Tell Me About Orchard Hollow

by Lin Stepp

  A little later, they lounged around the fire. Boyce had added a few fresh logs before he settled down. Now he sprawled across one of the couches, his feet propped on the coffee table, with Patrick at his feet on the rug. Jenna sat curled up in one of Sam’s armchairs with an afghan wrapped around her legs.

  “You first,” Jenna prompted him.

  “Where do you want me to start?” He yawned.

  “Right from the beginning, from when you were born.” She looked over at him with bright eyes.

  He studied her pretty face. “Like I told you, Jenna, there’s not a lot to tell. I was born not far from here in a little yellow farmhouse on a back road in Wear’s Valley. My mother still lives there; I’ll take you to see her one day. I was the youngest of five children, last after Charles, Rena, and the twins, Susan and Shirley.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Are the twins identical?”

  “Yes, and people got them confused all the time when they were small.” He laughed in remembrance. “Twins run in the Hart family. In fact, every generation of Harts, as far back as anybody can remember, counts at least one set of twins somewhere.”

  “Do your brothers and sisters still live around here?”

  “They do. Charles lives in Wear’s Valley, not far from Mama. He owns a print and sign shop – prints t-shirts and hats and makes signs. He’s married to Vera and has two boys. My older sister, Rena, and her husband live over toward Greenbrier and run a motel. Shirley married Reece Wakefield, one of the finest mandolin players I’ve ever heard, and Susan, the other twin, married the preacher of the Wildwood Church, Gilbert James. They live on the property behind Mama.”

  Jenna smiled with pleasure. “How wonderful to have all that family,” she said. “And they all sound so interesting. Do you get together often?”

  He wolfed down a few more bites of his pie before answering. “Every first Sunday in the month we all get together, go to the family church and have dinner at Mama’s place, which is nearby. Everybody brings food and it’s a good day with a lot of fine eating, visiting, and catching up for everyone.”

  “And you’re an uncle,” she marveled.

  Boyce rolled his eyes. “Nine nieces and nephews –it cost me a blessed fortune buying gifts for them all this Christmas.”

  Jenna reached over to pick up her coffee cup. Boyce studied her hands while she did so. Nice hands with tapered fingers and pretty pink nails.

  She looked up to catch his eyes on her and asked another question. “What does your father do?”

  He felt a shadow cross over his face. “He’s gone,” Boyce answered. “Died when most of the kids were nearly grown. I was only twelve. It was the hardest thing I ever faced. I loved him and followed him around everywhere. He was my hero and my role model.”

  “I’m sorry.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “Was he an artist, too?”

  Boyce laughed. “No, daddy was a preacher. He preached at the Wildwood Church where Susan’s husband preaches today - right behind where my Mama’s house is.” They sat quietly for a little while, enjoying the silence and the fire. Boyce took the pie dishes and put them in the sink and got both of them some more coffee.

  When he came back, he said, “So is it your turn now?”

  “No.” Her mouth quirked in a smile. “You still haven’t told me how you got into art or how you arrived where you are now - as a recognized artist.”

  “I keep trying to tell you, Jenna, my life history is really not that exciting.” He settled back on the sofa and propped his feet up again.

  She watched him eagerly.

  Resigned to his lot, he continued. “A lot of my art happened early by necessity. When daddy died, mother found herself in a pretty hard place. There was insurance and a little put by - but not much. Charles and Rena had just married and were out on their own, but Susan, Shirley and I still lived at home. Money was tight. We never had a lot, being minister’s kids in a small rural community, but we never experienced real hardship either. Now things looked tough. As the only son at home, I felt responsible to help out in some way.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “But you were only twelve, Boyce. What could you do at so young an age?”

  “You’d be surprised,” he answered. “I worked well with my hands, just like my daddy and Charles, so I started doing anything I could to make extra money. Charles had started his little print and sign business in a renovated barn on the highway at the back end of our property.” He smiled at Jenna. “The best blessing in our family was farmland, that Daddy inherited from his daddy, in Wear’s Cove between the Caldwell and Wildwood roads. The south border of our land flanks the highway that cuts through Wear’s Cove Valley .”

  He dropped a foot off the table to scratch Patrick’s back before he continued.

  “By the time most of us were nearly grown, the valley started to develop as a tourist route between Townsend and Pigeon Forge. As a teenager, Charles worked for a print and sign shop over in Sevierville. When he graduated from high school, he saved and bought some equipment and fixed up the old barn by the highway as his shop. Daddy, and a couple of uncles and family friends, helped him with the labor and the Hart Print Shop was born.”

  Jenna draped an afghan over her knees, and Boyce realized the cabin had grown chilly as the night settled in. He got up to add another log to the fire as he talked.

  “After daddy died, Charles started paying me to work over at the shop with him so I could help Mama. It was only a half mile from our house. After school every day I got off the school bus and worked at Charles’ shop. Charles soon figured out I wasn’t strong enough, and didn’t stay focused enough, to be much good with the printing equipment – or with cleaning the screens and such - but I was good at painting things. I mainly painted signs at first. I’d always been good at drawing and doodling, and pretty soon my creativity started finding a place for itself there. At first, I painted practical signs for the shop and for stores and buildings around the area. Daddy taught me to carve and whittle, and I used those talents with a knife to cut out designs in the wood and, then later, to shape other things I could paint. Birdhouses were one of the first things I started creating after signs. And my birdhouses started getting more ornate and decorative over time.”

  Jenna interrupted. “Like those birdhouses out on the stump at the end of Orchard Hollow Road?”

  “Just like those.” He smiled at her again. “In fact, I made those old birdhouses a long time ago. Sam asked me to create a marker sign for the head of the road and to figure out something to do to decorate the old tree stump that had been cut down across from it.”

  “I love those birdhouses, Boyce.” Her enthusiasm rushed into her voice.

  “Well, that’s the kind of thing I did as a boy and as a teen for a long time, and then I started experimenting with pictures on board. I gessoed and sealed squares of old board that I either located in the scrap heap, or found discarded by builders around the area, and then I painted scenes on them with my house paints.”

  He grinned at her. “I didn’t have any training, so I just painted what I knew – the mountains around me, the old barns and houses, fields and flowers, birds and creeks. Charles started propping them up in the shop and selling them to tourists. Some art expert that came through called them fine examples of “primitive art.” I thought that was a real insult then – the idea that they were primitive. I didn’t know beans about art. That art expert also found it amazing that I painted everything with only house paints. It was all I had.”

  He laughed. “I mixed up my own colors and then kept them in canning jars my Mama gave me. So you see, Jenna, I didn’t have any special training. I grew into art by doing it.”

  She tilted her head thoughtfully. “When did you get into oils and acrylics?”

  “When I grew older and took art classes up at Arrowmont. That’s a well-known arts and crafts school in Gatlinburg. I won a scholarship one summer and took classes in oils, watercolor, and acrylics.”

  He took a
drink. “I like oils and acrylics the best; they’re more like the thicker house paints I learned on. I’m fond of oils because they don’t dry so fast; I can keep working around on the design longer, and they produce a rich, deep color and effect. I also like acrylics because they wash up with water and have a fluid look and flexibility I can’t always get with oil. However, I was never able to do watercolors well at all. They dry too fast; I can’t change my mind with them as I go along. They’re unforgiving in that way. I can’t work as big as I like to with watercolors, either. Canvas can easily be stretched to any size.”

  Jenna looked puzzled. “So you didn’t go to college and study art?”

  He could hear the surprise in her voice. “Well, I know in your world, that’s important. I got around to it in time - once I started selling my work and could afford it. Early sales of any importance didn’t come for a long time. Then my first major money started coming in from juried craft shows and then from galleries around the area. It was an amazement to me when I got the first check with four digits for my work. As Charles said, ‘You can never tell about rich folks and what they’ll spend their money on.’”

  She looked confused. “He wasn’t proud of your success?”

  “Sure he was,” Boyce assured her, laughing. “He was teasing me. I was still painting birdhouses and signs for him while painting canvas the rest of the time. I wasn’t sure the new painting success would last at first and thought I might need my other job to fall back on. I like to paint birdhouses.” He chuckled. “You’ll see some of them down at the gallery.”

  She tucked her afghan tighter around her knees. “Where did you study when you went to college?”

  “I took about two years at Maryville College, close by, and got all my basics. Then, I transferred over to the University of Tennessee in Knoxville for my last two years and finished my art degree there.”

  A frown creased her forehead. “Did your professors like your work?”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Considering I made about as much with my paintings by then as some of them made teaching, it didn’t matter much to me what they thought. I tried to pick up what I could. I was open for fresh ideas and novel experiences. Even literature, science, and history opened new doors of thinking for me. I took a lot of classes in different art areas, too, to broaden out and try new things. Art history seemed the greatest revelation to me of all, since I had limited exposure to the works and techniques of other artists. I knew little about art of past ages or about art styles or art periods. That was the best part of the education to me.”

  He paused. “Sam told me art history was your field so I’m sure you’ll relate to that.”

  “Yes. I majored in Art History at college.” She yawned and tried to hide it behind her hand.

  Boyce saw it anyway and stopped his story. “You’re getting tired, Jenna. I guess we’d better call it a night. But I’m taking a rain check on hearing your life story since you made me tell you mine.”

  He got up from the couch and checked the fire a last time before turning to her with a grin. “Do you want me to drive you down to the gallery tomorrow or do you want to drive on down by yourself? I don’t open ‘til ten, but you might want to come at 9:30 to start to get familiar with things.”

  A panicked look came into Jenna’s eyes.

  “Really, Boyce.” She twitched her hands nervously. “I don’t think you will find me of much use in the gallery. I told Raynelle I’ve never really worked before, and I actually thought she was just joking, and being friendly, when she told me she wanted me to work in her store part-time. I didn’t take it seriously at all.”

  “Well, she took it seriously.” Boyce frowned down at her. “And it was a godsend for Charlotte and for me when Raynelle said we could borrow you instead.” He felt annoyance thread his voice. “I can’t paint if I have to work the shop. And Charlotte won’t be able to come back for a while. She’ll come back when the baby is a little older, and as soon as Charlotte’s mama can keep her, but in the meantime I’m in a real bind.”

  He glared at her. “Are you reneging on your promise?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a promise, Boyce.” She stood up, fiddling with the afghan that had been on her lap. “I’ve been trying to tell you I didn’t take Raynelle seriously when we talked. I didn’t really come down here to work, you know.” She offered him an apologetic smile. “I came down here to think. I mean, I have some personal problems to try to work out.”

  Boyce stalked across the room toward the door, really annoyed with her now. “Listen, Jenna. You can do whatever you want. You certainly don’t owe me anything.”

  He turned back to face her at the door. “You know, I personally believe you’d have plenty of time to think - and even time to feel sorry for yourself extensively if you want to - while you worked a little in the gallery for me. It’s not that busy a place, and it’s only for six hours on two days. You can think all you want between customers, as far as I’m concerned. But, as you well know, if you want to back out of this, you have the right. There’s nothing I can do about it. But my daddy always taught me two things you might want to think about here. One, work is good for the soul and idleness is bad for it. Two, the best way to get out of a depression is to do something good for someone else.”

  “Anything else?” Jenna lifted her chin, a hurt look on her face and tears brimming in her eyes.

  “Yeah, one more thing,” Boyce said quietly, refusing to feel sorry for her. “I thought you liked me and that we were becoming friends, Jenna. Friends help each other out. I could really use your help for a little while, at least until I can get an ad in the paper or put up a flier over at the college and find someone else to cover for me at the shop. I’d count it a real favor if you’d help me. It’s only two days a week.”

  Jenna stood there quietly, staring at the floor, saying nothing.

  “Well, there’s that, then,” Boyce remarked, turning to go. “You take care. I’ve got to get home so I can get some sleep. Call Sam and tell him how you’re getting along. Raynelle said he’s worrying about you. I think it would cheer him to hear your voice.” He checked his watch. “It’s only about 8:30; it wouldn’t be too late to call. It might cheer you, too.”

  Boyce was out the door and starting across the yard with Patrick when he heard Jenna’s voice calling out softly to him through the dark. “Boyce?”

  “What?” He knew his voice was curt as he turned around to see her framed by the light in the doorway.

  “I’m scared.” Her voice was almost a whisper.

  “Scared of what?” he asked impatiently.

  “Scared that I won’t do well; scared I won’t know what to do at the shop. Scared that you’ll be disappointed in me. Scared about everything right now, and not knowing what I should do about anything.” She started to cry.

  If it hadn’t been so quiet in the still of the mountains, Boyce would hardly have heard her anguished words at all. But what he heard most was the pain in her voice.

  He crossed back up to the porch and wrapped her in his arms.

  “Beautiful girl,” he said into her hair, his voice gentle now. “You need to stop being scared. I think you are capable of doing so much more than you imagine you can do. In some ways, I think you’ve never had the opportunity to even learn what you can do or what you have to offer. You’re like an unawakened princess not knowing the wonder of yourself. It’s time you woke up, Jenna - started exploring, imagining, and dreaming about who you really are besides someone’s daughter and someone’s wife. There’s a fine woman in you, and you need to get to know her. She’s worthy to know, Jenna. And she’s capable of facing her tomorrows with courage.”

  She was crying even more now.

  Dang it, he never understood why some women cried so much. It broke his heart when she cried, and, yet, it made him mad, too. Sometimes he couldn’t decide whether to pet Jenna or to try to shake some sense into her. But his daddy always said girls needed a lot more tenderness than me
n, so he held this girl instead and rubbed her back and petted her hair. Gradually, she stopped crying and then melted into him softly, letting him simply hold her, taking in his strength and kindness. As her body fitted itself warmly up against his, he felt that tension rising again.

  Boyce realized that his strokes were changing from soothing to caressing. Parts of him were stirring that had no right to. His senses were heightening again, as they always seemed to do whenever he got too close to this woman. He began to drift into that honeysuckle scent she wore. His mouth pressed up against her hair, and he found himself fighting an urge to move his lips across the soft forehead that was so near his mouth, to lift her face and press his mouth against hers. Just to see what it would be like. Just for a minute.

  She sighed a little, softly, as he warred with himself, making the inner battle even harder. He pushed her back from himself gently before he could follow through on any of his thoughts. Before he lost control.

  Her eyes were glazed and dilated as she opened them to look up at him, and her mouth softly parted. Mercy, but she was tempting him. And yet Boyce knew instinctively that she had no idea she was tempting him. She was a mystery he’d like to solve. How had this grown woman come to be so incredibly naïve? If he remembered right, she’d been married for two years now. She should know a lot more about men than she seemed to.

  He turned away from her abruptly and started down the porch. He had to put some distance between himself and her. He simply had to. As he started out across the lawn away from the cabin, he turned to find her still standing there, slightly dazed, staring after him.

  “Be ready at 9:15 am tomorrow,” he called to her, trying to sound casual and back to normal again. “I’ll honk as I start to leave.”

  “Everything will be fine at the shop, Jenna. You’ll see. Think of it as an adventure. Something you can tell Sam about.”