She saw Miles wince and keep his attention on the hops. It was gratifying, but she relented a bit, not wanting to deliberately hurt him. “It’s just that I have a continual problem with the ivy. Ed spends a lot of time trying, but it’s hard to get rid of.” She hoped he did not take that personally. She didn’t want to get rid of him, just to be sure of his intentions. To be sure of him.
He didn’t answer and she asked again, “So what is your interest in hops?”
“Beer. What else?” He turned toward her. “I bought one of those home do-it-yourself, beer-making kits. Then I did some research, looking up stuff online.”
“And you found?”
“Lots of things.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, waved one toward the hop vines. “They’re in bloom, about ready to pick.”
Althea looked closer and saw the little pale green, pine cone-looking flowers hanging from the stems. They were not obvious, and she didn’t recall having seen them before, but she had never really looked. She had little interest in hops. Or beer making.
“It’s those flowers that they use to flavor the beer. Every kind has a different flavor.”
“Really?” That did make sense, given what she knew about other plant varieties, and why she chose the ones she did.
“That’s what the articles online say. There are dozens of them.” He shrugged and returned his attention to the wall. “I looked around where I live. Ted and Glo’s place. Since some former owner had a hops dryer, I figured there must be vines somewhere. They must have pulled them all out.”
“You didn’t you find any?”
“No, but I didn’t look everywhere.” He kept his attention on the hops. “They don’t grow them commercially in New England anymore. I guess they found the best place for them is in Oregon. Better soil and climate and all that, but a lot of little breweries around here have started growing them. I thought I’d like to try that.”
“Growing hops?” She tried to hide her surprise. He had never expressed an interest in growing anything.
“No. Making craft beer.”
“Oh.” It was an intriguing idea, not one she would have connected with Miles, but he was continually surprising her. She had no idea what he liked to drink. “So, you want to pick my hops?”
He turned and stepped a little closer in her direction, leering. “Among other things.”
The insinuation was annoying. And appealing. She did not step away, but she knew if she looked into his eyes she would be lost. Again.
He stopped a step short of touching her and scowled. “How was the date with the up-and-coming business boy? He take you to some fancy expensive place?”
His tone chilled her rising desire and aroused her anger. “How did you know?”
“I always know what you’re up to.” He shook his head, not looking at her. “Or I’d like to. I saw him drive up to the stand yesterday. You were there talking with Connie.”
“Where were you? Spying on me?” She would have noticed a passing car.
“No.” He paused. “I didn’t pass by. I watched until you’d gone. Then I went home.”
She had no answer to that. She had looked for him in the arbor and not seen him, but he could have there as he had been the first time.
He raised his head and met her eyes, not smiling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that . . . I don’t like you going with someone else. And you were wearing such a lovely dress. It made you look so different from . . .” He glanced at her faded jeans and old stained T-shirt. “The way I usually see you. Mother Eve.”
She knew how she had looked last night, and how she looked now, which was her real self. She didn’t remind him that he had never asked her out. He just expected her to be here, waiting for him to come, so sure of her. He was too close for her to keep her resolve, her heart hardened against his charms. When he closed his hands around her upper arms, she was lost. Again.
He pulled her closer, buried his face in her hair. “He isn’t your kind,” he said softly. “He could never make you happy.”
She knew that, and had told Barry so, but she would not tell Miles. Could not.
“You are my Thea.” He pulled her closer. “My Bonny Thea.”
It made no difference that she resented his tone, his total assurance that she was his. When he sought her lips, she met him. She had no choice. Miles filled her need, thawed her heart, but she didn’t love him. Her lover needed to be kinder, less arrogant. And more of a farmer, attuned to the land, someone like herself. Somebody she could trust. Or so she told herself. Firmly.
His kiss aroused too many feelings she didn’t want. Not with Miles. But she didn’t have them with Barry, either, so what was she to do? She turned her face away from his.
He didn’t relax his hold on her arms. “So you had a really nice evening with business boy? And you’re going back to him?”
There was a hard, grating note in his voice that rubbed on an already exposed nerve. She had not had a nice evening with Barry. She had left him hurt and herself confused. And Miles wasn’t helping at all. He was much too close to allow her to think rationally. She said, as coldly as she could manage, “What kind of evening I had is my business.”
“So it is.” He pulled her a bit closer. “But that was last night and I’m here to make you forget it.”
He already had, but she could not admit it. She avoided his lips and said, “Let’s talk about hops, shall we?”
He did not relax his hold and buried his face in her hair, his lips brushing the side of her neck. “What about hops? How many kinds there are? Which kinds would grow best here? Where do I find seeds or plants? What kind of fertilizer do I need? Where do I plant them? How do I make them grow, become what I want?” His voice was soothing, insinuating other meanings to his words, weakening her resolve, arousing her desires. “I can find all that online somewhere. Or talk to the county agent.”
She knew that. She leaned back enough to see his face. “Do you really care about the hops, or are you just making conversation, talking about something I might be interested in?”
“I care about you and you care about the vines. Ergo . . .”
“I mean, really.”
“Really,” he said.
His lips found hers again and she gave in, relished his closeness and what he was doing to her. But he released her after a long moment and said mockingly, “So you didn’t have that great a time, after all.”
Again, he had casually broken the spell he cast around her, leaving her adrift on a hot sea of emotion. She reacted to that loss with anger, lashing out at him. “Barry is a great dancer and I like dancing.”
“And you’ll dance away the rest of your life?”
“Isn’t that a place to start?”
“He has no more interest in what you do here than a cat does.” There was derision in his voice. “He’s off in that high-tech world of his. It’s what he does and wants.”
“And so are you, part of that world.”
“Only from current necessity. I don’t really like it.” He took a deep breath, eased his hold on her arms. “Althea . . .”
She sighed. “Let it go, Miles. Please. Sit down on the rock again and play spirituals for me.” She tried to smile up at him. “Isn’t that what you do best? What you do so well?”
He shook his head. “No. Not spirituals.” His familiar grin returned tentatively, playing around the corners of his lips. “No religion. Even that kind.” He released her arms and steered her gently toward the wall and his favorite sitting-on rock. “Only love songs for my Bonny.”
She let herself be drawn into his aura again. She would listen to love songs. But is that all she wanted from him? Forever? She took what was offered.
THE FIRST APPLE FESTIVAL
Althea found the poste
r advertising the Somerset Apple Festival, set for Saturday of the following week, propped against the door of the stand when she stopped as usual on her way to work on Tuesday. She knew the event was coming up but had not paid much attention since she rarely had time for more than a quick visit. She paused, however, when a quick glance over the schedule disclosed the last of the musicians listed was Musical Madmen. Was it Miles who had left it there as a backhanded kind of invitation? She had asked him to let her know if he was playing someplace.
The fall festival was one of two annual community events the town sponsored. The other was in the spring. She left the poster where she had found it for Connie to put up, if she so chose, and went to work pondering it. If Miles had left it, why hadn’t he asked her on Saturday, or at least mentioned it? Had he still been concerned about her evening with Barry?
~ ~ ~
On her way home that evening, she saw the poster prominently displayed in front of the stand.
Connie shrugged. “Why not? It’s a town event. We should do what we can to help out.”
Connie would be there as always, occupying a booth with her knitting circle friends or at the Methodist Church coffee and apple crisp table, but Althea found her attitude right now odd, a little different than usual. Did Connie know something she didn’t? She decided not to ask. She would wait and see what happened.
Althea saw Miles wander into the side yard late on Saturday afternoon, when he knew she would be quitting for the day. Wander was the only way she could describe his nonchalant arrival. He was carrying his guitar and went into the arbor without looking in her direction, although she was sure he had seen her. Otherwise he wouldn’t be there. She heard him playing before she got there, something cheerful she didn’t recognize.
“Just practicing,” he said when she stopped in the archway. “This is a lovely place to practice.”
“For what?” She sat down opposite him.
He kept his gaze on his guitar. “We’re playing at the Apple Festival. Us Madmen.”
“I saw the poster you left.”
“Yeah. I was on my way to work, early for once. It’s been a hard week.”
She waited.
He kept his attention on his fingering. “We’re last on the agenda, playing for the start of the chicken barbecue.”
She asked, although she knew, “What time is that?”
“Around five. Could you come?” He still didn’t look in her direction.
She debated. Saturday was a busy day, but maybe she should take more time for community affairs. And he is asking me. Isn’t that what I’ve wanted? And I know Mavis and Becca would like a few extra hours. She said, “Probably.”
He glanced sideways at her, over his guitar, his face serious. “Could you wait until after our gig and have supper with me?”
“I guess.” It was what she had wanted, but she didn’t want to sound too eager. He was much too self-confident, too sure she would agree, although right now he sounded a little unsure, without his usual swagger. “I can make arrangements for then.”
He ran his fingers lightly over the strings, producing lilting riffs. Then, glancing at her again, he played “Bonny Eloise.” Lovingly.
She smiled, enjoying the song. “I like the way you play that.” She added, trying not to sound grudging, “You do play it well.”
“When I play it for you. For my Bonny Thea.” He added after a moment, “I don’t play it for anyone else. That is your song.”
She was flattered, pleased beyond reason, but she asked skeptically, “Really?”
“Really.” He met her eyes. “Don’t you believe me?”
She said honestly, “I don’t know what to believe where you are concerned.”
He returned to watching his fingers on the guitar strings. “That is probably wise.” He looked up at her again. “But you will come to the festival? For me?”
There was an appeal in his voice that reached her. He had a most expressive voice. “I will. I haven’t been for a couple of years.”
“And then to the barbecue with me?”
“I’ll do that, too. Didn’t you believe me?”
“I wasn’t sure.” He leaned against the back of the arbor bench. “I need to practice a few songs since we’re being fairly traditional. What would you like to hear?”
She didn’t think he needed much practice, but before she could answer he played “San Antonio Rose” and sang it, not quite imitating Tex Ritter. He apparently couldn’t produce the proper nasal twang, probably the only thing he can’t do with his voice. Then again, there is only one Tex Ritter. She laughed. “I always liked that one, but how about something like ‘Shine On Harvest Moon’?”
“Yeah, that’s what the old folks at these affairs like to hear.” There was a hint of derision in his voice.
She didn’t think of herself as one of those ‘old folks,’ even if she did like the songs. “That’s so we can sing along.”
He agreed, “The singing along is part of that kind of event.”
She asked, “Isn’t that what music is for? To share with everyone, with all of us who can’t produce it for ourselves?”
“I guess.”
She was surprised at his bleak tone, “Is there another reason for it? Or do you just like playing for yourself?”
He looked up and met her eyes again. “I like playing for you.”
Whatever the expression in his eyes, and she wasn’t sure what it was, it touched the chords of her heart.
He put the guitar aside and moved across the arbor to sit beside her. In spite of her resolve, her best intentions, she didn’t move away, slid closer into his arms and rested her cheek against his shoulder when his arms closed around her. It was such a comforting and inviting place to be.
~ ~ ~
Festival Saturday was a bright October day. Althea went to the event about four o’clock and strolled among the booths and tables spread around the wide lawn in front of the town hall. Local residents were offering the usual selection of handcrafted jewelry, jams and jellies, knitted hats and mittens as well as baby sweater sets, clever craft items, doll accessories, and wooden ware. She admired a set of hand-turned salad bowls, beautifully made from tree knots, but decided the price was too high. She didn’t see anything she needed. But there were many people she knew and she stopped often to chat, talked about the dry weather, how her stand was doing, had she heard recently from her mother in Arizona? She hoped to pick up some news, something different, but she didn’t. Connie always seemed to know everything and was willing to pass the gossip along.
She found her cousin sitting comfortably with several other women at the church booth and bought a cup of coffee. “I’m here for the barbecue,” she said, declining the delicious looking apple crisp with ice cream, “and don’t want to spoil my appetite.”
“You wouldn’t. It will be as good as always,” Connie said, with no further comment, leaving Althea to wonder.
A jazzy combo was finishing their gig when she ambled toward the performance tent. The festival committee had started serving dinner from a tent across the lawn, the tried and true combination of fried chicken, baked potato, corn on the cob, tossed salad, a roll and choice of beverage. It smelled heavenly, reminding her she had eaten little lunch.
Miles intercepted her before she reached the stage area. “Hey, you made it.”
“You didn’t think I would?”
“I didn’t know, not for sure. You’re always so busy.” He put his hand on her arm. “Come and meet the guys before we get started. I’ve told them all about you.”
“Told them what?”
“Just how beautiful you are. Come.”
She followed him hesitantly.
Three men, all thirtyish, shaggy haired, sporting some form of facial hair, and wearing worn
jeans and tees, were setting up their space, arranging stools and microphones. Two of them had heavily tattooed arms, and the drummer sported sparkling ear studs. She noticed with appreciation that there were no electronics. They were acoustic players. A variety of instruments were in stands at one side. Two banjos, and several types of guitars she couldn’t name.
Miles said cheerfully, “Here’s Althea. The lady we’re playing for.”
“You’re playing for.” The drummer grinned at her. “Hi, I’m Andy Cross. Miles said you’d be here. Welcome.”
She nodded, marveling at his size, something between a gorilla and a pro football player, but with an aura of gentleness about him and a little less shaggy than the other two. He was almost as neat as Miles, who, with his longish but trimmed hair only superficially resembled the others. She was instantly drawn to him as a kindred soul.
Miles said, pointing in turn, “Billy Dewer, and Sam Frost.” They nodded at her, smiling, but shyly or maybe uncertain about her, and keeping their attention on their set up arrangements.
Althea hid her sudden unease. There was certainly a sense of comradery among them, of friendship and shared interests, but there was also a feeling of restraint. Do they not want me here, somebody intruding on their turf, distracting Miles? Maybe taking him away from them, their group? Or is there something else, something deeper?
“So,” Andy said. “You all set, Miles?”
“I am.” He pointed to the back of the tent. “How about sitting over there, Thea? Until after our set?”
“Sure.”
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