Angel of Smoky Hollow

by Barbara McMahon

  “You’re very special, Angel. I wish for you the best life has to offer.” He kissed her, softly, sweetly. Then dropped his hands. “See you tomorrow.”

  She watched as he ran across the lawn and disappeared into the night. His figure was blurred—from the rain or the tears that now fell she wasn’t sure.

  “I love you,” she whispered into the night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE AIR WAS FESTIVE, the crowd good-natured and ready for fun. When Angelica and Sam and the Tanner family arrived at the fairgrounds, the parking lot was already half full and the performance was not scheduled to start for another hour. They’d arrived early and Angelica was surprised to see so many others had also arrived early. They hurried to the amphitheater and found Gina who was marshaling everyone into places in the lineup.

  Sam hugged Webb Francis’s violin and stayed so close to Angelica she almost stumbled over him when she turned once.

  She looked at him. His eyes were big, watching everything around him, and darting from time to time to the stage. The crowd could not be seen from their location, but she could hear all the people.

  She stooped down and faced him. “Sam, look at me.”

  He complied, looking as if he was going to cry.

  She smiled gently. “You are eight years old and performing at your first festival. I want you to remember what a fun time we had all these weeks playing the fiddle. I want you to always remember your first time here. You’ll probably play every festival from now until you’re as old as Mr. Devon. But this will always be your first time. Have fun, sweetie. Play for me and Teresa Ann and your mom. Don’t worry about any one else.”

  “Maybe Kirk?” he said. “And my dad?”

  “Okay, play for them, too. If you start to think of anything else, turn and look at me and only me, got that?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Make me proud,” she said, hugging him and then standing. She leaned over and picked her violin case from the grass where she’d dropped it when talking to Sam. Good thing her mother wasn’t here to see that. She’d have had a hissy fit.

  “Okay everyone, we’re about to start. Break a leg,” Gina called, shepherding the first group to the edge of the stage.

  Sam looked at Angelica. “Why did she say that?”

  “Theater superstition. Do not break anything.”

  As the afternoon progressed, group after group stepped up, followed each time by a solo act. When it was Sam’s turn, Angelica went right to the edge of the stage with him. She could see the crowd now, the amphitheater as full as it had been during the fair. Sam walked on, listened until the introduction was finished and then looked at Angelica. He raised the fiddle and began. He played beautifully.

  Tears filled her eyes at the performance. She thought her heart would burst with pride. His gaze never left hers. When he was done, he gave a short bow and scurried off the stage.

  “Sweetie, go back, they’re clapping for you,” she said, turning him around and pushing him back.

  His eyes widened in wonder and then he beamed his smile to the audience. The clapping went on for several minutes. He bowed again and then came off stage, grinning from ear to ear.

  “I did it!”

  “You did great!” She hugged him and then hurried away as the next group was introduced.

  Twenty minutes later Angelica took a breath and stepped out on the stage in Bryceville, Kentucky. There was no darkened theater, but a wide open amphitheater filled to the brim with people who had come to enjoy good Southern mountain music.

  She hardly heard the introduction as she sought Kirk and Webb Francis. They were right on the front row, both grinning at her.

  She glanced around at the audience. Normally she never saw anyone at the symphonies. Now she could see every person there—even Paul and Melvin. So they did leave the store rocking chairs sometimes. Glancing to her right, she saw Sam standing by the stage, to give her support, he’d said. If she got scared, she was to look at him. She gave a wink and placed the violin in the familiar spot, rested her bow on it for a second—and began. Tchaikovsky’s solo first movement was one she loved. She played it with as much feeling as she could, to honor all the people who had come so far to hear good music. It was totally different from the others on the program, and she tried to see how well it was going over as she played. But, oddly enough after all these years, she felt nervous. Seeking Kirk again, she focused on him. The rest of the crowd seem to fade as he smiled slowly. She hoped he heard every note.

  When she finished the applause was tremendous. People even stood, clapped and yelled—Kirk and Webb Francis among them.

  She felt almost giddy with delight that everyone liked the music.

  The applause went on for several minutes, finally dying down. She smiled again, nodding to Kirk, and began the song she’d practiced on this summer, “Orange Blossom Special.” She played it looking directly at Kirk, hoping he could hear her, hoping he liked the song as much as he said he did.

  The crowd went wild, clapping and yelling. Obviously a favorite with more than one. Momentarily she glanced around and then grinned, playing for all she was worth. The long notes of the plaintive whistle, then the faster notes as if a train was roaring down the tracks. Clapping went on and faster, so she sped up. The crowd loved it. Finally the song ended, but not the ovation. People called to do it again. Gina nodded from the sidelines, so Angelica played it through a second time, then bowed and left.

  “They’re still clapping and calling,” Sam said. “You should go back out there.”

  She stepped back in sight and waved her violin and bowed again, then left.

  “Excellent,” Hiram said, coming up to them.

  “I wondered where you were,” she said, giving him a quick hug in her exuberance.

  “I sat out front, no sense missing all the others by standing around back here.”

  “You ready?” she asked.

  “As I’ll ever be. You, Mr. Sam, did a fine job,” he said to the boy.

  Sam smiled. “I’m going to play next year, too.”

  It seemed like only moments later Hiram and Angelica stepped out on the stage. She stood a little behind him and to his right, giving him center stage. He motioned her closer, but she smiled and shook her head, bow poised. “Ready?” she asked.

  He nodded, turned to face the audience.

  She bet the old ballad never sounded so good as his strong voice sang of love lost. She watched Kirk as he listened to his grandfather, then he looked at her. For a long moment as the words filled the air, her heart sped up wanting to fly right to his. Sudden tears filled her eyes as she related to the sad lyrics. She looked away afraid she’d mess up the accompaniment. The crowd was quiet as Hiram sang, but burst into applause and cheers when he finished.

  Gina gave him a hug when he came off stage.

  “You two are great. Plan on next year!” she said.

  Angelica was startled. She never thought about coming back.

  Hiram nodded, then looked around for Kirk. He came from the audience a moment later.

  “You did amazing,” he said to his grandfather, giving him a hug.

  The old man protested, but the hint of color rising in his face showed his pleasure.

  “And you played like an angel,” Kirk said to her. “You do have an amazing talent. The world will be blessed by your music for many years to come.”

  She blinked. She hadn’t expected that.

  “We ready to leave?” Hiram asked.

  “Sure.” Kirk answered, but his eyes never left hers. “You’re still leaving in the morning?”

  She nodded. “Taking the bus.”

  He hesitated a long moment, glanced around at all the people.

  Ask me to stay. Tell me you’ll come visit me. Write to me. Want to stay in touch. She wished so hard she wondered if telepathy wouldn’t covey her yearning to everyone.

  “Have a good trip home,” he said.

  She nodded and smiled, but h
er heart ached and tears clogged her throat. But she kept her chin up.

  “Thanks for all you’ve done. Send me a picture of the finished sculpture.” You are the most amazing man, she wanted to say. I wished you loved me.

  He nodded.

  “Let’s go. Them hogs will be hungry,” Hiram said. He looked at Angelica. “You come back, heah? I might find another song we can do next year.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, without making any commitment. Tears filled her eyes despite her effort at keeping them at bay.

  “Bye, girl,” the old man said, pulling her into a hug. “Don’t forget us.”

  She rode home with the Tanners and endured their profuse thanks for helping their son. She bid them goodbye with real regret, hugging Sam extra hard. An entire new world had opened teaching him. Something else to think about in the future. She took Webb Francis’s violin back into the cottage. She had so little to pack, she could do it in the morning. She was taking the bus to Louisville to catch the plane from there. Not much left to do here. The cottage was tidy. She’d change sheets in the morning.

  She took a glass of iced tea to the porch and sat. She was getting used to the humid heat. The shade kept her comfortable as she absorbed her surroundings. It was peaceful, serene. So unlike New York City. A place she truly hoped she never forgot. Nor the people. Nor the gentle way of life.

  After she was ready for bed she went to the window of her room and stared across the dark to Kirk’s house. The light was on in the studio. She wished she could have seen the finished sculpture. She considered going over there now, but it was late and they had said goodbye earlier, before he took his grandfather home. Turning, she climbed into bed, wondering if she’d really learned anything about her life these few weeks.

  She could stand up to her parents. She could choose the concerts and symphonies she wanted and let the others go. She could explore other types of music and leave New York and function just fine. She might even have a choice in the future between performing and teaching—or maybe both.

  She rolled over and pressed her hand against her chest, against the ache and fear that lodged in her heart that she was leaving the best thing that ever happened to her when she left Kirk Devon.

  Kirk stepped back and looked at the sculpture. It was coming along. The drive to finish was strong. The curiosity about how it would look rose with every day. The trees were about finished, and the face of the bluff. It was the figure poised at the top that would give the most trouble.

  He tossed his tools down and went to the door, staring at the house next door. She was leaving tomorrow. He should have taken her to the festival, insisted on taking her home. The Tanners could have thanked her other ways. His grandfather would have found a way home, or could have driven himself to begin with.

  But he’d pulled back, trying to get used to the idea of never seeing her again. And after that amazing solo at the festival, he’d known she was more special than he thought. It had been enthralling. He wasn’t sure he caught every note, but what he heard stirred emotions and memories. Such genius should be shared with the world. She’d go on to greatness. He was humbled by her talent. Maybe she needed this summer break to see how far she’d come. Now she was returning and there was nothing he could do to change that. Nothing he would do. Her gift far surpassed Smoky Hollow.

  His grandfather had done well at the festival. The ride back to the farm had been quiet. They’d done chores together, eaten supper. It was only when he was leaving that Hiram stopped him.

  “Remember back when you were in school and studied American poets. One line always stuck with me—the saddest words are might have been. Think of what the future could be if we take the might have beens and made them the realities and not the way we think things should be.”

  Kirk thought about it. At the time he thought his grandfather was regretting lost opportunities. The years between his last performance and today’s. But it could apply to lots of different things—letting his wife go. Not spending more time helping neighbors. Letting his only son do a dangerous job which got him killed.

  Or maybe he was trying to tell Kirk something more specific. What might have been if Angelica stayed. What would life be like, waking up with her every morning, going to bed together every night? Holding her, laughing with her, listening to her soft voice, straining to catch every nuance. Touching her. Kissing her. Teaching her about desire and passion and making love.

  He leaned against the door post and considered everything. Life would never be the same once she left.

  The next morning, Kirk headed for the cottage next door. Knocking, he waited. There was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside, calling her name. Wandering into the kitchen, he saw it was spotless. Then a quick look in the other rooms showed the bed made, the music room as tidy as Webb Francis kept it. No priceless violin in sight.

  She was gone.

  He felt a flare of panic. She was really gone.

  Heading for his truck, he made it to the store in record time.

  Angelica stood on the porch talking with Paul and Melvin, her backpack on the floor, her precious violin case leaning against a post. Laughing at something one of the men said, she turned and saw him. In her hands, a teddy bear and pink hat.

  Kirk stopped and stared at her for a long moment. One of the men must have said something because she turned to respond. As if in a dream, he climbed out of the truck and walked over.

  “Come to tell her goodbye?” Paul asked.

  “We said goodbye,” Angelica said, flicking him a glance, then looking away.

  Kirk studied her for a moment, trying to find some sign she’d be receptive to what he wanted to say.

  The bus lumbered down the street, its engine noisy, the black smoke belching from the tailpipe.

  She looked at the bus, back to Kirk.

  He swallowed. Time was slipping by faster than he could deal with.

  The bus stopped and the driver opened the door and stepped out.

  “You going with me?” he asked.

  She looked at the driver and nodded.

  Kirk’s heart sank.

  “I only have the backpack and fiddle,” she said, reaching over to scoop both up, balancing with the other items already in hand.

  She looked at Kirk, uncertainty filling her gaze. “It was an amazing vacation. Thanks to you,” she said with a sad smile. “Maybe I’ll come visit again.”

  “If you leave, you’ll never come back.” He knew that, but the words to keep her in Smoky Hollow wouldn’t come. How could he ask her to give up all she’d spent a lifetime working for to settle in a backwater town like this?

  “Maybe,” she said. She waved at the two on the porch, smiled again at Kirk, and stepped onto the bus. He remembered the day she stepped off that same bus. The uncertainty in her eyes. Today, it was reflected. He hadn’t seen that look in weeks.

  His voice wouldn’t work. He wanted to ask her to stay. Yet the past interfered. His mother’s defection, Alice’s. He wasn’t enough for a woman, he’d had ample proof. He couldn’t utter a sound, only watch as she chose a seat by a window near him and waved again.

  In seconds the bus was gone.

  He stared after it a long time, gradually growing aware of the men behind him talking.

  Turning, he raised an eyebrow in question.

  “She said she got as much as she gave. That song she did yesterday was darn pretty.”

  Kirk nodded and walked to the truck. He had to remember that, her songs were for millions, not the few thousand people around his neck of the woods.

  He started the engine but sat for a long moment staring down the now empty road. “Be happy,” he said, wondering what he could have done differently, to make her want to stay.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE FINAL NOTES SOUNDED, fading softly from the concert hall. Angelica took a breath and lowered her violin. The bright lights blinded, but the applause was thunderous. She inclined her head in acknowledgme
nt.

  She smiled and bowed slightly again, wishing for the privacy of her Paris hotel room.

  Staring out into the darkness beyond the bright lights illuminating the stage she couldn’t help comparing it with the open-air stage in Bryceville. She couldn’t see anyone, not that she’d recognize anyone here. She smiled again and slowly walked off the stage. Another concert to check off. Only a couple of more and she’d be heading back to New York.

  Once in the dressing area they’d assigned her, she quickly wiped her violin and placed it in the case. Congratulations and well wishes were called through the semi-open area where other musicians were talking, laughing and getting ready to leave. A couple looked grumpy, but she ignored them, wondering if they felt as lonely and uncertain as she herself did.

  She touched the strings gently, remembering the sunshine and breeze when she’d played that song in Kentucky. What would the audience tonight have thought if she segued into “Orange Blossom Special” after that Mozart piece? She shook her head. Maybe she should try it just once to see what happened. To see if she could purge the ache in her heart that had been steadfast since she left Smoky Hollow.

  “These folks ever hear ‘Orange Blossom Special’?” a familiar voice asked behind her.

  Angelica spun around, unable to believe her eyes. Was that truly Kirk Devon standing there—wearing a dark suit, brilliant white shirt and red power tie? He looked amazing. Her heart stuttered and then began beating furiously. She felt it take wing. Could he really be here in Paris? In this backstage area?

  “Kirk?”

  He nodded, his eyes watching her intently. She knew that look, had thought she’d never see it again. Her breathing had stopped. For a heartbeat time stood still. Then she forced herself to take a breath.

  “What are you doing here?” Her eyes searched every inch of that beloved face. She couldn’t read him at all.