More Than a Memory. Roz Denny FoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
blues and Victorian furniture. A dormer window overlooked the valley that was again layered with gauzy, bluish fog.
When Jo commented on the mist, her hostess said, “Jim’s dad grew up in this house. He told us the Cherokee called this territory Shaconage.” She pronounced it sha-con-ah-jey. “The name means ‘land of blue smoke.’If this is your first visit to the Great Smoky Mountains, I hope you plan on seeing our many historic sites. I thought it would be hard to leave the bright lights of San Francisco, but in the two years we’ve been here, I’ve fallen under the mountains’ magic spell. I tell Jim it’s like we’re living in a fairyland. You’ll see what I mean.”
Jo surprised herself by saying, “This isn’t my first visit to the valley.” When it seemed as if Kendra was waiting for her to elaborate, Jo added, “But I was here so long ago everything seems brand-new.”
Kendra put down the flowered pillow she’d been plumping. “White Oak Valley seems stuck in slow motion to me. But given the changes we’ve made to this house, it probably looks a lot different from when you were last here. Well, I’ll let you get settled in. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I may hike into town for dinner and make it an early night. The mountain air has sapped my energy.”
Kendra nodded. “If you’d rather not walk to town, Jim can fix you a sandwich. We have lemonade or iced tea. You can eat on the veranda, in the breakfast room or up here. Our hope is that guests will consider Buttercup Cottage a temporary home.”
“No need to put your husband out. I know there’s a café on Main Street. Is that the extent of places to eat in White Oak Valley?” Jo hoped not. She wasn’t looking forward to a second encounter with Mildred.
“There’s Logan’s Pub, but you’d have to drive there. It’s at the opposite end of town from us. They serve steak, chicken and great burgers, which all come with their signature coleslaw and steak fries.”
Wasn’t that just her luck? “That seems like more food than I had in mind. I think I’ll accept your offer of a sandwich and iced tea. I’ll bring in my suitcase and then come down and enjoy a peaceful evening on the veranda.”
Kendra beamed. “Jim will be thrilled to serve our first customer. Anytime you want breakfast tomorrow, poke your head in the kitchen. Once we get full up we’ll set more structured meal times. Until then, we’ll operate on a looser schedule. I’ll hear if you go out. I’ll freshen your towels and make up your room then. Eventually we’ll hire staff, but for now it’s just us.”
“That sounds fine to me.” Jo left to collect her things from her car. Two vehicles, a car and a pickup, passed as she retrieved her bag and her violin from the trunk. It seemed to her that both drivers slowed and were staring at her. But maybe she was paranoid. Buttercup Cottage did sit on a sharp curve. It was why she’d slowed for a closer look. Yep, she was paranoid.
Kendra met her at the door and held it open for her. “Let me run your things upstairs. Jim said if you’ll take a seat at the wicker table, he’ll bring a tray right out. Ohh, do you play the fiddle?” Kendra asked excitedly when Jo passed her the case. “Logan’s Pub features a bluegrass band on weekends.We go every chance we get.”
“I play violin,” Jo corrected. “I’m a concert violinist. As a matter of fact, if it won’t disturb you, I should do a little practicing. I won’t if other guests check in.”
“You go right ahead. Practice to your heart’s content. Did you notice the piano in the sitting room? Jim plays when I beg him. We want guests to feel free to use it, too. Maybe you guys could knock out a duet while you’re here.”
Jo smiled, thinking how much more appealing that sounded than Jerrold’s proposed solo European tour. In the past her practice schedule hadn’t allowed her to cultivate friendships. She almost wished she could stay in White Oak Valley and be friends with Kendra Rowan. Then Jo remembered the stir she’d caused at Logan’s Pub. That put a damper on any thoughts of staying.
Jim Rowan wheeled onto the porch through a sliding door Jo hadn’t noticed when she sat down. “Kendra didn’t ask if you preferred roast beef or a tuna sandwich,” he said. “So I made you a half of each.”
“I like both. Thank you so much,” Jo said, watching him unload the metal tray neatly clamped over the arms of his wheelchair. “It’s a lovely place you have here.”
“Yeah. There were times I didn’t think it would ever come to pass. I’m happy to break in easy with one guest to start. Don’t know how you feel about being my guinea pig.” He grinned and his white teeth flashed in his freckled face. His sandy hair was still cut military short, giving him a boyish look. In reality he was probably a few years older than Jo’s twenty-five, she thought as she joined in his laughter.
“If this is homemade bread, I’ll gladly be your guinea pig,” she said, taking her first bite.
He appeared more than satisfied with her response, and whistled as he motored off, leaving Jo to eat in solitude. She lingered over a refill of tea, watching fireflies dance above a gurgling creek that flowed past the side of the cottage. When mosquitoes found her, she carried her empty plate and glass into the kitchen. She retreated to her room, where the unfamiliar silence threatened to overwhelm her. Taking Kendra at her word, Jo pulled out her violin and tuned the strings. Her mother said this well-used instrument had been Joe Drake’s sixteenth-birthday gift to his daughter. It bothered Jo that she had no recollection of that birthday or any other. No holidays or special events before coming to in the hospital. She’d missed celebrating her nineteenth birthday because she’d been in the coma.
Settling the violin under her chin, Jo tested the bow, tightened it, then plunged into Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings.”When life got too complicated, she tended to lose herself in the mellow, flowing sounds. Still, she was shocked to see the bedside clock showing midnight when she stopped playing because of aching wrists. Jo couldn’t have named all of the pieces she played after Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade.” One had blurred into another. However, she felt calmer and knew she would sleep.
The next morning, Kendra glanced up shyly when Jo peered into the kitchen as instructed.
“You play like an angel,” Kendra said with awe. “I’m not well versed in chamber music, but I cried listening to you play. You make your violin weep.”
She ushered Jo to a table in the dining room set for one. Gleaming white china and polished silver graced snowy linens. A single red rose in a slender bud vase added formality to the setting.
“You should have said you were famous,” Kendra went on. “After we heard you play, Jim searched your name on the Internet. Mercy, you let me go on and on about Jim’s injury, when you had your own recent tragedy…losing your mother so suddenly.”
Jo’s stomach tumbled. “Where did you read about me?”
“An article in yesterday’s Boston Globe had an interview with a patron of the philharmonic orchestra, Jerrold somebody, who called you the best violinist of this decade. He said you’re touring with a prestigious European orchestra this summer, but you’ve taken time off from performing in Boston to grieve for your mother. Shut me up, but why White Oak Valley? We’re so the back of beyond.” Kendra dropped her voice. “Is it a man? Has to be, to make you play such heartstopping songs. Your music last night sounded sadder than sad.”
Her host’s fluttering about made Jo nervous. “My coming to Tennessee is nothing so cloak-and-dagger. And I’m not that famous,” she added dryly.
Jim Rowan motored out of the kitchen. He slid two delicious-looking strawberry crêpes onto Jo’s plate. From his tray, he unloaded a small bowl of whipped cream and a steaming pot of tea. “Pay Kendra no mind. My wife has a vivid imagination. She’s hooked on romantic suspense novels, so she’s always looking for love and intrigue. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” he said, pointedly grabbing his wife’s hand to drag her away.
Jo