Until the Harvest (35 page)

“Because of Mayfair?”

Clint pounded his chest with his fist. “She fixed us here. Don’t know how it happened. Don’t know if she even meant to do it, but watching her pour love out over the sorriest family in Wise made me want something different.”

Margaret felt tears prick her eyes. Could Mayfair have made such a difference? Just by being nice?

Clint stood and pointed at Henry. “Son, I seen the poison you been carrying around since your pa died. It’s the same mess I shouldered for way too long. I took advantage of what I saw
in you there for a while.” He grinned. “You could have a real future in moonshining if you don’t aim to walk the narrow path.” The smile faded. “But I reckon I been seeing a change in you here lately.” He eyed Margaret. “Might have something to do with the company you keep.”

Henry, who had been watching Clint and Margaret like it was a sporting event, dropped his mouth open. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Clint’s laugh sounded like a bark. “Son, what you mean to say is there’s nothing wrong with you that a good woman can’t fix.” He grinned. “If you ain’t too stubborn to take advantage of it, like me.” He slapped his hands together. “Car should run better now. I’ll come again in six months or so, if you’ll let me.”

Margaret searched for words. “That would be fine,” she finally said.

Clint nodded once and walked toward the woods. There was a logging road down that way, and she saw sunlight glint on metal. He must have parked there. For a moment she wondered if he’d done something to hurt the car, then felt ashamed for even letting such a thought run through her mind. Something told her Clint was a changed man.

Henry watched Clint disappear into the trees, heard a car door slam and an engine start. He looked at Margaret, who was also looking toward the trees. He’d never really noticed her in profile before. Her freckled nose turned up a smidge on the end, and when she held her chin up like that—well, she was beautiful.

“Margaret, I—”

She turned toward him with an expectant look. “Yes?”

“I need to tell you something.”

She smiled. “I hope you’re not going to tell me to avoid Clint
Simmons, because I think he and I are going to be friends.” She tossed her head. “Of a sort.”

“No, no. I just wanted to tell you . . .” He felt as if he’d swallowed a big wad of biscuit dough and couldn’t get any words past it. He coughed, and Margaret stepped forward to pound him on the back.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. What I’m trying to say is . . . I’m going back to school.” He choked again. Where in the world had that come from?

“Oh. Well, that’s great. I think you should.” She looked a little uncertain. “That is, if you want to.”

Henry let out a gusty breath. “You know, I think I do. Somehow I want to finish something.” He rubbed the toe of one boot down the back of his pant leg. “Do you . . . would you mind if I wrote to you from school? Maybe come see you when I’m home?”

Her face bloomed in a smile that made Henry’s feeling of being an awkward fool fade.

“I’d like that.”

Henry reached out for Margaret’s hand, and she slipped her fingers into his. He was surprised by how delicate her fingers were and how it made him feel strong. Like maybe there was more in life to look forward to than he’d allowed himself to think.

30

S
UMMER
CLASSES
START
M
AY
18. If I work hard, I think I can make up what I missed in the spring semester.” Henry and Margaret sat on a rock outcropping overlooking the valley spread out below. “Of course, I’ll have to meet with Dr. Stanley and see if there’s any chance of making up his class. He failed me last semester.”

Margaret didn’t say anything. She just reached over and squeezed Henry’s arm where it was propped against his knee. He was glad. He was tired of people giving him advice and telling him what he should do. Margaret somehow made him feel better just by being there. He glanced at her pretty profile. Maybe she’d picked that peacefulness up from Mayfair.

“What are you planning for the summer while I’m off in Morgantown slaving over my books?”

Margaret lifted her chin so that the spring breeze pushed her hair back from her face. “I’m going to learn all I can about running the farm from your grandmother. We’re getting a pig next week to fatten up for fall. There’s the chickens, Bertie, the garden—I have a feeling it’ll be more than enough to keep us busy.”

Henry found Margaret’s hand and twined his fingers with hers. He felt bold doing it. “But what will you do for fun?”

She gave him a teasing look. “That is fun, but I suppose I might write letters to a certain young man slaving over his books, too.”

Henry’s heart felt lighter than it had since before Dad died. He wondered that he’d ever thought Margaret was plain or prudish. He had the urge to brush a strand of hair out of her face and kiss her, but he turned back to the view instead.

“I’m hoping I’ll have at least a little bit of time for music. Maybe I can get back in with Mort and those guys at the Screen Door.”

Henry flashed back to the last conversation he’d had with his father. He’d argued that he had time to play music and study. He wished, more than anything, he’d stayed home that New Year’s Eve and played with his dad. You never knew when it might be your last chance at something.

Margaret leaned over and bumped his shoulder with hers. “What deep thoughts are you thinking now?”

He looked at her, so very close, and without really even considering what he was doing, he leaned in to cover her lips with his. She gasped ever so slightly, making him want to deepen the kiss, but he pulled back instead. She had full soft lips that felt even better than he’d imagined. They were slightly parted now, maybe in shock.

“Is it okay that I did that?”

She blushed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “More than all right,” she whispered.

Henry surveyed the world around them—the mountains flowing down to pastureland with a creek winding along. Cows were grazing, and he saw a deer in the shadows near the water. He could hear birds singing, and the air smelled sweet and clean. He inhaled deeply, feeling as if he was completely filling his
lungs for the first time in years. He wrapped an arm around Margaret’s waist and pulled her close to his side. Man, this last year of school was going to feel like forever.

The bend where Henry’s truck disappeared didn’t change. There wasn’t even a breeze to stir the leaves. Margaret stared, thinking there should be some sign, some indication that a man who kissed her had just gone by and would hopefully come back that way before long. She wanted something—some proof that she hadn’t dreamed the whole thing.

She’d once thought Henry selfish and ill-mannered, but as the winter ended and spring bloomed, so had he. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine that he really would come back for her. That he really would write and call and miss her while he was away at school. She felt a mixture of exhilaration and fear bubble through her. Her mother taught her long ago that if something seemed too good to be true, then it surely was. Mom also taught her that most everything was too good for her.

“Mom loves us. She just doesn’t know how to show it because she’s never felt like anyone really loves her.”

Margaret jumped when Mayfair spoke. She turned to look at her healthy pink-cheeked sister. She hadn’t had an episode in weeks, and being on the farm really seemed to agree with her.

“Mayfair, you’re the lovingest person I know, and you love Mom, though sometimes I wonder why. How come that doesn’t do the trick?”

Her sister watched a robin land in the grass and snatch up a worm. “Sometimes it’s hard to recognize love when you’ve never seen it before.” She turned her attention to the bend in the road and pointed. An animal slipped out of the trees and crouched low in the road.

“Is it a dog?” Margaret squinted. The animal stood and shook itself, lifting its nose into the air in their direction.

“Yes, and I think it needs a home.”

Mayfair whistled low and melodic. The dog pricked its ears and seemed to consider what to do next. After a moment’s hesitation, it eased along the dirt road, hugging the tree line, in their direction. It stopped about a hundred feet out and considered the two girls.

“He’s not sure of us,” Mayfair said. She crouched down and began humming and poking in the grass like she was hunting for a four-leafed clover. “Get down, Margaret.”

Margaret crouched down, too, feeling silly. Weren’t you supposed to call the dog to you with your hand out? She watched out of the corner of her eye as the dog crept closer. Her knees were beginning to ache, and she eased on down to a cross-legged position.

“Don’t look right at him,” Mayfair said and resumed her humming. It sounded like a hymn, but Margaret couldn’t place it. Oh, wait. Maybe it was “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” She forgot the dog, trying to remember the words. Something about streams of mercy and redeeming love. And there was another line . . . Yes.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave
the God I love; Here’s my heart, O take
and seal it . . .

Something warm and soft touched her hand, and with every fiber of her being, she resisted jerking away. The dog sniffed her hand again and then Mayfair’s. He sat and gazed at them, as though waiting to see what they would do next. Margaret looked into his big brown eyes and felt the strangest connection.

“Guess we’d better feed him, then.”

Henry promised himself he wouldn’t play at the Screen Door until he was confident that his classes were in order and his
grades were where they needed to be. But since the summer classes didn’t seem quite so challenging, he figured it was time for some fiddling. He’d still have to figure out what to do about Soil Genesis and Classification, but for now he felt like music. Mort had been glad to see him and said he’d be welcome to come sit in on a set any time. As Henry pushed open the door, fiddle case in hand, he hoped Mort had really meant it.

It was early, and the guys were tuning up. Mort waved Henry over and grinned. “Your timing’s great. Our fiddle and banjo players are cousins, and their great-uncle up and died yesterday.”

Henry started to say something about being sorry, but Mort cut him off. “No, no. He was a hundred two and glad to go, but the boys are at the viewing. We thought we might have to cancel this evening, then I remembered Gordy said he’d play banjo for us sometime, and now you come strolling in with a fiddle in hand. Guess the good Lord’s looking out for us, after all.” He waved toward a stool. “Pull on up there, and we’ll warm up a little. Gordy should be along any minute.”

Henry sat and pulled out his fiddle, running the bow across the strings to make sure he was in tune. He was so focused on making adjustments, he didn’t notice when the man with the banjo arrived, but he surely noticed when the first few notes twanged out beside him. He looked up and into the face of Professor Stanley.

“Henry. I’m pleased to hear you opted to return and finish your degree. I thought I would have had a visit from you by now.”