She looked at the bus, back to Kirk.
He swallowed. Time was slipping by faster than he could deal with.
The bus stopped and the driver opened the door and stepped out.
“You going with me?” he asked.
She looked at the driver and nodded.
Kirk’s heart sank.
“I only have the backpack and fiddle,” she said, reaching over to scoop both up, balancing with the other items already in hand.
The bus driver took the backpack and climbed back into the bus.
She looked at Kirk, uncertainty filling her gaze.
“It was an amazing vacation. Thanks to you,” she said with a sad smile. “Maybe I’ll come visit again.”
“If you leave, you’ll never come back.”
He knew that, but the words to keep her in Smoky Hollow wouldn’t come. How could he ask her to give up all she’d spent a lifetime working for to settle in a backwater town like this?
“Maybe,” she said.
She waved at the two on the porch, smiled again at Kirk, and stepped onto the bus. He remembered the day she stepped off that same bus. The uncertainty in her eyes. Today, it was reflected. He hadn’t seen that look in weeks.
His voice wouldn’t work. He wanted to ask her to stay. Yet the past interfered. His mother’s defection, Alice’s. He wasn’tenough for a woman, he’d had ample proof. He couldn’t utter a sound, only watch as she chose a seat by a window near him and waved again.
In seconds the bus was gone.
He stared after it a long time, gradually growing aware of the men behind him talking.
Turning, he raised an eyebrow in question.
“She said she got as much as she gave. That song she did yesterday was darn pretty.”
Kirk nodded and walked to the truck. He had to remember that, her songs were for millions, not the few thousand people around his neck of the woods.
He started the engine but sat for a long moment staring down the now empty road.
“Be happy,” he said, wondering what he could have done differently, to make her want to stay.
Chapter Twelve
The final notes sounded, fading softly from the concert hall. Angelica took a breath and lowered her violin. The bright lights blinded, but the applause was thunderous. She inclined her head in acknowledgment.
She smiled and bowed slightly again, wishing for the privacy of her Paris hotel room.
Staring out into the darkness beyond the bright lights illuminating the stage she couldn’t help comparing it with the open-air stage in Bryceville.
She couldn’t see anyone, not that she’d recognize anyone here. She smiled again and slowly walked off the stage. Another concert to check off. Only a couple of more and she’d be heading back to New York.
Once in the dressing area they’d assigned her, she quickly wiped her violin and placed it in the case. Congratulations and well wishes were called through the semi-open area where other musicians were talking, laughing and getting ready to leave. A couple looked grumpy, but she ignored them, wondering if they felt as lonely and uncertain as she herself did.
She touched the strings gently, remembering the sunshine and breeze when she’d played that song in Kentucky. What would the audience tonight have thought if she segued into Orange Blossom Special after that Mozart piece? She shook her head. Maybe she should try it just once to see what happened. To see if she could purge the ache in her heart that had been steadfast since she left Smoky Hollow.
“These folks ever hear Orange Blossom Special?” a familiar voice asked behind her.
