Angel of Smoky Hollow by Barbara McMahon Page A

week.”
    â€œOh.” She stopped and turned around. “Does that mean I should leave?”
    â€œNo, he likes having someone here watching the place.”
    â€œSure, like there’s any danger. No one even locks their doors.”
    â€œWell, better to be lived in than not. He had a message for you. Call Professor Simmons. Apparently the man’s been trying to reach you but your cell doesn’t work here.”
    â€œI noticed that the first day, so I haven’t even turned it on since. Wonder what he wants.”
    â€œCall and find out,” he suggested.
    â€œOkay, if you don’t mind. The coffee will be ready in a couple of minutes.” She reached for the kitchen phone and punched in the numbers. She asked to speak to the professor, but he was in class. She gave the local phone number for him to call.
    â€œThat told me nothing,” she said when she poured the coffee into two mugs. “Do you take anything in yours?”
    â€œNo, like it black and hot.”
    She set the mug in front of him and sat across the table. “Tell me about other buildings you’ve worked on,” she said.
    â€œWhat brought that on?”
    â€œI was thinking of how you knew how to do everything with that barn, from the roof to the stalls to framing. I noticed others checked with you as if you were the boss or something.”
    â€œSomething. I’ve built a few buildings in my time.”
    â€œWorking your way around America.”
    He nodded, sipping the hot coffee and looking at her. Her voice was borderline too soft to hear. He really had to concentrate, but that was no hardship. She looked bright and rested today. He still thought she should put on a few more pounds, she was thinner than any woman he knew. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes a bright blue, as if the sun-kissed color in her face enhanced them. A few more days in the sunshine and she’d stop looking like she just got out of a hospital or something.
    â€œSo is that how you make a living, building things?”
    â€œYou could say that.”
    She waited a moment, then took a sip of her own coffee. “Do you play an instrument?”
    He shook his head. “Someone has to be the audience.”
    She smiled at that. “Will you come to the festival?”
    â€œProbably be there part of the time.” The part where she played. He didn’t hear well enough at the outdoor concerts to stay long. But he’d get a front row seat to hear her.
    â€œI listened to a song last night that I had a hard time understanding the words. It was a ballad and sounded like half the words are ones I don’t know.”
    â€œProbably old English. There are a few sad songs sung that harken back to the early days.”
    â€œSo can anyone translate for me so I know what they’re saying?” she asked.
    He thought a moment. “Webb Francis. Gina. My granddad.”
    â€œYour grandfather? Does he play an instrument?”
    â€œNo. But he had a terrific voice. Used to sing at all the festivals. Hasn’t in the last twenty years or so, but he knows all the songs.”
    â€œWhy did he stop?”
    â€œHad a falling out with the woman in charge of the festival that year. Never went back.”
    â€œWooo, he holds a grudge.”
    Kirk nodded.
    â€œDo you think he’d help me?”
    â€œMight. Worth a shot. I’ll take you over this morning and you can see for yourself.” He wondered what reaction his grandfather would have to Angelica. He had never had many friends, and hadn’t come to town much in recent months. But he used to love to sing. Who had he hurt most by his refusal to sing in the festival, Kirk wondered.
    It was after ten when Kirk and Angelica arrived at the farm where Kirk had grown up.
    â€œThis is so pretty,” Angelica said as they drove down rows of corn bordering the drive. “When is the harvest?” She studied the tall plants noting the ears were