“I’ll be here.”
Angelica stopped at the yard to tell Carrie goodbye and let her know she’d be back for Kirk.
“One day we’ll have to have lunch and you can tell me all about New York. I’ve never been, seems a long ways from here. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know everything!”
Others called out to her as she was leaving, smiling and waving. She felt a curious connection after only one day with the people she’d met.
It was closer to five than four when Angelica turned back into the driveway. The barn looked complete. She wasn’t sure how the inside fared, but the only thing left on the outside was to paint it. There were men sprawled everywhere in the yard, obviously tired and relaxing after a full day of work. She spotted Kirk instantly. He sat on the ground, one leg bent, his arm resting on his knee. He was talking with two other men, each with a beer in hand. He must have heard the truck because he turned.
Angelica was caught by his smile when he saw her. She pulled to a stop short of the group and opened the door. Almost before she was on the ground, he was there. He looked hot. She swallowed as her senses revved up around him, wishing she had the right to reach out and touch, hold on to him, feel his arms around her in a hug.
Blinking, she slid along the side of the truck, hoping she wasn’t giving away the fascination she had.
“Nary a scratch or dent,” she said, pushing against her inclination to step closer, and continuing to move toward the back.
“Didn’t expect one,” he said easily.
“Ready to leave?” she asked.
“I am. I’m beat. But we’re finished. A couple of guys are coming on Saturday to paint. Jason has a sprayer, should be able to complete it in a day. But that’s not my thing.” He stepped closer.
She stepped back. “I’ll get in the truck, then.” And she almost ran around to the passenger door.
Kirk watched her, then with a wave and a shout goodbye, he climbed into the truck. The ride home was in silence.
Angelica clasped her hands tightly, as if holding on to her roiling emotions. She needed to get a grip. She was here to temporarily escape a life becoming too stressful and frenetic. She would be leaving shortly after the music festival. After talking with Gina, she was determined to stay for that. It sounded like an event not to be missed to hear more of the folk music of Appalachia.
“Sam doing okay on the fiddle?” Kirk asked when he almost reached her driveway.
“He’s doing very well. I think he’ll be ready for the festival. And Teresa Ann loves playing. Even chords. I can see the delight shining in her eyes.”
“I know they appreciate your helping out.”
“Does Webb Francis give lessons?” she asked.
“When kids ask. He mostly plays for himself these days. Taught at the university for a while. But he’s retired now.” He pulled into her driveway and stopped and looked at her.
“You going to play in the festival?” he asked.
“I think I might. I’ve been thinking about it since talking with Gina. I want to try some of the mountain music. Any favorites?”
He studied her for a moment. “‘Orange Blossom Special’, but it’s a hard one. Only a few folks I know can play it the way it should be played.”
Was he throwing that out as a challenge? She’d heard it, she knew how complex it was, and how fast it was played. Could she do it?
“Maybe I’ll work on that for you,” she said, opening the door. “Thanks for taking me today. I enjoyed meeting everyone and talking with Gina. Next time, I can bring some food. I do know how to cook.”
“Good to know.”
She walked into the house hearing the truck pull out. Pausing at the door, she watched as it turned into his place and was lost from sight when it went to the side of his cabin.
Scanning the sky she wished for another storm. But the sky was a cloudless blue. No excuse to go to her neighbor’s for dinner.
Kirk quickly showered and made a hasty dinner. After eating, he headed for his studio. He was tired after the day’s work, but still anxious to get going on the new carving he’d thought about all day. He had just the block of wood for it, a huge center of an oak that had to be almost four feet across. He’d had it a few years, not knowing what he wanted to do with it. Now he did.
It took block and tackle to get it moved over to the center of the room. Too tall to put on the table; he’d have to work on it on the floor. Studying it from all angles, he then sketched out the outline of the image he had in mind. Then penciled the overall shape on the side to know where to start carving. In only moments, he was completely caught up in the wood, the tools and the vision.
It was late when he straightened and realized how tired he was. He’d made a start, however. It wasn’t easy using oak, much harder wood than others he used. But the lines in this were perfect. The shape of trees and a figure on the edge of a cliff were roughed in. It would take weeks to get it the way he saw it in his mind. Enough for tonight. He needed to get some sleep.
Crossing the distance to his house, he glanced at the house next door. Would he finish it before Angelica left? If he worked at it full time he could. Would he want her to see it? It was the most personal thing he’d ever carved. And he wasn’t sure he could capture the expression on the face—awestruck, delight, freedom. Maybe that’s what he’d call it—freedom.
The next morning the phone rang while Kirk was still eating breakfast.
“Hi Kirk, it’s Webb Francis,” the voice on the other end said.
“How’s it going? You coming home today?”
He waited a moment while the older man coughed. “Not coming home for a while. My sister heard I was sick and is planning for me to stay with her in Louisville until I’m fit again. I may get discharged from the hospital later this week. Here’s hoping. How’re things there?”
“Fine. You’re missed. Gina especially wants to talk to you more about the festival. Speaking of which, your guest plans to play in it after all.”
“Angelica Cannon, that’s wonderful. She’s a rare talent, played as a soloist in the New York Philharmonic already at her young age. And some of her solo concerts have been reviewed to high accolades. She’s the reason I’m calling.”
“Did you call your house?”
“I tried there earlier, no answer. I was feeling better yesterday so I called Ryan Simmons.”
Kirk tried to remember anyone he knew by that name. “Do I know him?”
“No, he was Angelica’s professor at the conservatory. He’s been trying to reach her, but her cell isn’t on—or not working in Smoky Hollow more like. Anyway, can you let her know he needs to talk to her. She can use my phone, don’t worry about the cost. She learning anything?”
“Don’t know about that, but she’s borrowed a stack of CDs from the library and seems to be faithfully working with those kids each afternoon.”
“They’ll learn a lot from her. Wish I could be there, but Betsy is so adamant about my coming to her place, she’s threatened to send Charles to wrestle me there if I don’t go on my own.”
“Let her fatten you up. As I remember, Betsy is a great cook.”
“Yes, just what I need.” He coughed again. “Sorry to ask you to keep an eye on my place longer.”
“That’s what neighbors are for, you know that. Anyway, Angelica is melding in fine. She’s leaving after the festival.” If he said it often enough, he’d remember it—and keep that fact in the forefront of his mind. She’d looked good enough to eat when she arrived yesterday afternoon at Carrie and Ben’s. But by the way she’d almost run around the truck and then dashed into the house when they reached it, she didn’t share that growing awareness whenever she was around.
He was having a hard time remembering she was only visiting!
“Figured she’d only stay a while. She has a career in New York. Sorry I can’t play with her. I bet that would be something.”
“Your sister’s care will have you recovering quickly. You might
make the festival—play a duet or something,” Kirk said.
“We’ll see. Tell her to call Professor Simmons.”
Kirk replaced the receiver after the call. He had wanted to get to work on the new carving, but it wouldn’t take long to give her the message.
CHAPTER SIX
HE WALKED ACROSS THE LAWN between the two houses noting again that Webb Francis’s lawn needed mowing. Maybe he’d get to that later today. It would be dry enough after the rain. He went to the back door and knocked. Angelica opened it and gave that smile that made her the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.
“Come in. Want some coffee?”
He hesitated. He was only going to give her the message and then leave. But might as well be neighborly.
“Sure. I heard from Webb Francis earlier.”
“Sit down. How’s he doing?” She began to bustle around the kitchen, pouring water in the coffeemaker, measuring the grounds.
“Better, though he sounds awful on the phone. He’s going to his sister’s when discharged—he thinks later this week.”
“Oh.” She stopped and turned around. “Does that mean I should leave?”
“No, he likes having someone here watching the place.”
“Sure, like there’s any danger. No one even locks their doors.”
“Well, better to be lived in than not. He had a message for you. Call Professor Simmons. Apparently the man’s been trying to reach you but your cell doesn’t work here.”
“I noticed that the first day, so I haven’t even turned it on since. Wonder what he wants.”
“Call and find out,” he suggested.
“Okay, if you don’t mind. The coffee will be ready in a couple of minutes.” She reached for the kitchen phone and punched in the numbers. She asked to speak to the professor, but he was in class. She gave the local phone number for him to call.
“That told me nothing,” she said when she poured the coffee into two mugs. “Do you take anything in yours?”
“No, like it black and hot.”
She set the mug in front of him and sat across the table. “Tell me about other buildings you’ve worked on,” she said.
“What brought that on?”
“I was thinking of how you knew how to do everything with that barn, from the roof to the stalls to framing. I noticed others checked with you as if you were the boss or something.”
“Something. I’ve built a few buildings in my time.”
“Working your way around America.”
He nodded, sipping the hot coffee and looking at her. Her voice was borderline too soft to hear. He really had to concentrate, but that was no hardship. She looked bright and rested today. He still thought she should put on a few more pounds, she was thinner than any woman he knew. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes a bright blue, as if the sun-kissed color in her face enhanced them. A few more days in the sunshine and she’d stop looking like she just got out of a hospital or something.
“So is that how you make a living, building things?”
“You could say that.”
She waited a moment, then took a sip of her own coffee. “Do you play an instrument?”
He shook his head. “Someone has to be the audience.”
She smiled at that. “Will you come to the festival?”
“Probably be there part of the time.” The part where she played. He didn’t hear well enough at the outdoor concerts to stay long. But he’d get a front row seat to hear her.
“I listened to a song last night that I had a hard time understanding the words. It was a ballad and sounded like half the words are ones I don’t know.”
“Probably old English. There are a few sad songs sung that harken back to the early days.”
“So can anyone translate for me so I know what they’re saying?” she asked.
He thought a moment. “Webb Francis. Gina. My granddad.”
“Your grandfather? Does he play an instrument?”
“No. But he had a terrific voice. Used to sing at all the festivals. Hasn’t in the last twenty years or so, but he knows all the songs.”
“Why did he stop?”
“Had a falling out with the woman in charge of the festival that year. Never went back.”
“Wooo, he holds a grudge.”
Kirk nodded.
“Do you think he’d help me?”
“Might. Worth a shot. I’ll take you over this morning and you can see for yourself.” He wondered what reaction his grandfather would have to Angelica. He had never had many friends, and hadn’t come to town much in recent months. But he used to love to sing. Who had he hurt most by his refusal to sing in the festival, Kirk wondered.
It was after ten when Kirk and Angelica arrived at the farm where Kirk had grown up.
“This is so pretty,” Angelica said as they drove down rows of corn bordering the drive. “When is the harvest?” She studied the tall plants noting the ears were clearly visible and looked as large as any she’d ever eaten.
“Starts next month.”
“And where does all this corn go?”
“We put up some. Locals buy it from Granddad and the rest is for the hogs.”
“Hogs?”
“That’s my grandfather’s primary money-maker. Hogs.”
When he pulled into the yard surrounding the house, Angelica noted the old homestead was made of wood, freshly painted and looking solid and enduring. Behind the house was a barn, smaller than the one she’d seen built. It was painted a rust color red. The huge double doors stood wide open. From inside she could hear the squeal of hogs. The noise was almost deafening. A hound dog ran from the barn. Angelica wondered how it could have heard the truck over the noise of the animals.
“Late feeding this morning,” Kirk commented. He went around the truck and opened her door, then gestured toward the barn. “Want to see?”
She nodded, falling in step as he headed that way, petting the dog as he trotted next to them, tail wagging.
Inside the barn was lit by overhead lights. Stalls lined each side of the wide center aisle, but whereas the horse barn had high walls, these were only about four feet high. The sound hurt her ears and she covered them.
An older man was near the end, dumping meal into a trough. The hogs in that stall were standing on their hind legs, front braced against the wooden stall door, squealing in delight. To the right all the hogs had been fed, they were snorting and pushing into the food troughs eating as if they hadn’t had food in a month. To the left, only two stalls had hogs waiting to eat. Without a speck of patience among them.
Fascinated, Angelica kept pace with Kirk, her hands blocking some of the high-pitched sounds.
Kirk’s grandfather turned and saw them, but didn’t pause in his task of feeding. When the last one had been fed he turned and spoke.
“This Webb Francis’s guest?” he asked.
She dropped her hands now that the noise had ceased. Smiling politely she waited while Kirk made introductions.
“It is. Angelica, this is my grandfather, Hiram Devon. This is Angelica Cannon from New York.”
“Humph. How long you here for?”
She was surprised at the lack of greeting. Everyone else in Smoky Hollow had been friendly. “Until after the music festival. I heard that you sing.”
“Not any more.” He turned and walked to the feed bin, hanging the bucket beside it.
“I’m learning more about mountain music,” she said. “A song I heard yesterday has me puzzled. I couldn’t understand all the words. Kirk said you might know what they are and what they mean.”
He frowned. His gray hair was covered by a beat-up old felt hat. His bushy iron-gray eyebrows almost met over his nose. “What song?”
“The Alder Tree?”
He nodded. “I know it.”
Angelica didn’t know if she should push to have him help her or if it would be better to let him decide without any pressure. But she hoped he would.
“What else you need do
ing this morning?” Kirk asked.
“Still have to check the water in each trough, open the doors so they can get out if they want.”
“I’ll do that if you want to tell Angelica the words,” he said.
The man studied her for another moment, then nodded. “Guess I could.”
Angelica followed Hiram Devon into the old kitchen through the mudroom where he toed off his muddy boots and slipped into regular shoes. She looked around, curious to see the home in which Kirk had grown up. She’d seen his home now, with its modern touches and homey feel. This place looked worn and old, but it was scrupulously clean.
“Want anything?” he asked, as he went to wash his hands.
“Nothing, thanks,” she replied, taking a seat at the wooden table and pulling a notebook from her tote. “I tried to write down the words as I heard them, and tried to figure them out on my own.”
He took the notebook and scanned what she’d written.
With a sigh, he took the offered pen and began writing next to her lines wherever she had it wrong.
Angelica studied him as he worked, trying to see a resemblance to Kirk in the older man’s features. Maybe in the eyes.
He looked up and caught her staring.
She looked away, not wanting to offend or have him stop helping.
“There, those are the words. The song came over from the old country generations ago. It’s about a young man leaving Scotland to go to America and the girl and friends he left behind. When word of his death reaches them, there’s mourning in the entire village.”
“How sad.”
He shrugged. “Life was tough in those days.”
“So what exactly does this word mean?”
For several minutes she jotted down the meaning of the words she didn’t know. He hummed the tune while she tried to match words to melody. “I could play this on the violin—fiddle, I mean.”
“Could. It’s not hard.”
“If I do, would you sing it with me so I know I have it right?”
“Here?”
“I can bring my violin here. Or at Webb Francis’s home?”
“Don’t get into town much. You come here. Practice up and let me know when you think you’re ready.”
Angel of Smoky Hollow Page 8