Angel of Smoky Hollow (9 page)

She lived in New York City, for heaven's sake.

Slowly he backed the bike until he could turn around. Driving the short distance to his driveway, he tried to argue the situation, but the more he thought about it, the more he grew certain she was a novice in the dating scene.

“Oh, damn,” he groaned when he shut down the bike and propped it on its stand. That would change everything.

Surprisingly, he'd had a fabulous day, too. Which raised red flags all over the place. He could not fall for the pretty violinist from New York. She was leaving, as all the women in his life had left. At least he knew ahead of time that this relationship had no future. He hoped he was wise enough to guard his heart or he'd be head over heels before he knew it.

His family had bad luck when it came to women. Did the men choose unwisely? Or were circumstances just stacked against them?

He went to get a drink, then headed to the studio. Restless, too keyed up to sleep, he wanted to escape from his thoughts. He needed to focus on the carving and not the unattainable woman next door. She'd be gone soon. He just had to wait her out.

 

Angelica was about to turn off the light and head upstairs to read before bed when the phone rang. It was Professor Simmons.

“Sorry to be calling so late. I've tried several times during the day. How are you doing there?” he asked.

“I'm having a great time. Sorry I wasn't here when you called. Actually, I was at a county fair.” She smiled, remembering the different way of entertainment she'd seen that day.

“Well, that sounds different.”

“It was so much fun. We rode carnival rides like kids. The man who took me won me a teddy bear, and we ate so much
I might not eat again for a week. Did you know cotton candy just melts in your mouth?”

“Ah, don't believe I've ever had cotton candy.”

She shook her head. This was one of her former professors. Serious, focused. She must sound like an idiot to him.

“You doing okay there on your own? I didn't know Webb Francis was sick when I suggested you look him up,” Professor Simmons continued.

“I'm doing better than fine. He's letting me stay here in his place. Duh, you had to know that or you wouldn't have called here. He has a fantastic collection of mountain music. And I'm even teaching two young kids how to play the fiddle.”

“The fiddle?” he repeated.

She laughed. “I'm getting used to calling it that. Everyone looks a bit blank when I call it a violin. I'm able to pick up a lot of the songs just by listening. And Webb Francis has a ton of sheet music.”

“You have a rare gift of hearing and playing without music. So are you glad you went?”

“Oh, I love it here. We listened to different musical groups at the fair. There'll be even more at the music festival, I understand. That's in August. It's amazing to watch the people really get into the music, clapping, sometimes singing along. I wouldn't have missed this opportunity for anything. Thank you.”

“I'm pleased it's turning out well. Actually, I called because your parents called me two days ago wanting to know if I had the phone number of the place you were staying, as your cell wasn't working. I said there was no cell service I knew of in Smoky Hollow. From the questions that followed, I realized you had not told them where you were going. I hope I didn't mess things up telling them where you were.”

“Oops. Sorry, Professor Simmons. This vacation was supposed to be a break from everything, not just the symphony.”

“You might give them a call. They sounded worried.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I didn't mean to put you in the middle of anything.”

“Sometimes families exert pressures that are not fully realized at the time. I know they were strongly supportive of your music when you were a student here.”

“Maybe too much. But I'm grown up now. I can make my own decisions. Did you ever consider delving more into folk music?”

“I have on occasion. Teaching that course gives me an outlet that combines my love for it with other duties at the school. I have spent several summers in Smoky Hollow with Webb Francis. He has a rare talent himself. And knows more about their music than anyone. You'll have a good teacher, once he's well again.”

“Did you ever go to the music festival the end of August?”

“Of course. You'll not want to miss that. There will be jug bands, dulcimers and real old-fashioned mountain music. Great songs handed down from the first settlers. Call me when you return to New York. You can tell me your experiences in Kentucky.”

“I'll do that. Thanks for everything, Professor.” She hung up feeling guilty that she had put him in an awkward position. But she'd never expected her parents to call him to find out where she was. Had they called everyone she knew until they reached him? Couldn't they give her a few weeks on her own?

Reluctantly, she picked up the phone and dialed home. The phone rang until the answering machine picked up.

“Hi Mom, it's Angelica. I, um, was just calling to say hi. I'll call back.”

She reluctantly gave them the phone number. She didn't want them calling her every day trying to talk her into returning to New York. But she could understand they wanted to be in touch. Sorry to say, she had not missed their presence
in her life at all since she'd been in Smoky Hollow. She had a freedom she'd never known before and she relished every moment.

Still, this was the longest she'd been out of touch with her parents. Gazing out the window she wondered why it had taken her so long to break free. She did not need her parents dictating her every move. She was talented and capable. From now on, she would dictate her own destiny. She hoped.

Angelica knew they only wanted what was best for her. Older parents when she had been born, they had already given up on having any children. So it was a double whammy—doting older parents and gifted child.

Restless, she changed her mind about going up to bed and went to practice the song she was planning to play in the festival. It was complex enough to keep her fully engaged while playing, forcing out all worries and thoughts of the future. There was only the bow, the strings and the fast pace to the music.

After an hour, she put down the violin. She was getting better all the time, but would anyone really care?

She walked over to the window to look at Kirk's house, remembering his kiss at the end of their date. She'd had such fun that day. The Ferris wheel had given them an aerial view of the fairgrounds. The different music had enforced her decision to get more variety into her musical repertoire. And she couldn't wait to have cotton candy again. Yet who knew the touch of two lips could set off a firestorm? And she hadn't a clue what to do about it. On the one hand, she wanted more. To see if every time he kissed her she about melted in desire. Or would she grow used to them, would they lose their magical touch?

No lights showed at his house. He must have gone to bed. Which she should do. Then she saw the lights on in the building behind his house. Giving in to impulse, she went to see what he was doing.

The door to the building stood open, spilling light in a wide path. Angelica stopped in the opening and stared at the workshop. It was definitely not a garage. There were wooden statues and figurines against one wall. Piled up in front of another wall were chunks of wood in various sizes. In the center Kirk was chiseling from a huge block of raw wood. She glanced at what he was doing but her attention was immediately drawn to the glowing statue of a mother and children toward the back. Slowly she walked in and over to the wooden piece.

“This is amazing,” she said.

He swung around. “What are you doing here?”

She kept walking. “This is your whittling? What an understatement. It's amazing.” Reaching out she touched the statue, marveling at the satin finish so smooth beneath her fingertips.

She knew he watched her. When she looked up, she met his gaze. “These are beautiful!”

“Thanks.”

She walked along the finished pieces, reaching out to touch, unable to help herself. The rich colors in the wood, the tones and shadows and highlights were startling in their clarity and highlighted the skill of the carver for each piece. Time and again she was drawn back to the mother-and-children piece.

“Will this be sold in an art gallery?” she asked.

“Hope so. I have contacts to several across the South.”

“This is how you make your living, not construction or whittling. These are amazing.”

She walked over to the piece he was working on. “What's this going to be?”

“Woman on the precipice,” he said.

She could see the vague shape already chiseled from the wood. A bluff, a bank of trees growing back from the edge and on the edge the figure that was rough cut at best.

“Can I watch you work?” she asked, fascinated by the amazing talent he had. She had never suspected.

“Pretty boring. I shave small bits off, see how it looks, do more,” he said, looking back at the work in progress.

“How long will this take to finish?” She walked around it looking at it from all angles. She wouldn't have the first clue on how to do something like this. She looked at Kirk. He looked back, the same man who had teased her at the fair, had shared corn dogs and held her on the Ferris wheel when he'd rocked the car causing her to squeal in mock alarm.

Her heart caught in her throat. The same man who had confused her more than anyone with their goodbye kiss earlier.

“Several weeks,” he said.

Angelica looked around and spotted a stool. She brought it closer and sat on it. “Ignore me.” She kept her eyes on the wood, hoping he'd let her stay. She was fascinated this virile man did such delicate work. Glancing at the mother again she noted the serene look about the face, even without minute details. It could be any mother. Perhaps that added to the appeal.

She couldn't wait to see how he finished this piece.

Once he started it was obvious he could ignore her and focus on the work. She watched him, fascinated as his large hands did such precision work. The tools looked tiny, the gouging and chiseling precise and controlled. His hands were scarred. She thought from construction. Now she knew it was more likely from slips from the chisel or other tools. The patience and care he took removing bits of wood seemed ageless. If she were doing it, she'd rush through to completion. But it wouldn't be as amazing as Kirk's art pieces were.

The only sound was the soft tap of the hammer against the chisel. He changed to a gouge, worked some with that. Then took a piece of sandpaper and rubbed lightly, studying the area from several different angles. She could almost see the tree take shape, the detail on the leaves and branches startling.
If he did that with each tree blocked out, no wonder it took weeks to complete. But it would be exquisite when finished.

“Where did you get the idea?” she asked.

He glanced at her. “From you.”

“Me?” Angelica frowned. “I've never stood on the edge of a cliff.”

“You're on one right now, if you think about it. Behind you is the forest of your past. Ahead, nothing familiar, nothing normal. You're poised on the brink. Will you take a step out in faith and change your life? Or will you hesitate, then turn and reenter the forest of familiar?”

She stared at it a long moment. “What do you think?” she asked. Could she step out and find new fulfillment in life? Or was she destined to stay on the path her parents had laid out?

“You have accomplished great things for a woman your age. I think you'll go back to the familiar.”

She wasn't sure if she liked that idea or not. On the other hand, this was a graphic example of what could happen if she went forward—there would be a drop and splat and she'd be done.

 

Kirk wondered what she'd say to his assessment. Came from years of experience. There were only a few hearty souls who found the happiness in life in this small town. Those who farmed the land and passed it down from generation to generation, like Ben and Carrie. Or those who had seen what the rest of the world had to offer and selected this town, like he had and Webb Francis.

He didn't judge her. He wanted her to be happy and suspected the familiar route was the best way for her to go. This visit was merely a slight detour in her life's road. One she might remember for years, but wouldn't significantly alter anything.

“Were you ever on a precipice?” she asked.

“Sure, everyone goes through that stage, don't you think?” He picked up a wide flat blade and worked some on the cliff. It could be chunky to offer a way down and onward. It should be smooth in some areas to show the unknown, the possible danger of a sheer fall.

“And what did you choose?” she asked.

“Not the familiar or I'd be a farmer like my granddad. But enough of the familiar to settle in the town I grew up in. To build a community. To know my neighbors and friends.”

“Yet you touch the outside world with your art,” she said.

“I'm not a hermit. I travel sometimes. But I'm always glad to return home. I've seen things I wished I hadn't when I was in the army. Been places no one else in town has been after that. And seen sights like no others where it grabs you by the throat and make you thank God for the opportunity to see one of His wonders.”

“Yet you come back here.”

“Time and again,” he said, nodding.

“Alice wanted more. Does that mean you want less?” she asked.

He stopped working, putting down his tools. “How is it wanting less to be happy here?”

“I don't know. All my life I've heard go to New York, make it big.”

“And are you happy?”

She thought a moment, then slowly shook her head. “You know that. It's why I'm here, trying to learn something new, see what else is out there.”