioned him before? Got something up your sleeve? Your daughter and I might never have known about Matthew, if Maude hadn’t written to tell us
Uncle Harry swerved to the left and bobbled over the dividing line in the road. Matt cleared his throat and examined the crease in his trousers. Maude looked horrified. Francesca didn’t say anything, but she glared at her sister, who chose to flick her eyes in the direction of the window.
Francesca pursed her lips and paused a moment then said, “Well, read on, child.”
And what about this arsonist fellow that Sheriff Mosley wired us about? If he hadn’t told us, we would have never known about him either. Dan assures me that he and his brother have everything in hand and there’s not a whole heckuva lot I can do from here. Still, it makes a person wonder if maybe there isn’t more excitement in Lost Nation this summer than on the South coast of France!
You take care. You’re both more precious to us than gold doubloons. And I don’t mean maybe!
Francesca was still looking daggers at Maude.
“Well … someone had to tell them!”
Francesca cocked her chin. “Are you entirely sure it was any of your business?”
Matthew continued to study his pant leg with keen attention. Harry kept glancing into the rearview mirror, fearing the sisters could rip into each other’s throats.
I kept reading.
Sarah, darling baby girl, your mother and I think of you here, on the beaches and in the parks and we’ve decided to come back to France for your thirteenth birthday! With you, of course, else it wouldn’t be much of a celebration. By that time, France won’t be all that far away. I’ll bet you’re all wondering what that means.
I looked up at Francesca and then around the car. Even Harry was paying attention now.
Your mother says I shouldn’t mention it yet, as the details need ironing out and business-wise, I’m not much of a presser! BUT … Mr. Toynbee has offered your old pops a job on his lovely magazine! That means I will be a full-time paid writer. The salary is good and I will get to TRAVEL, TRAVEL, TRAVEL!
Maude gasped and clapped her hands! “Isn’t that just swell?”
Everyone else seemed to agree except Francesca. I could see the wheels in her mind turning.
“Read on, child,” she said quietly.
In my excitement, I had ruffled up the page and had to smooth it over before I could find my place.
One small thing, sweet child, a very small thing, really, there will be some changes in how and where we live. You see, we might have to move to New York. Wouldn’t that be the cat’s pajamas?
It sounded wonderful at first. It was exciting, mysterious and frightening all at the same time.
“New York,” I said loudly. The name rang through the silent car like a great bell. But in that same moment, I looked at Francesca. She would be moving, too, wouldn’t she? Or did this mean I would live in New York, and she would live in Iowa? What would happen to us? I couldn’t be split from myself like an atom, and that’s how I would feel if I had to leave Francesca.
Then, I wondered again about Matt’s plans. I had dwelled on Matthew taking Francesca away, never thinking I would be the one to leave. I plowed through the rest of the letter with haste.
We wouldn’t move right away as we’d have to settle things in Lost Nation and we still need to find a place to live in New York. Everyone will have to help us including Frances, Maude and Harry. We’ll talk more about it when we get home.
Lovies, lovies,
Mommy and Daddyboys
Francesca didn’t speak the rest of the trip.
Chapter 22
Written in the Sky
C
linton was bustling and hustling. As we passed a parade of fair banners snapping in the breeze, I couldn’t get over the swirling energy in the town or the promise in the air. All the motor courts we passed had “No Vacancy” signs, making us thankful we had made reservations.
Francesca directed Harry to the Lakeview Lodge, which hadn’t changed at all since our last visit when Grandpap was still alive. It had never actually overlooked a lake; the fishing competition would take place a few miles outside of town.
Francesca and Maude registered while Harry and Matt went to make arrangements about a fishing boat. It was important, having exactly the right conveyance: not too big, with a small, quiet engine so we could sneak up on those fish.
The kitchenette cabin suites were brightly painted and smelled of Bon-Ami cleanser. The Lakeview also took dogs, always had, which made it perfect for us. Maude, Francesca, Babe and I were going to share one room, with Matt and Harry next door.
Francesca arranged for a roll-away bed for Babe and me. Then, she and Maude began unpacking while Babe and I took an exploratory walk before lunch.
The motel stood on a quiet tree-lined stree
t. In those days, business establishments and private homes were built side by side, unlike the strict zoning regulations today. There was a wading pool on the property that looked promising. Maybe later that night, I’d sneak Babe back there for a swim and totally ignore the bold sign warning, “No Dogs Allowed.”
As Babe and I explored together, I mulled over Daddyboys’ news. Imagine living in New York! Imagine eating in glamorous restaurants and mixing with “literati.” I did know a little about the Algonquin Round Table — a group of infamous intellectuals/writers who met regularly, mainly to trade naughty stories and throw clever insights about society or religion or the woeful state of theater back and forth. Daddyboys was always sharing magazine articles about the feuds between Zelda Fitzgerald (author F. Scott’s wife) and newspaper critic Dorothy Parker as well as the peccadilloes of that notorious group of undisciplined yet fascinating folks. At that age, of course, I didn’t have a firm idea of what “peccadilloes” were.
I wondered how much I’d miss my friends and if they could come to visit. I’d seen New York in the movies, of course. It seemed a seamless collection of traffic jams and crowds of people. Could horses be kept in New York? If not, whatever would we do with Miss Blossom and RedBird?
But by far the most troubling thought to me was the possibility of leaving Francesca behind. I understood that she might not be open to leaving Home Farm, but my life without her was unthinkable. I literally shuddered at the thought.
Babe was enjoying our walk, nosing out new smells. Together, we soaked in the day’s sun, sights and sounds. Although I had no reason to feel anything but delight, at times a tiny frisson of fear tiptoed over my skin. There was a prickle on the back of my neck that said something wasn’t as it should be.
As we walked along the trail to the top of the hill behind Lakeview Lodge, I kept glancing over my shoulder. Nobody was following us, but I felt as though we were being watched.
“C’mon, Babe,” I called as I skedaddled back to the motor court.
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