Chapter Eleven #2
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 increased 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.
The bus driver took the backpack and climbed back into the bus.
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.