“Yes, I think you’ll do great at the music festival.”
She studied the little boy for a moment, then jumped up.
“I’ll get my violin and we’ll have a session together, how’s that?”
“Violin?” he asked.
“My fiddle,” she said, giving in.
When in Kentucky…
Hurrying to her room, she retrieved the old instrument and almost laughed aloud. What would her parents think if they knew she wanted to play American folk music on the priceless heirloom?
Kirk stoked the fire and sat back. It was growing dark. The brunt of the storm had passed by several hours ago, but the steady rain lingered. Power was still out. Probably would be until morning. The air had grown cooler. He’d made a small fire in the fireplace. Suitable for cooking hot dogs and marshmallows.
A couple of times during the afternoon, he’d glanced over at the house next door. He hadn’t seen Sam leave. Nor had he seen any activity over there. What was Angelica doing to while away the afternoon?
He was about to go over to make sure she was okay when he heard a knock on the door. Opening it a moment later he saw his neighbor. Droplets of rain shone on her hair. She wore a sweatshirt that was already damp on the shoulders.
“You should have a hammer by the door, I almost broke my hand banging,” she grumbled as she stared up at him.
“Most friends just come in and let me know they’re here.”
“I’m not a friend. I don’t know the mores of this area. In New York, one most definitely knocks first.”
And waits while the other person unlocked several locks.
He nodded.
“Come for dinner?”
He stepped back and gestured her in.
She looked around the living room, her eyes widening in surprise. Kirk knew she expected rustic to go with the exterior of the log home, but the inside was comfortable and quite modern. The comfy sofa was long enough he could lie down if watching TV, or wanting a nap. The matching arm chairs were sturdy enough for any of his wild friends, and the colors were ones Alice had talked about before she walked out. He knew enough to use them to make his home comfortable. It was his place, now, and he no longer thought about her every time he walked into the room.
“This is lovely,” Angelica said.
“About ready for dinner. Come on through to the kitchen. We’ll use the fire for our meal, but you can help carry things out. Want to take off your wet sweatshirt?”
She nodded, and he hung it over the back of a chair. It should dry before long, it wasn’t that wet.
She dutifully followed him into the kitchen, exclaiming in delight when she saw it. It was less than five years old and he’d spared no expense when building. He wanted something that would last.
“Beautiful. Do you cook all the time?” she asked, turning around to see everything.
“I cook my own meals.”
“Gourmet cooking?”
She brushed her fingertips across the edge of the stainless steel gas range.
“Hardly. Hamburgers, hot dogs, steaks, pretty limited repertoire.”
Probably seemed boring to someone from New York.
He pulled hot dogs and buns and condiments from the refrigerator and piled them on the counter. Angelica picked up some and carried them into the living room. In only a few moments all the items they needed for dinner were on the small table near the fire.
He pulled out two sticks he’d cut from a willow earlier and handed her one.
