Until the Harvest (36 page)

Henry swallowed hard and wished he could wipe his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants leg. “I’ve been meaning to stop by. I wasn’t sure you’d be glad to see me after . . . well, after last semester.”

“Henry, I’m always glad to see a student make a wise decision. Especially when it comes on the heels of a poor one. Now is not the time to negotiate, but if you come see me next Monday,
we might be able to come to an understanding regarding credit for my class.”

Henry feigned deep interest in his bow. “Yes, sir. I’ll be glad for any opportunity—”

“Not now, Henry.” Professor Stanley’s—Gordy’s—eyes twinkled, something Henry didn’t think was possible. “Now is the time for some music.”

And with that, Stan the Man launched into dueling banjos, nodding at Henry to pick up the response on his fiddle. After a moment’s hesitation, he did, and before he knew what was happening, Henry and his professor were playing a mile a minute while the rest of the band whooped and hollered. Henry felt his heart take flight with the music. Yes, indeedy, the world wasn’t always what it seemed. He wished Margaret could see him now.

Margaret washed her face and started over with the eyeliner. She’d never worn much makeup and didn’t seem to have the knack for applying it. She was almost tempted to call her mother and ask what the trick was. Lenore’s makeup was always perfect. She leaned toward the mirror. A raccoon. She looked like a spotted raccoon.

Piebald thumped his tail at her. Once the dog accepted Margaret and Mayfair, they fed him and fussed over him. A search for an owner came up empty, so the girls adopted him and named him Piebald—or just Pie—because he had more freckles than Margaret did. Margaret expected him to bond with her sister like most animals did, but he seemed really and truly attached to Margaret. And he had surely found an easy home in her heart.

“Pie, I’m a little nervous about seeing Henry. What if he’s changed his mind about me?” The dog cocked his head as if trying to understand. “What if he met someone prettier or
smarter or just, I don’t know, better?” Pie sighed and rested his head on his front paws.

“At least you love me. Don’t you?”

Pie thumped his tail again and rolled his eyes in Margaret’s direction. She took that as a yes.

“Henry just pulled into the driveway.” Mayfair stuck her head through the open bathroom door, then stopped and looked concerned. “Are you going to wash your face?”

Margaret flushed and began wiping away the attempt at makeup. “I’ll be right there.”

Face clean and freckles likely glowing, Margaret walked into the kitchen just as Henry burst through the door. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and he leapt forward to wrap his arms around her and spin her in the air. She was sure her foot would whack into the stove or the table, but he completed his circuit, set her back on her feet, and planted a kiss on her forehead. It was unexpectedly tender and sweet, and Margaret thought she might cry.

“It’s so good to see you,” he said, his face pressed into her hair. “You smell good.”

“Baby shampoo,” she blurted, then clamped her lips shut. Of all the things to say. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“Mom and Grandma say you two should come to the house for supper tonight. There’s fried chicken, potato salad, and graham cracker pie. I’m going to make up for having to eat in the cafeteria or suffer my own cooking.”

“That sounds good.” Margaret started to ease out of Henry’s arms, but he tightened his grip and caught her eye.

“I’ve missed you.” The brown of his eyes seemed to get richer. “More than I thought I would.”

Margaret tried to relax but wasn’t sure how to react. She’d never had a boy—a man—talk to her like this. “Me too,” she whispered, surprised at how husky her voice sounded.

Henry dipped his head and brushed his lips across hers, but before she could even begin to catalog the wonderful feelings coursing through her, a deep growl sounded near her feet. Then a warm doggy body began to wedge between them. Margaret released Henry and stumbled back a step. Pie sat practically on her feet and eyed Henry like he was a fox in the henhouse. Henry stepped back and blinked.

“This must be the dog you wrote about.”

“Piebald—yes. He showed up the day you left for school. I guess he’s kind of attached to me.”

Henry stepped forward, and Pie curled his lip. “Will he bite?”

“He never has,” Margaret said. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into him.”

Mayfair popped into the kitchen and scratched Pie behind his ears. “He just wants to make sure Henry’s intentions are good.”

Henry bristled. “The dog’s worried about my intentions?”

Mayfair shrugged. “He loves Margaret. That’s what you do when you love someone.”

“Whatever.” Henry’s romantic mood seemed to evaporate. “Do you two want to walk over to the house with me?”

“Sure,” Margaret hurried to answer. She rubbed Pie’s head, trying to soothe and reassure him. She wanted to tell the dog Henry’s intentions were honorable, but it seemed a silly thing to do, so she just told him to stay and followed Henry out the door. And anyway, she didn’t actually know what Henry’s intentions were.

The week at home between summer and fall semesters wasn’t nearly long enough for Henry. He’d meant to plow under the beans now that Margaret and Grandma had finished picking and canning them. It would have meant room to get in some fall crops, but the time flew, and he didn’t get to it. He also
hadn’t spent as much time with Margaret as he wanted. Well, not alone, anyway.

Henry was surprised at how much he enjoyed being around her. Mayfair had always had a calming effect on him, but Margaret used to get his dander up. He grinned to himself as he crossed campus for his early class. She still did. It’s just that he liked it now. He’d even won that goofy dog over. Well, mostly. Pie still tried to get between him and Margaret every chance he had, but Mayfair helped out, taking the dog for long rambles around the farm.

Only nine months until graduation. Only June until he saw Margaret again. Professor Stanley let him make up his paper, and it turned out the old coot really had known his dad. Apparently they’d played together a time or two at bluegrass festivals, and Stan the Man had a lot of respect for Casewell Phillips. Henry wondered what else he didn’t know about his father. He guessed he’d never really get over missing Dad, but he could think about him now without wanting to cry or kick something.

Life was filled with stuff you didn’t expect—your dad dying, falling for a girl you thought you didn’t like, playing music with your crusty old professor. Henry grinned. He wondered what other surprises life had in store.

31

C
HRISTMAS
WASN
’
T
QUITE
WHAT
Margaret expected. While she wasn’t entirely sure what she had in mind, it certainly wasn’t a carved butter mold and never being alone with Henry. She tried to tell herself that the butter mold was thoughtful and practical. She enjoyed making butter and was even selling some. It would be nice to shape pretty, one-pound rounds with a flower pressed into the tops. It just wasn’t . . . romantic.

And while Henry had been plenty happy to see her, he didn’t seem to mind that they were never alone. He held her hand and told her all about his classes and how he’d been able to keep his grades up while playing at the Screen Door with some bluegrass band he was all excited about. But they hadn’t had more than ten minutes to themselves, and although Henry kissed her like he meant it, it wasn’t like he was trying to arrange time for more kissing. Wasn’t that what boys did?

Confused. Margaret felt confused. Henry acted like she was his girlfriend, but he also acted like his focus was on his life back at college. He’d milked Bertie a few times and admired the hog, but he didn’t seem excited about Margaret’s plans for the farm. He’d listen like he was just waiting for his chance to talk, and then he’d launch into stories about the guys in the
band or his roommate, who had three blond-haired, blue-eyed sisters who sang like angels.

Margaret wanted to ask Henry what he was feeling—what his plans were after graduation—but she was afraid she might annoy him. She was starting to get used to the idea that someone like Henry might be attracted to her, and she didn’t want to spoil it.

“I was thinking about heading back a few days early.” Henry walked beside Margaret, carrying the bucket from the evening milking. Margaret had been filling him in on how Bertie was doing now that she was pregnant again. The calf born the previous spring had been sold for enough to help pay the taxes on the farm. Margaret kind of wished they could have kept the little heifer—a gentle, sweet animal that followed Mayfair around like Pie followed Margaret. She figured Henry hadn’t heard much of anything she’d just told him.

“Really? How early?”

“Oh, I was thinking no later than the thirtieth.”

“But I thought classes didn’t start until January sixth?”

“They don’t. I just feel like I need to get back there.”

Margaret saw Emily watching them through the bay window in the dining room. Never a moment alone.

“But we’ve hardly had any time together. I thought we’d—I don’t know—do something.”

It sounded so very lame. What did she expect? A fancy dinner out? Long walks in the snow with the stars sparkling above and Henry’s kisses to keep her from feeling the cold? Yeah, maybe she was expecting something like that. Margaret felt a spark of annoyance.

“Like what?”

Margaret was glad Henry held the milk bucket because she might dump it all over him given the chance. “Never mind. You do what you think is best.” She picked up her pace, ignoring the confused look on Henry’s face.

As the end of the year loomed, Henry didn’t think he could stand to be home for the anniversary of his father’s death. He’d been trying to make excuses for leaving early, but everyone seemed to be annoyed with him about it. He wanted to tell Margaret how hard this was—the thought of being in the house with his mom just like the night Dad died. The thought of waking up on New Year’s Day 1977 knowing he’d been without his father for a whole year and making a mess of things more often than not. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to admit that to anyone yet. Not even to Margaret.

He was going back to school, and that was that. Funny, a year ago they’d all been so eager for him to go, and now they acted like he should stay. Fickle. That’s what they were.

Henry told everyone he was leaving on the thirtieth, but he had the feeling they didn’t believe him. He slipped out of the house early that morning, his breath making clouds in the air. Tossing everything in the truck, he climbed in and started it up, grimacing at the noise. He thought he saw Mom’s face in the window as he coasted down the driveway, but he told himself she’d understand his leaving like this. She probably wanted to be alone as much as he did. Maybe not alone, but maybe with people who could offer her some comfort. He wished he could, but Dad’s death had left too big a hole in the world and in his heart. He pulled into the gas station in Wise to fill up before heading on to Morgantown.

“Thought you’d be sticking around for your ma’s cabbage come New Year’s.”