Chapter Eleven
S awdust covered the ground between dozens of tents and vendors at the base of a towering mountainside, as music flooded in from every direction. The strum of guitar. The ting of the mandolin. A run of a banjo or two. And then there was the raw, authentic beauty of the native voices.
Eisley had encouraged Henry to visit the annual bluegrass festival in the nearby town of Orchard Falls, and he was grateful she’d thrust him out of his comfort zone. The scene brought the benefit of excellent research and the engaging musical talent of the native musicians, but Henry’s focus kept wandering back to last evening’s time with Julia.
She’d left him with a smile after they’d played through three more four-hands piano pieces, ending with a classic that wasn’t quite as furious as the previous ones. Sitting beside her somehow fit his world in a way nothing else every had. There was understanding and…fun, and despite his fumbling, he knew his presence had mattered to her, that he’d done something to touch her heart, and all he wanted to do next was to see how he could make it happen again.
And again.
Would God use Henry to help Julia heal?
God, I am willing. Would you help me…help her?
He sat in front of a large outdoor stage, listening to a vast array of music the natives labeled as “old timey”, and enjoying the variety, ingenuity, and talent swarming all over these hills. The entire morning had unfolded with inspiration, from jigs and English-sounding reels to heart wrenching ballads. Some left a lonely, unsettled ache behind. Some even called upon his heart to pray. The culture and history pulsed through the music like no other genre he’d studied.
The announcer introduced the final act before the lunch break. Three people—an older gentleman, fiddle in hand, a young woman with a long dark braid down her back, and a man holding…a homemade flute? The two men dressed in typical clothes of the other men around Henry. Jeans, t-shirt, and a large flannel-type button-up hanging open. But the woman wore a dress of vibrant colors, rainbow-like, perhaps a nod back to their Celtic ancestry?
The crowd’s applause drifted into silence, and, after an almost reverent hesitation, the man brought the bow to the strings. A lonely solo with a melody as haunting and fascinating as any from the Irish coast swelled to life from the fiddler, a caress on the breeze, a haunting whisper.
Henry’s breath caught.
The tone rose into the quiet—a tune faintly familiar from his childhood, yet new. What was it? The Ballad of Captain Kidd? He’d never heard it played like this—with unique embellishments to give the song an even greater peculiarity. A deeper sense of yearning.
Henry closed his eyes, allowing the melody to seep through him and settle deep as the first verse finished. The flute joined on the second, a hollowed-out sound at one with the wind through the trees, their duet rising and leading to the next verse when…. the woman joined, with a voice unlike those he’d heard within studios or concert halls—a native one raw with emotion and natural talent.
What wondrous love is this, oh my soul, oh my soul!
What wondrous love is this, oh my soul!
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
To bear the sinful curse for my soul, for my soul,
To bear the sinful curse for my soul.
Henry leaned closer, the perfect combination of words and tune captivating him. They’d take an old English tune and transformed it to their culture, blending two worlds. This was the theme of Wes’s movie. This melody needed to weave its way through the corridors of the scenes and story, displaying the constancy of faith and the faithfulness of love.
As was so often the case with perfect word-melody pairing, the tune brought out the message of the song with more clarity than either could do alone. God’s love displayed how? By Christ stepping into a curse to save souls. The truest act of love and courage.
The woman’s fresh cadence continued.
When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down,
Christ laid aside his crown for my soul.
Another telltale sign to the depth of love.
To God and to the Lamb, I will sing, I will sing.
While millions join the theme, I will sing.
Her voice lingered in the air with the strains of the fiddle and flute and the soul-stirring message. Unashamed. Bold. Beautiful.
Henry’s eyes burned.
The same passion and boldness for faith, the same love he’d witnessed in the Jenkinses reverberated in this straightforward text. Oh, to have the gift of words—so simple yet profound. The melody braided in his mind with the endless horizon and the recent tenderness of the time he’d spent with Julia. He’d found his focus for this soundtrack. Now, to braid the music and message into something of his own.
Wes picked him up from festival shortly after the fiddler and singer finished their piece, keeping the conversation to a minimum on the late drive back to the apartment. Wes disappeared upstairs as soon as they entered the bakery, but Henry paused at the bottom of the stairs.
Put the melody to string first or find Julia?
He liked her more than he ought to, especially for a man who lived in a different country and a woman who probably had no intention of seeking a romantic relationship for a long time.
But he couldn’t help it. She was genuinely kind. A lover of music—and not just that, but an understand-er of music.
His feet turned toward the music room, but it was empty except for the baby grand standing sentry by the window. He paused, took in a breath, and kept walking, bypassing the dining area and peeking around the back doorway into the kitchen. She stood at the counter, working some dough with her hands, a lump of white—he supposed was bread—sat in a pan to one side of her and a long tray with smaller dots of dough waited on the other. Her blond hair sat on top of her head in some sort of messy bun, a style that drew his attention to the elegance in her profile. Warmth rushed to his face, and he looked away, only to have his attention fall on a familiar piece of paper pinned to the board above her work station.
The paper he’d left on the communication board for her. What had she thought of his note? Had it been too much? Too sentimental?
He started to turn away, but she caught sight of him first, her surprised smile holding him captive in an endless fermata. She gestured with her chin toward the paper. “Where words fail, music speaks.”
“Hans Christian Anderson.”
Her attention turned back to the note. “But music shared with a friend is even sweeter.” She met his gaze. “Thank you for last night.”
His shoulders relaxed at the acceptance, the welcome in her voice. “I was happy to be there and…helpful.” He cleared his throat—attempting to navigate this shift in their relationship without blundering too much— and gestured toward the counter. “I don’t wish to distract you from your work.”
“I’m only preparing some pastries for tomorrow.” She raised a brow and a white glob of dough. “Want to help?”
∞ ∞ ∞
Want to help? Had she said that out loud? What on earth was she doing? A few amazing piano duets and a good cry, and she was inviting him to bake with her?
And yet, Henry Wright brought calm and gentleness with him that set her tremulous heart at ease in the most surprising of ways. A steadiness. Whether from their mutual introversion or a little divine intervention, she felt as though she knew him. She understood him. And if she were completely honest with herself, she wanted to know more.
He blinked at her offer then shifted his feet as if uncertain how to respond. Her grin resurfaced. He was so likeable and wonderfully easy to rescue.
“I... I would be happy to help but I’m no baker.”
“Only if you’re not willing to learn.”
That subtle smile of his tipped slightly, sending her heart into an andantino tempo. He took a hesitant step forward into the kitchen. “I’m willing, if you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” She slid to the side and mad
e room for him at her counter. “Actually, I’m making a few things you might enjoy.” She gestured toward two poms of dough in front of her. “Blueberry scones and caramel toffee scones, in yours and Wes’s honor.”
He moved beside her. “I do have a fondness for scones. Even more now.”
“Perfect, then.” She shifted a bit awkwardly to reach the plastic wrap on the counter in front of him, catching the faint hint of his vanilla and amber scent. Oh, she remembered that from last night. The wonderful aroma awakened a craving for some vanilla butter cookies with a dash of cinnamon.
“How are you today? Better?”
His question probed much deeper than obligatory, pulling upon their last conversation. She placed the wrap around the first pom of dough. “Better than I was.”
“I’m glad.”
“How about you wrap this one?” She slid the other dough toward him, attempting to take the focus off her. “We’ll put the dough in the refrigerator for about a half hour while we make some dark chocolate cupcakes.”
He stared at her, those myriad-hued eyes wide. “The refrigerator?”
“The dough is easier to cut when it’s cold.” She pushed the plastic wrap his way.
He followed her example with painstaking precision, reminding her of when Eisley’s son Nathan had helped her make chocolate chip cookies for the first time. Careful to please.
“This way?”
She nodded and carried the dough to the large, double-door refrigerator, taking advantage of the distance and silence to gather her thoughts. He deserved a more thorough answer, and after last night, she wanted to give him one. “I’ve healed a lot over the past seven-and-a-half months. It’s just that sometimes, like yesterday, things hit at once, and all those months shrink away.”
“I can’t imagine the pain you must carry.”
She pushed an errant strand of hair off her cheek with the back of her arm and began pouring the ingredients into her mixing bowl. “I keep reminding myself that God brings the most beautiful things out of the most difficult situations. I’ve seen it happen. I know it happens”—she tapped her head with the back of her hand— “but it’s easy to forget here.” She pressed the back of her hand to the center of her chest, where the ache of yesterday gave a weak pang. Yes, God was healing her, through time and family and… She grinned at Henry. And new friends. “Would you pass me the sugar and cocoa?”
It took him a moment to register her words, but he turned to the containers on his left, examining them with the same intensity with which he’d listened to her until he made the proper choices and pushed the bags her way. “I learned an Appalachian song today that reminded me of your circumstances.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “I mean not your…circumstances…but how you’ve endured. I wonder if you might have heard it. ‘What Wondrous Love is This?’”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful song. Would you hand me that measuring cup?”
His eyes sparkled as he followed her request. “The melody and words are perfect together, and I thought about you…and…your family. The love you have.” He hesitated. “The love and courage Christ has given you.”
Her hand paused on the measuring cup. “You…you think I have courage?”
His gaze softened into hers, the strange awareness that he somehow saw her and found her fascinating shifted from his eyes into her heart. The last thing she felt most days was fascinating—especially since she was starting to wear the same four outfits over and over for sheer comfort. Between swelling ankles and an occasionally puffy nose, the only time she garnered attention was when inadvertently wearing cooking ingredients or…battling unseemly mishaps with skirts and a strong breeze.
He stared at her in silence, his brow puckered. “Of course you have courage. A tremendous amount of it. Look how far you’ve come after what happened to you. You’re facing your future with hope even though your life has been altered, and yet, you still dream. What is courage, if not, in part, continuing to dream even when there are nightmares?”
Her eyes stung. He did see. “You saw that in me through a song?”
“Indeed. Your family is much more open about faith than I’ve ever known.” He smiled with a shrug. “We Brits aren’t usually as demonstrative about personal things unless they involve sports…or sometimes politics, and perhaps the theatre.”
She chuckled.
“But the song references what Christ had to endure to show His love to His children. He went to the cross, but not only that, He had to face the fear of separation from His Father, all because of this…this immense love. The same courage and love that live in you because…because you belong to Him.”
His face blurred in her vision, and she shoved the measuring cup into the sugar. If the same bravery that kept Christ on the road to the cross lived in her then she had all the courage she ever needed and then some. “I…I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
She sniffled as she poured the sugar into her mixing bowl followed by the cocoa, her voice too uncertain to respond.
“If I may say so, your child is fortunate to have such a mother.”
She offered a weak laugh and dropped her palm to her burgeoning middle. “I think he will definitely be that something beautiful out of a horrible situation.”
“He?”
“Well, I don’t really know for certain, but I just feel like the baby is a boy.” A sudden kick seemed to confirm her words. Or negate them. She wasn’t sure. “A very busy little boy.” She pushed the mixing bowl toward Henry. “Will you stir that while I get the eggs and mixer?”
The slow scrape of metal against metal followed her to the fridge and back, but his words lingered, soaking into her thoughts.
“You know, I’ve always been fascinated with baking. Or at least learning about it.”
She came back to his side. “Oh goodness, don’t let my dad hear you say that. It'll knock your manly points down a few notches.”
Without warning, his chuckle swelled into a laugh, with which she couldn’t help but join in. The sound sparked some sort of inner glow through her chest, and the fact she’d inspired it…well, that was even better. She snatched the egg carton to her left and placed it between them. “Here, you crack half of the eggs, and I’ll crack the other half.”
He looked from the carton back to her face, his eyebrows almost at his hairline. “Are you sure?”
“No way to learn except by practicing, right?”
He quieted, focusing on his task until every egg was cracked without issue.
“See, look at you.” She placed the mixer in the bowl and turned it on low. “You’re a natural.”
“You’re very kind.” But he did look a bit proud of himself—and the expression didn’t hurt his handsomeness one bit. “As far as your father’s manliness rating of me is concerned, I feel confident I’m so far in the negative numbers that there’s no way out. I’m a musician”—he ticked the word off on his finger— “an introvert, I wear button-up shirts, and I talk funny.”
Julia laughed so hard she had to turn off the mixer for fear of losing her grip and smattering Henry with another dose of batter. Her eyes watered for a whole new reason, and the grin he bestowed on her communicated that he understood the significance of the apparently insignificant action.
He’d inspired her laughter. And if the pitter-patter of her heart meant anything, he might have encouraged something more. Her gaze softened in his. The world around them paused in recognition of the sweetness.
Oh dear, she liked him.
“There you are, Twinkle Toes.”
Nate Jenkins himself burst into the kitchen and clashed against the contented quiet with his usual boldness, dissipating the warm fuzzies.
Julia shuffled back a step, reorienting herself, her thoughts.
Henry took a step back too and almost lost his balance, which tickled her funny bone to life again. He gave a helpless shrug and pushed the mixing bowl between them as if a physical object might provide an ample barrier betwee
n them to keep her daddy’s unwelcome comments at bay.
“Twinkle Toes?” Julia squinted toward her bear of a daddy. “Henry is a composer.”
He frowned through an indifferent shrug. “Same difference. He does something fancy with music.”
Julia squeezed her eyes closed and pushed her fingers into her forehead. “Dad, his name is Henry. Would you please use it?” Julia shot Henry an exaggerated grin, fake to the core, to which Henry responded with a one-shoulder shrug in apparent acceptance of her daddy’s unique brand of nicknames.
“Now, why would I do that? I already have a good name for Wes.” Her daddy’s smile turned ruthless, and he thumbed over his shoulder just as Wes entered the kitchen. “But Fancy Pants can’t help me tomorrow morning.”
“As I told you, Nate, I need to work in Summit and Maple Springs.” Wes cast Julia and Henry a knowing look. “Making a movie and all that.”
Her daddy’s grimace deepened, and he waved away Wes’s comment. He was the embodiment of incorrigible.
“I wouldn’t call movie-makin’ work a’tall, boy.” The wicked glint in her daddy’s eyes would have been comical if Julia didn’t dread where the conversation was going. “I’d call that playin’ dress up.”
Wes didn’t even flinch at the direct jab, which proved he knew Nate Jenkins well. All talk and tease, not a whole lot of meanness—though his brazen thoughts-to-words tendency didn’t always rub people the right way. Especially new folks.
Wes flourished a dramatic bow. “If playing dress up pays the bills, how can you argue, good man?”
Her daddy exaggerated his groan, but the glimmer of fun still lit his expression as he leveled his full attention on Henry. Julia wanted to jump between the two men to protection her soft-hearted friend, but that would only further stir her daddy’s teasing. “You got some dress up to play tomorrow too?” He examined the batter, looked at Julia, and focused again on Henry. “Well, clearly he ain’t got enough work to do if you’re teachin’ him how to bake.”
Past conversations indicated this could produce a panic moment for Henry, but quite to the contrary, his smile quirked. And Julia’s heartbeat picked up. Oh dear. Was he beginning to understand her father a little?
When You Look at Me (A Pleasant Gap Romance Book 2) Page 10
