next day.
“You’d better read that barbecue book of yours tonight,” Bennett suggested, but James didn’t reply. He was too fixated on Jimmy’s posture, for the large man had slumped back against the rear of the trailer and had bowed his head so that he could hide his face in his hands. This Jimmy bore little resemblance to the boisterous and cocksure man James had seen earlier in the day, the man who claimed he would be the festival’s champion and be well on his way to a life of fame and fortune. Instead, he seemed tired. In fact, though the barbecue contest had yet to begin, Jimmy Lang already looked defeated.
James had never slept in the same room with Bennett before, and he was unsure whether he could survive a second night as his roommate. Bennett studied his trivia books until after midnight and then fell asleep with the table lamp on. Lying flat on his back with his arms stretched out to the side, Bennett’s mouth hung open and the sounds that erupted from his throat sounded like the contented growls of a hibernating grizzly bear.
By quarter after six in the morning, James gave up any further attempt at sleep. Removing the pillows he had piled over his head, he pulled on a pair of jeans and his favorite William & Mary sweatshirt, slid his bare feet into a pair of worn loafers, grabbed his book on the history of barbecue, and crept downstairs.
The stairs creaked as though protesting his early arrival. No one else seemed to be awake. The entire first floor of the inn was silent, but James remembered that the note to guests placed in their rooms indicated that there was a self-service coffee urn located in the main hall and that coffee would be ready each morning by six thirty.
Ten minutes , James thought. He hoped Eleanor would be punctual in setting out the coffee urn. In the meantime, he decided to settle himself in a rocker on the front porch. The morning was gray and a low mist hovered over the tired-looking summer grass. Robins poked around for worms in the lawn as jays pecked through the sprinkler-moistened soil of the garden beds. There was a refreshing coolness to the early air that carried a faint hint of autumn.
James inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of rain. His mother always claimed that she could tell when rain was imminent by stepping outside her back door first thing in the morning and taking a deep breath. In the days before the Weather Channel, she had been the family meteorologist and had never once been wrong. James had often grumbled about taking a golf umbrella to school when none of the other children carried one, but he also remembered sharing its shelter with a few of the other kids as they waited at the bus stop.
“Rain can’t be good for the festival,” James said into the stillness and then opened his book to a section entitled “Presidential Barbecues.” As he read about Lyndon Johnson’s diplomatic dinners, which were conducted as family-style barbecues, James heard noises coming from the room behind him. Swiveling in his chair, he noticed that it was positioned in front of the kitchen window and that the window had been left open a crack.
“Coffee time,” James murmured contentedly, glancing at his watch. He decided to finish the section on Johnson before claiming the first cup when he heard Eleanor’s voice from inside the kitchen.
“Francesca Fiennes! Where on God’s green earth have you been?” she asked angrily.
There was no response from Eleanor’s daughter.
“I told you to be home by midnight, which I thought was a mighty generous curfew for a person of your tender years, and how do you thank me? By keeping me up all night, worrying that you’d been abducted or … something worse!” Eleanor paused and then cried, “I even called the sheriff, Francesca! I was that worried!”
“I was going to call you.” Francesca finally spoke, though there was no remorse in her voice. “But my cell battery died and then it got later and later at night and I
“You’d better read that barbecue book of yours tonight,” Bennett suggested, but James didn’t reply. He was too fixated on Jimmy’s posture, for the large man had slumped back against the rear of the trailer and had bowed his head so that he could hide his face in his hands. This Jimmy bore little resemblance to the boisterous and cocksure man James had seen earlier in the day, the man who claimed he would be the festival’s champion and be well on his way to a life of fame and fortune. Instead, he seemed tired. In fact, though the barbecue contest had yet to begin, Jimmy Lang already looked defeated.
James had never slept in the same room with Bennett before, and he was unsure whether he could survive a second night as his roommate. Bennett studied his trivia books until after midnight and then fell asleep with the table lamp on. Lying flat on his back with his arms stretched out to the side, Bennett’s mouth hung open and the sounds that erupted from his throat sounded like the contented growls of a hibernating grizzly bear.
By quarter after six in the morning, James gave up any further attempt at sleep. Removing the pillows he had piled over his head, he pulled on a pair of jeans and his favorite William & Mary sweatshirt, slid his bare feet into a pair of worn loafers, grabbed his book on the history of barbecue, and crept downstairs.
The stairs creaked as though protesting his early arrival. No one else seemed to be awake. The entire first floor of the inn was silent, but James remembered that the note to guests placed in their rooms indicated that there was a self-service coffee urn located in the main hall and that coffee would be ready each morning by six thirty.
Ten minutes , James thought. He hoped Eleanor would be punctual in setting out the coffee urn. In the meantime, he decided to settle himself in a rocker on the front porch. The morning was gray and a low mist hovered over the tired-looking summer grass. Robins poked around for worms in the lawn as jays pecked through the sprinkler-moistened soil of the garden beds. There was a refreshing coolness to the early air that carried a faint hint of autumn.
James inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of rain. His mother always claimed that she could tell when rain was imminent by stepping outside her back door first thing in the morning and taking a deep breath. In the days before the Weather Channel, she had been the family meteorologist and had never once been wrong. James had often grumbled about taking a golf umbrella to school when none of the other children carried one, but he also remembered sharing its shelter with a few of the other kids as they waited at the bus stop.
“Rain can’t be good for the festival,” James said into the stillness and then opened his book to a section entitled “Presidential Barbecues.” As he read about Lyndon Johnson’s diplomatic dinners, which were conducted as family-style barbecues, James heard noises coming from the room behind him. Swiveling in his chair, he noticed that it was positioned in front of the kitchen window and that the window had been left open a crack.
“Coffee time,” James murmured contentedly, glancing at his watch. He decided to finish the section on Johnson before claiming the first cup when he heard Eleanor’s voice from inside the kitchen.
“Francesca Fiennes! Where on God’s green earth have you been?” she asked angrily.
There was no response from Eleanor’s daughter.
“I told you to be home by midnight, which I thought was a mighty generous curfew for a person of your tender years, and how do you thank me? By keeping me up all night, worrying that you’d been abducted or … something worse!” Eleanor paused and then cried, “I even called the sheriff, Francesca! I was that worried!”
“I was going to call you.” Francesca finally spoke, though there was no remorse in her voice. “But my cell battery died and then it got later and later at night and I
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