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’d 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, measuring the grounds then pouring boiling water over them in the French press.
“He’s doing better, though he sounds awful on the phone. He’s going to his sister’s when discharged, which he thinks will be 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 haven’t even turned it on since I arrived. I 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, I like it black and hot.”
She set the mug in front of him and sat across the table.
“Tell me about some of the 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?”
“I’ll 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?”
“He 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?”
“Worth a shot. I’ll take you over this morning and you can try 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 folk 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.
“What else you need doing 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.”
“You probably 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 you could come to Webb Francis’s home.”
“I don’t get into town much. You come here. Practice up and let me know when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Devon. I really appreciate this.”
“We’ll see how you do. Why are you interested in all this? I thought you played in the New York symphony.”
“I do. I’m taking a break and wanted to explore some different music. When I had a class in folk music at the conservatory, I really liked it and wanted to learn more.”
“So you just up and came here. For how long?”
“Several weeks. Until after the music festival.”
“Humph. Kirk know you aren’t staying?”