Chapter Three
It was early when Kirk kick-started his bike and headed for his grandfather’s place. He checked on the old man two or three times a week. Pops rarely came to town any more—preferring his own company on the farm to mingling with others. No one cared. He had the disposition of a surly bear.
But he was the one who raised Kirk and he had a deep abiding affection for the old man.
When he pulled into the yard a short time later, the old hound barked and ran to greet him. Soon Pops came out of the back.
“You here for breakfast?” he asked gruffly.
“If there’s any going, I am,” Kirk said.
He took off his helmet and propped up the motorcycle. Glancing around he saw a farm still going strong. He hoped he had the energy and determination when he was in his seventies that his grandfather did.
“How’re you doing for eggs?” Kirk asked as he drew closer.
There were no hugs. They didn’t even shake hands. But Kirk felt the love for the old man as an integral part of himself.
“Sent some over to Bella yesterday. Plenty laying now. Come on in. Coffee’s on and you can cook the biscuits.”
The two prepared their breakfast as they had many mornings when Kirk was growing up. His mother had abandoned them when he’d been about two. He really had no memory of her. His grandmother had long ago left the grouchy old man. After his father’s death, it had been Kirk and Pops.
“Saw Webb Francis yesterday,” Kirk said after he put the biscuits in the oven to cook.
“Is he getting better?” his grandfather asked.
“Appears to be, though he looks like death warmed over. Says he’ll be home soon, but I don’t think so.”
“You keeping an eye on his place?”
His grandfather might not be the most personable of men, but he had a strong sense of duty he’d instilled in Kirk.
“I am. He’s got someone staying there a few days. A woman from New York.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Came to learn some folk songs from Webb Francis.”
He looked at his grandson sharply. “Pretty, that woman?”
“Too thin. Has tired eyes. Seems to switch from being all haughty to scared of her own shadow and back again.”
“She won’t stay long.”
“They never do, do they?” Kirk said, thinking about his family’s history with women.
“Best thing I can say of my marriage was your father. His best was you.”
Kirk nodded. He didn’t have a marriage to boast of.
Would he ever find someone to make a family with? He’d once thought he and Alice would marry. But she upped and went off to Atlanta and found a rich attorney.
Once he’d had his fill of seeing the world, he’d wanted to settle in Smoky Hollow. How different life would have been with a few changes along the way.
“You should marry, have some kids. I wouldn’t mind having a great-grandchild,” Pops said gruffly.
Kirk was surprised to hear him say that. “Thought you believe men are better off without women.”
“Can’t make a baby alone,” Pops said.
For a second, Kirk thought of the pretty woman from New York.
It’d been a while since anyone had caught his attention.
She appeared too uptight to want children was his instant assessment.
But for a moment, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her, to see her eyes blaze with awareness and desire.
Was she cool as her coloring or could she flare into passion with the right man?
Stupid thought, as if he could ever be the right man. Alice had been from Smoky Hollow and had moved away as soon as she was able. No city slicker would hang around beyond the summer. And he wasn’t interested in moving to New York.
“Have to make do with me,” he said.
His grandfather shrugged.
“Works for me.”
After eating a hearty breakfast, he helped his grandfather with chores. The man wasn’t slowing down much, but he was in his seventies. Maybe Kirk should suggest he get some help, hire a man to work alongside him.
Farming wasn’t for Kirk. He didn’t mind helping out from time to time, but he and Pops had settled a long time ago that Kirk wasn’t going to take on the family farm. He liked building and carving. Lately the building side had slowed, giving him more time for the carving.
“Might go over to Bryceville later this week, check in on Webb Francis,” Pops said later when Kirk was getting ready to leave to meet Angelica.
“He’d like that. Tell him I’m introducing his friend around.”
Pops looked at Kirk.
“Bring her by here one day.”
Kirk shook his head. “You come to town. You haven’t been in weeks. Do you good.”
“I’m busy.”
Kirk laughed. “Take it easy, Pops. I’ll come by in a day or two.”
He drove the short distance home and left the bike while he walked to his next-door neighbor’s house.
Knocking on the front door, he was surprised to see Angelica open it instantly, almost as if she’d been standing behind it waiting for him.
A check of his watch showed it wasn’t quite ten, so he wasn’t late.
She stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her.
He caught a whiff of some light floral scent, blending with that of grass and the roses running riot in Webb Francis’s yard.
Her hair was sleek and glowing in the sunlight. Tied back he couldn’t get a good estimate of if it was wavy or not. But that honey color was delicious. Her eyes were staring at him as he caught her gaze.
“What?”
“Are we going? Or are we just standing here for the rest of the morning.”
He started to agree with standing and staring at her. She was pretty as a spring morning.
And totally off limits if her attitude was anything to go by.
“We’re going. Got everything you need?”
She lifted her tote a few inches, then turned and stepped off the porch.
Walking beside her he registered the state of the lawn. He’d have to get over and cut the grass before they had to get a harvester in.
She said something. He looked at her.
“Say again?”
“What?”
“What you said, can you repeat it?”
“I asked how long it’s going to take to get to wherever we are going and why aren’t we driving?”
“I thought New Yorkers walked everywhere,” he said, ignoring the first part of the comment.
“I usually take cabs.”
“Lazy,” he teased.
She flared up, then caught the gleam in his eye and relaxed a fraction, giving a rueful smile.
“Maybe a bit. But I don’t want to be walking down a busy street with my violin. It could get damaged.”
“You don’t take it everywhere.”
She nodded. “Pretty much.”
“So are you famous or something?”
She shook her head.
“Why would you think that?”
“Webb Francis seemed impressed—said he could learn something from you and he’s the best fiddle player around.”
“Violin,” she murmured.
“Say again?”
She stopped and faced him straight on. “Violin,” she said loud and clear.
“I’m deaf in one ear, have a hearing loss in the other,” he said.
Her eyes widened.
“I didn’t know. Sorry.”
She was almost yelling.
He leaned closer, taking in that light floral scent, and the heat of her.
“I can hear normal tones for the most part if I’m facing the person talking. Don’t yell.”
Her eyes gazed into his and he felt a tightening in his gut.
The blue was flawless, like the deep summer blue of the skies over Kentucky.
She didn’t look away and he felt as if she was drawing him in closer, until he could almost brush his lips across hers, taste the sweetness he knew he’d find, discover if passion lurked beneath the cool exterior.
She blinked and stepped back.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“First to the library. Mary Margaret McBride has video tapes of other music festivals and CDs. Get to know her and you can watch and listen to them to see who you want to talk to. Then if I can find them, I’ll introduce you to Dottie and Paul, two of the members in the group Webb Francis plays with.
We’ll run into Gina one of these days. She’s coordinating the festival—doing it all now that Webb Francis is out of commission. ”
The day was growing warm, but Angelica didn’t notice as much as she had the previous day. Kirk’s stride was longer than hers so she had to walk briskly to keep up. She hadn’t really thought he was deaf—or partly deaf—when she’d shown her annoyance by stopping in the street.
How had it happened? Had he been born deaf? Maybe that explained the intense way he focused on people when they spoke—to better understand what they were saying. Did he read lips?
She searched her mind for what little she knew about deafness. Sometimes people could hear certain ranges of sound. With his remaining hearing, did he have full range or limited? She didn’t feel she knew him well enough to ask, but she was curious.
She couldn’t imagine not hearing. Listening to music, hearing the birds chirping, talking with friends—how much she’d miss if she were deaf.
“Do you work?” she asked as they turned a corner. Ten feet ahead was the start of a sidewalk. They had arrived in the town proper.
“Sure.”
“You haven’t for the last three days.”
“Neither have you,” he replied.
“Are you on vacation, too?”
“Is this your vacation?”
She bit her lip and studied the buildings and storefronts as they walked by.
“Sort of.”
She wasn’t going to explain. She wasn’t sure she could. The drudgery of constant practice and rehearsals, the limited social outlets, the pressure from her parents to achieve more and more had finally reached the point where she wasn’t sure about anything any more.
Music had once enchanted her. Now it was a chore. Her escape was an attempt to find the joy in music again. Try something else. Find herself. She couldn’t envision herself playing the violin to the exclusion of everything else for the next fifty years.
Should she try another instrument? Think about another career? She was too burned out to do any of that.