Bluebells on the Hill (6 page)

'It's not for sale,' she replied. He was
stubborn, but she could be, too.

'Times will get rougher when the mortgage
comes due. Work’s scarce around here. I don't know how you financed
it to start with …'

'I don't have a mortgage,' she said.

'So you just wrote a check?' he said
sardonically.

She nodded.

'Sure you did. Listen, in reality you have to
keep up with a mortgage, not to mention insurance, taxes,
assessment fees ...'

'If it’s such a burden,' she interrupted,
'why do you want it so much?'

'It's Mackenzie land. My father deeded this
portion over to Cora Rosefeld years ago. It was a mistake. I want
it back.'

'No sale.'

'Dammit, Mandy,' he slammed a fist down on
her table, 'you have all of Calaveras County out there. Find
another place. I'll pay any increase within reason.'

'Another place won't be as appealing, won't
have a stream; won't have bluebells on the hill.'

'You can plant flowers!' he roared.

'It's not the same!'

He shook his head wearily and moved towards
the door.

'Mac.' Amanda stopped him. 'Thank you for
taking me to town and for waiting. It was most kind and
helpful.'

He paused and looked back at her, a grin
lighting his face, the first Mandy had seen on him. What a change;
he looked younger, happier almost.

'Maybe I'll get to you with kindness. See
you.'

She remained where he left her, staring
thoughtfully after him. When had his wife left him? Amanda didn't
think it had been recently, not if the lines on his face were an
indication. They were too deep; too set not to be from years of
frowning. Were they divorced or just separated? Had they tried a
reconciliation? She smiled, trying to visualize knowing him well
enough to ask. She couldn't ever envisage such a time. Still, if he
were planning to 'get her with kindness', she’d try to make him
smile more. What a challenge that might be.

Amanda turned to her purchases. She reached
up to remove her hat, then paused. Walking to the bathroom, she
peeked at herself in the mirror. Cora Rosefeld certainly could not
have been a vain woman, the sole mirror in the cabin was the one
over the bathroom sink. What Amanda saw when she peered in pleased
her. The pale gray hat was attractive, its silvery color bringing a
glow to her skin. Her blue eyes seemed deeper, her skin smoother.
Tipping it down over one eye, she tried for a seductive look.
Pushing it flat back gave her an open, friendly look. She giggled,
tilting her head to one side. Which mood would work best with Mr.
Mac Mackenzie?

Tiring of her game, she returned to put away
her groceries, then turned to her other purchases. She tore the
paper from the large cushions, arranging them near the wall. The
fresh colors in the cushions only emphasized the dirty, faded
condition of the walls. She would have to paint soon. The soft
blues and greens brightened the living room, made it prettier
already. Two small lacy cushions gave a feminine accent to the
rather rugged cabin. Lastly, a small rug, to place before the
cushions and, later, before a sofa when she bought one.

She stepped back to admire.

It was almost like Christmas, with all the
new packages, she thought as she drew out the combination radio/CD
player. She inserted the batteries according to the directions,
tuning in to a local station. The gentle strains of the music
filled the room, making it instantly more comfortable. A home, now,
no longer just a old house in the woods.

As the radio played softly in the background,
Amanda drew the last purchase from its wrapper, a large
sloping-sided black pan, with ridges along one side. A pan to use
in panning for gold: the black color to facilitate spotting the
golden flakes or nuggets, the ridges to offer resistance for the
heavier metal when the water washed out the sand and grit of
lighter materials. Tilting and swishing, she tried to practice what
the salesgirl had shown her, a small smile of happiness on her lips
as she pretended she was already panning for gold.

Tomorrow she'd go up to her creek on her
hill, near her bluebells, and try her luck. What fun!

A rap at the door startled her. Glancing
around almost guiltily, she quickly stashed the tell-tale pan in
the kitchen, out of sight. Going to the door, she found
John-Michael, guitar in hand, smiling shyly at her.

'Hi.' He sounded unsure of his welcome.

'Hi, yourself. Time for another lesson?'

'Yes, if you have time.'

'Sure, come on in. I just got back from
shopping.'

'I know, you weren't home earlier. I came by.
If it's not convenient, I'll come another time. I got a guitar,' he
offered shyly.

'I can see, good brand. Come in and sit down.
No not there, use one of the chairs; those cushions won't give
proper position. Good posture is important. You don’t want anything
to interfere with your hands and arms. Did you practice the chords
I showed you the other day?'

'Yes.' John-Michael strummed a few times,
changing the chords.

'Good. I'll get my guitar and we'll get
started.' Amanda took off her hat, tossing it casually on to the
table. She pulled out another chair, turning it so it faced
John-Michael, then got her guitar.

'You look kind of familiar, like I've seen
you before,' John-Michael commented as Amanda strummed a few
chords.

'You have, just a day ago. Let's get
started.' She bent her head to look at her guitar. Blast, she had
forgotten John-Michael had some of her albums. Her eyes were
distinctive enough, even with her hair pulled back and a changed
environment, for her to stand out. She should have put the tinted
glasses back on. Oh, well, take his mind off it and maybe he'd let
it go.

'Now, try these strings; fingers here.'
Amanda watched as John-Michael faithfully followed her directions
with serious concentration.

'Loosen up, John-Michael,' she urged gently.
'Enjoy it, making music's fun.'

He smiled, but became serious again as he
changed the chords. In a minute he stopped. 'It hurts my
fingertips,' he said, flexing his left hand.

Amanda nodded. 'Yes, initially. But you can
build up calluses, see?' She held out her left hand, showing
hardened fingertips. When you build these up, you can play forever
and your fingers don't bother you.' She shifted position
slightly.

'Now, there are other ways to strum.' Amanda
demonstrated different rhythms, plucked the strings, and waited
each time for John-Michael to try.

'Good,' she praised. 'You can also use a pick
but, unless I play a steel string, I prefer to use my own fingers
and thumb.'

'You have a steel-string guitar, too?'
John-Michael was surprised. 'Electric?' He looked puzzled, as if
wondering how someone could have so many instruments.

'Of course,' she replied.

Oh, oh, she caught herself, there's no of
course about that. An electric guitar wasn't an instrument that
just everyone had, especially if they already owned an acoustic
guitar. She began strumming again to avoid further conversation on
that topic. There was more to trying to hide an identity than she’d
bargained for.

Not that the world would end if the whole
town knew who she was, but she did so want to be just plain Mandy
Smith for a while--for one summer. Have a place she could be
herself, not a country singer. She’d been on the roller coast ride
of country music, she’d almost forgotten how to be normal.

John-Michael practiced his chords, faithfully
changing every few strums of his right hand. After ten minutes, he
looked up.

'Now do I know enough to do a song?'

'Sure, let's see if I can think up one using
only those chords.' Dozens of songs flashed through her mind, but
most were too complicated for a beginner. 'How about Mary Don't You
Weep?'

'Okay, sounds good. What to do first?'

'G first, then C then D. Listen and watch my
hand.' Slowly Amanda began strumming, her left hand pressing the
strings. Softly she sang the song, almost in a monotone.

John-Michael watched, trying his fingers on
his guitar, but not strumming. When she had finished he nodded.
'Okay, I can try it now.'

Amanda reversed roles this time, fingered the
chords without playing the guitar. He stumbled several times, was
late in changing a chord, and moved very slowly through the song.
Nonetheless, pride in achievement showed in his face when he
finished.

'Bravo, John-Michael, very good!' Amanda
smiled at his happiness. 'I've thought of another one, too, Oh,
Susannah. Try it with me. Listen to when the sound changes so we
can change chords. We'll be a duo before long.'

'Yeah, do dueling guitars, instead of dueling
banjos.'

'Or we could do dueling banjos.'

'You play the banjo?' He was incredulous.

Amanda caught herself this time. No of course
in this reply; she was more cautious in her response.

'I have access to a couple.'

She could call Dave and get him to send her
banjo. She'd better call him, anyway, and let him know where she
was, and that she had not forgotten their date in Nashville later
in the month. He wouldn’t approve of her life here. He’d found it
difficult to understand that she really wanted the summer off, had
wanted to leave the city and find a restful, quiet place to relax,
to spend the summer. He’d be shocked at her buying a house. To
footloose, fancy free, live in the moment Dave, a house was an
awful, permanent, restraining burden. He wanted to be able to up
and move when the mood struck, not be tied down with material
possessions.

Yes, she would have to call him.

'Okay, John-Michael, let's try it.'

They played through the song a couple of
times, and repeated the first one again before Amanda called a
halt.

'You practice those; next time we'll expand
your repertoire.'

'This is super. Thanks for the lesson.' He
flushed, shifted a little in his chair. 'Is there anything I can do
to repay you for them?' he asked diffidently.

'No, John-Michael,' she said gently. 'I'm
just glad you want to learn. You come on down any time. We can play
what you know or learn more, or just visit, if you like.'

'Thanks, Mandy. I'll do it.' He smiled
shyly.

For a brief moment, Amanda saw his father's
face reflected in the smile. Mac had once been young, carefree and
probably had looked a little as his son did now. It was a pity his
wife's defection had changed him so much.

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning dawned fair and warm.
Amanda rushed through breakfast and her cleaning chores so she
could try her hand at panning for gold. She was full of
anticipation at the prospect and hurried through the dusting and
sweeping so she could proceed.

Shortly before ten o'clock, she plopped her
hat on her head, grabbed the black pan and headed to her portion of
the creek. She wore shorts and a light, sleeveless cotton top, both
in a pale blue that complemented her eyes. Her tennis shoes she
planned to take off at the water's edge.

Once out of doors, she slowed down, walking
steadily, but not rapidly, towards the creek, raising her face to
feel the sun. It was already hot on her arms. She was glad for the
shelter the hat would provide. She’d still have to watch it. Amanda
smiled with growing happiness at the day's beauty: the expanse of
evergreens soaring in stately dignity, the clear blue sky, and the
bluebells nodding in the gentle morning breeze. The soft gurgle of
the water could be heard in the air as she drew near the creek.

When she reached it, Amanda paused, trying to
determine the best place to begin. She had talked to the woman in
the store when buying the pan; basics had been briefly explained,
cautions against fool's gold stressed. When she saw a small
waterfall of less than three feet, the water cascading over in a
steady stream, she moved to try there. The major part of the snow
pack from higher elevations had melted. As the summer wore on, the
stream would probably diminish in size until it was no more than a
trickle curling its way around the large rocks and boulders
scattered in its bed. There were very few spots where the creek bed
was sandy, free from rocks.

One look and Amanda elected to keep her shoes
on. She had another pair at the cabin and some of the rocks in the
creek looked sharp. They were certainly not all smooth pebbles.
Gingerly she stepped into the water, heading for the waterfall.

It felt like ice!

Well, obviously, she chided herself as she
stepped quickly back to the bank. It was melted snow, couldn't be
expected to be warm. Equally obvious, she could not stand for hours
on end in the numbing cold. No wonder so much gold remained in the
California mountains; who could pan for it? They’d get
frostbite.

Disappointed at not being able to start, she
wandered upstream for a few hundred feet, searching for a better
spot, one where she could stay dry on the banks. She found another
likely spot, at the base of still another small cascade, where the
heavier gold would probably settle down to the bottom during flood
season. This particular area had the advantage over the first of
having a large, almost flat rock near the base for her to sit
on.

Started at last, Amanda found it pleasant to
swirl sand and grit from the stream bed in her pan, allowing the
water to wash out the lighter material, leaving the heavier gold at
the bottom of the black pan. Endless scraping up of the stream bed,
swishing it around in the pan, letting the water wash it out over
the side, examining heavier grains to see if they were gold. Over
and over, Amanda scooped, washed, examined.

Only her tired back forced her to call a halt
to her activities. Judging from the sun's position when she looked
up, stretching and rubbing her neck to ease the tightness, it was
probably well after noon. She had been at it for over two hours.
How quickly the time had flown. Ruefully she watched the water play
over the stones. Tomorrow would be another day. She’d continue
then. The fact that she had not found a single flake or chip she
believed was gold did not diminish her enthusiasm. Perhaps she
would find some tomorrow. Or the day after.