Home Song

by Thomas Kinkade

  Emily sat at the head of the conference table, wearing her reading glasses, which had slid down her nose. She held a sheaf of papers in her hand and was carrying on an animated conversation with the woman sitting to her left. Sara recognized most of the others from having seen them at the diner—Harriet DeSoto, the town clerk; Warren Oakes, an attorney in town; Betty Bowman, a realtor; Doris Mumford, a high school science teacher; and Frank Hellinger, who ran the local fuel company.

  The table was covered with papers, posters, and even bumper stickers. One was a flyer with Emily’s photo in the upper-right corner. It must have been a draft, Sara realized, noticing the cross-outs and corrections in red ink.

  Emily looked up and smiled at her. “Sara, come on in. We’re just finishing up here.” Emily turned her attention to the others. “I guess it’s a wrap for tonight. We can cover the rest of this on Tuesday, right?”

  “Maybe we should meet before then,” Doris said as she rose and packed her briefcase. “We don’t want to be caught short for the debate.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Warren Oakes said, following the others to the door. “I hear Charlie’s camp is really gearing up. Besides, we still haven’t gone over your closing statement, Emily.”

  “Yes, well, I’m still working on it,” Emily replied. “It’s almost done.” She waved Sara closer as the others left. “Shut the door, will you, dear?” she asked.

  Sara left the food on Emily’s desk, then went back to close the door.

  Emily tossed her glasses on the desk with a sigh. “My campaign committee,” she explained briefly. “They mean well, but they can get a bit intense.”

  “They seem very serious,” Sara agreed. “What do they do for you? Hand out flyers and things?”

  “Oh, way more than that. They talk to the voters, try to figure out what people are thinking and what positions I should take. They help me write speeches and position papers. They do a lot, really,” Emily admitted. “I certainly couldn’t get through this election without them.”

  “But don’t you just say what you believe?” Sara asked, surprised. “They don’t really tell you what to say, right?”

  “Well . . . yes and no, I guess,” Emily replied slowly as she lifted the lid off her take-out dish. Then she laughed and shook her head. “Now, there’s a politician’s answer if ever I heard one.”

  Sara didn’t say anything. She could see that Emily was a bit uneasy. Still, she wanted to know the real answer.

  “I try to do the best that I can to be true to my ideas about issues,” Emily said in a more serious tone. “But sometimes I have to be—savvy, or careful about it. Especially during a campaign. Voters tend to see things in black and white. The fine print gets lost. I have to be careful not to alienate the people I need to communicate with.”

  Sara felt a little startled by Emily’s admission. She was basically saying that she had to compromise what she really believed in to get votes, wasn’t she?

  “Luckily there are no really controversial issues in this election,” Emily went on. “It’s been pretty easy for me, so far.”

  “Can I help out with your campaign?” Sara asked suddenly. Where did that come from? she wondered. It wasn’t just that she thought Charlie would make a lousy mayor. If she had to wait until after the election to tell Emily the truth about her identity, at least she could get to know her better by helping on the campaign.

  She half-hoped Emily would put her off with some polite excuse, but instead, Emily looked pleased.

  “Sure, if you like,” Emily said. “Let’s see, what can we put you on?” She walked over to the table. “There’s a draft of a letter somewhere in this mess that I mean to send to the Messenger. It’s about the firehouse substation proposal,” she explained. “Wait, here it is.” She pulled out a few pieces of paper held together with a clip. “That’s my letter on top. This one underneath is Charlie’s. It appeared last week, so I’m trying to answer his points.” She handed the pile to Sara. “But it could use some work, I think, before I send it to the paper. Want to take a look and see what you can do?”

  “Uh, sure. No problem.” Sara glanced down at the letters and newspaper clippings, surprised and pleased that Emily had given her such an important task. Her confidence made Sara happy. “I’ll look it over right away and get it back to you,” Sara promised.

  “That would be great. Just call if you have any questions. The issue is a little confusing—and so are my scribbles in the margin.”

  “Okay, I will,” Sara said. She caught sight of the small brass clock on Emily’s desk and realized that she’d been gone from the diner for a long time. Too long, even for laid-back Billy.

  “Oh, gosh, I’ve got to get back to work,” Sara said, rushing off. “See you.”

  “Good night, Sara,” Emily called after her. “Thanks again for your help.”

  Emily watched Sara go, thinking she looked even younger tonight than usual, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and a red hooded sweatshirt pulled on over her waitress uniform.

  Sara had seemed so shocked to hear that she couldn’t just stand up and deliver every campaign speech straight from the heart. It had been almost amusing, Emily thought. But it had niggled her conscience, too.

  She was that way once herself, wasn’t she? Young and naive, shocked to lift the hood on the real world and come face-to-face with the greasy, clanking, broken-down mechanics that actually made things run—and in no way matched up to her pristine ideals.

  Well, it was too late and she was too tired to worry about it now. And piles to go before I sleep, she thought, paraphrasing a favorite poem by a favorite poet.

  She glanced at her overloaded in-box, grabbed a handful of folders, and took a bite of salad. Plain mixed greens and tuna fish, low-fat dressing. She paused to stick her tongue out at the sheer blandness of it. But all these campaign breakfasts, lunches, and dinners would make her gain weight.

  I might be back in office next year . . . but I won’t have anything left in my closet to wear to work, she muttered to herself as she unwrapped a pack of low-fat crackers.

  Now, that’s a problem I can do something about.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SARA HAD BARELY MADE IT HALFWAY DOWN THE gravel drive that led from the cottages to the Beach Road when she wondered if her plan to bike to Potter Orchard had been such a good idea.

  Maybe Lucy’s old bicycle wasn’t up to such an ambitious trip. It was not only heavy and the seat remarkably uncomfortable, but more of the ten gears seemed to slip than actually catch. Luke hadn’t had a chance to work on it; he had been away all weekend.

  I really should have greased the chain a bit, she thought, glancing down at it as she rode uphill.

  She checked her watch. It was nearly eleven A.M., and she had a Monday afternoon shift at the Clam Box. If she didn’t ride faster, she would never get to the orchard and back in time.

  Something stuck and Sara pushed hard on the pedals, feeling the entire mechanism lock. The bike wavered for a moment, and she felt herself tipping to one side. “What the—” she cried out. Branches suddenly came into view overhead as Sara crashed to the ground.

  The bike came down on top of her, so that one leg was caught underneath. She lay there a moment, catching her breath. She hadn’t been on a bike in years—or fallen off one, either, for at least as long. She knew she wasn’t seriously hurt, but the palms of her hands stung, and she felt a little shaken up.

  She heard the sound of the gravel crunching with an approaching car and looked up to see Luke’s black 4Runner coming down the road. She had just long enough to disentangle herself from the bike and get up, before he stopped and waved to her.

  She waved back, forcing a smile. How dumb is this? My cottage is still in sight, and the guy finds me flat out in the middle of the road.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, getting out and walking toward her.

  “Oh, sure.” Sara shrugged and tugged on the bike’s handlebars to lift it. “You were right, though. I s
hould have tuned this up before I tried to take it out.”

  “I could say I told you so, but I won’t,” Luke agreed with a grin. He stood with his hands on his hips, squinting in the sunlight, little lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes.

  He was good looking in a rugged way—maybe not to everyone’s taste, but she definitely liked his looks.

  Luke crouched down on the other side of the bike and studied it for a minute. “Chain fell off,” he said simply. “Here, let me see if I can fix it for you.”

  He stood up and flipped the bike over so that it was balanced on the seat and handlebars, then worked on the chain, fitting it back over the sharp-toothed gears.

  “I can get it on,” he told her, “but it will probably fall off again.”

  “Don’t bother,” Sara said.

  He flipped the bike over that so that it was right-side-up again, and Sara took the handlebars. Then he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the grease off his hands. “Where were you headed?”

  “To Potter Orchard, to pick some apples. Have you ever been?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He nodded. “Years ago, though. The view from up there is great. You can see the whole town.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard,” Sara said.

  He didn’t answer, suddenly seeming self-conscious, Sara thought. She hadn’t seen him since the night when he told her about his past. Was he feeling embarrassed about that now?

  “When did you get back? I didn’t see your truck before,” she said.

  “A few hours ago. I had some errands to do in town before coming back here.”

  He watched her, his gaze unnerving.

  “Want to come to the orchard with me?” she asked impulsively. “I mean, if you don’t have anything to do.”

  “Sure, why not?” He shrugged. “I like apples.”

  Sara smiled. “I have to be at work by three, but that still leaves plenty of time. Oh, what about the bike?” Sara looked up at him. “Should I leave it here?”

  “We can just stash it in my truck,” Luke offered. “We’ll put it back in the storage shed when we get back.”

  Luke loaded the bike into the SUV, and Sara got into the passenger seat. It seemed very quiet as they drove away from the cottages. Quiet and tense, she thought. She wondered if inviting him had been such a good idea. He sat staring straight ahead, not saying a word and not looking as if he was about to, either.

  Sara opened her window and felt strands of her hair lifted by the breeze. She felt she ought to start a conversation, but didn’t know what to say.

  “How was your trip?” she asked at last.

  He glanced at her, then looked back at the road. “Interesting,” he said simply.

  She waited, but he didn’t say anything more. She had met quiet types before, but Luke took the prize for laconic.

  “So how was your father’s party? Was he surprised?” she asked.

  “He acted surprised, but I think he knew. It’s hard to plan a surprise party for a retired detective. My mother has tried before,” Luke explained. “He was surprised to see me turn up, though,” he added, glancing at her for a moment. “More like shocked, I’d say.”

  Sara couldn’t tell if he meant it in a good way or bad. She wondered if she should ask more, if it would seem too personal, then decided to plunge ahead. “How did that go?”

  “Not great,” Luke said quietly. “But he tried, I have to give him credit for that.”

  He stared out at the road, and Sara could see he felt badly about his father. There must be more to the story, she reasoned, but she didn’t pry.

  “My brothers were better. It was good to see them, and their kids and all. They were surprised to see me walking so well now. I guess when I left I was still limping along.”

  “I don’t really remember,” Sara said honestly.

  She could hardly recall now how obvious Luke’s limp had been when she first met him. It was funny how, once you got to know someone, the outer details seemed to recede and you somehow saw the person differently. More of what was inside shining through.

  “I ran into some friends, too,” he added. “Some guys from the job.”

  “How did that go?” she asked curiously.

  “Good. These guys were really tight friends of mine. They never made me feel . . . I don’t know, like an outcast or something. They took me out to dinner, to this steak place where we always hung out. We had a pretty good talk,” he said.

  He seemed happier, she thought. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why; she just sensed it somehow and felt happy for him.

  Sara watched the roadside with its warm fall colors sweep by, feeling content in the silence. The faded red-and-white sign for Potter Orchard came into view, and Luke turned off the Beach Road. He followed the signs to the “Pick Your Own” section and parked. There were only two other cars in the lot, Sara noticed, but several pickup trucks.

  They got out of Luke’s SUV, and Sara turned to admire the Potters’ house, which stood some distance behind the orchard, closer to the road. The gracious old Queen Anne with its wraparound porches looked as if it had seen better days, Sara thought, but it was still remarkable.

  “I love that house. It’s just fantastic,” Sara said.

  “It really is,” Luke agreed. “But check out the view in this direction.”

  Sara turned and gasped. From the Potters’ hilltop, the town and harbor looked like a toy village set up beneath a Christmas tree.

  “Wow,” she said softly. She still had no intention of remaining in Cape Light, but she couldn’t deny the beauty of the place.

  As they walked toward the shed to pay their money, Sara noticed a group of men setting up ladders at the nearby barn. She recognized Harry Reilly, Digger Hegman, Sam Morgan, and Reverend Lewis and wondered why they were working here today. Then Sara remembered that Gus Potter was sick. They must have come to help out, she realized. A nice gesture, somehow typical of this town.

  The rough wooden apple shed was painted green with white trim. Inside, Sophie Potter sat behind the counter, a stack of bushel baskets at her side. She was dressed in layers—a cotton turtleneck, a flannel shirt, and a big wool sweater that looked as if it belonged to her husband, topped with a down vest.

  “These bushels are big,” she said. “You ought to share one.”

  Luke glanced at Sara and she shrugged. “It’s fine with me.”

  “Okay, one, then,” Luke said.

  He took out his wallet to pay, but so did Sara. “No, let me,” she insisted.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, sounding almost cross.

  “No, I invited you, remember?”

  “What difference does that make?” Luke seemed puzzled, but finally stepped aside so that she could hand Sophie some bills.

  Sara knew it was silly to argue, but for some reason she felt better paying. It felt less like a real date, maybe.

  As Sara took the bushel from Sophie, she felt the older woman watching her curiously, sizing her up in some way.

  “The sections are all labeled. Just check the signs at the end of each row. We’ve got McIntosh, Macoun, Empire, Fuji, Imperial, Granny Smith—the best selection you’ll find in the area,” Sophie stated proudly. “Now, do you know how to pick ’em?”

  “I’m not sure. Is there a special way?” Sara asked.

  “There’s a right way and a wrong way to do everything, dear,” Sophie observed. “As for apples, you don’t need to yank them off and take half the tree with you. You just give a little twist at the stem”—she demonstrated with a slight twist of her wrist—“and the fruit will drop off right into your hand, like a lot of things in life. Yank ’em and you ruin the blossoms for the next year.”

  Sara nodded. She had only picked apples once before and didn’t remember this tip. “We’ll do that,” she promised.

  She noticed Luke had wandered away from the shed, taking another look at the view. His back was toward her, his hands dug into the pockets of hi
s leather jacket. She felt that mysterious tugging in the center of her chest and realized again that she felt drawn to him. Attracted to him. There was just something about Luke. He was so different from all the others, unconventional and not easy to understand. Even now, she wondered what he was thinking about.

  “Picking apples is a good way to get to know a person,” Sophie said knowingly.

  “Fill up this bushel, dear. You’ll get your money’s worth.”

  Sara smiled and ducked her head as she took the empty bushel. “Uh, thanks. See you later.”

  She walked toward Luke and took a deep breath. She didn’t know him very well, that was true. And his confession about his past had made her even more curious.

  There’s a lot he doesn’t know about me, either, she reminded herself as he turned and walked toward her.

  “Ready to start?” Sara asked him.

  He turned and nodded. “Sophie Potter is quite a talker,” he said as they walked toward the trees.

  “Yeah, but she’s interesting,” Sarah said. “I never knew there were so many types of apples.”

  Luke turned and flashed a smile at her. “I’ve seen you at the diner. You’ll talk to anyone.”

  Sara felt a stab of surprise as she realized he had been watching her. She had never really thought he noticed her.

  “I guess I do,” she said with a shrug. She hugged the empty bushel basket to her chest with both arms. “Most people have something interesting to say—about their lives or their work or what they think of their neighbors. I find it interesting, anyway.”

  “Don’t be offended.” He rested his arm on her shoulder, and she felt keenly aware of his touch. “I think it’s nice. I just noticed it about you, that’s all.” They walked along a few steps just that way, until he glanced at her, looking self-conscious again. Quickly he put his hand back in his pocket and gazed straight ahead.

  “Is that how you get ideas for your writing?” he asked.

  “Sometimes. Sometimes just by watching people or listening to their conversations.”