Until the Harvest Page 24

  “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

  SUMMER CLASSES START MAY 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 do
or, 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.”

  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

  CHRISTMAS 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 alon
e 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.