Kelly deliberately said nothing, not wanting to disturb Mimi’s memory. She wondered how she could pump Steve for information without revealing Helen’s past. Immersed in her thoughts, she was startled at the sound of Rosa’s voice.
“Connie’s on the phone. She doesn’t think she can help Megan with the trip to the wool festival tomorrow. She’s home sick with stomach flu. Do you want to talk with her?” Rosa asked as she leaned around the archway into the café.
“Ohhh, no!” Mimi exclaimed. “Poor girl. Let me talk with her,” she said and left to grab the white portable in Rosa’s hand. “Don’t leave yet, Kelly.”
Kelly grabbed her empty mug, wishing Pete left some coffee, and headed back into the bright lights of the shop. Checking her watch, she realized Carl was probably visualizing roast squirrel for dinner. It was dusk outside already. If she left now, she could run by the shopping center and buy groceries. She didn’t think she could face peach yogurt again.
Rosa was going through the familiar closing routine. Kelly grabbed her tote bag and was about to leave when Mimi called out, “Wait, Kelly. I need to ask you a favor.”
“Sure, what is it?” Kelly answered as Mimi hastened toward her.
“I was counting on Connie to help out Megan tomorrow morning. We’re taking a group of our senior knitters to a wool festival up near Rocky Mountain National Park. We’ve got five ladies signed up, and Megan will need help driving them over and back. Would you be able to go with them tomorrow?” she asked. “It would take the whole morning and early afternoon, probably. I know that’s asking a lot, Kelly. After all, you just got your files and you’re working—”
Kelly held up her hand. “I’ll be happy to help out, Mimi. No problem. I can work ahead tonight, so I can take off tomorrow morning,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Besides, it’ll be good to get up in the mountains.”
Mimi beamed. “Ohhh, thank you, Kelly. That’s so sweet. You’ll enjoy the festival, too. There are sheep and alpaca and llamas and demonstrations and vendors. Goodness, if it has to do with wool, it’s there.”
“Sounds like fun,” Kelly said, heading toward the door. “I’m going to the grocery store already, so I’ll gas up the car for tomorrow.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. We won’t need your car. Steve’s taking his truck. As a matter of fact, you can ask him about that rancher while you’re riding into the mountains.”
That caught Kelly by surprise. “Steve? Why’s he going?”
“He volunteered to pick up this loom that I ordered.” Mimi said over her shoulder as she headed toward her office. Rosa was already turning off lights. “The craftsman will be at the festival, and I simply don’t have a vehicle big enough to carry that thing. Thanks, again, Kelly. See you in the morning. Nine o’clock would be great.” She turned a corner and was gone.
Kelly frowned after her. Sneaky, Mimi. Very sneaky.
“I’ll let you ladies out here,” Steve said and aimed the truck to the side of a huge exhibition building, away from the packed parking areas. “That way you won’t have to walk far. The entrance is right around the corner.” He pointed toward the crowd of people milling around the front.
Kelly was amazed at how many people were already at the festival, and it was only mid-morning. She couldn’t remember being at these fairgrounds before. Maybe they were new, she thought, as she read the signs hanging over several of the barns spread out in a horseshoe. Sheep. Alpaca. Llamas.
“Oh, thank you, Steve, dear. You’re such a gentleman,” Lizzie said. “Isn’t he, Kelly?”
“Oh, indeed, he is, Lizzie,” Kelly agreed, trying not to smile as she shouldered open the passenger door of Steve’s big red truck. Glad she’d worn sneakers and jeans, Kelly easily hopped to the ground and offered her hand to Lizzie. Even with the built-in step below the running board, the petite little knitter would need help making it to the ground.
Now that she was back in the West, Kelly reacquainted herself quickly with the oversized vehicles that filled city streets and county roads as well as interstates—the Serious Trucks, or as her dad used to say, “trucks with attitude.” Kelly wondered if every owner needed a whole cavalry worth of horsepower and towing capacity, especially when she saw most of them parked outside grocery stores, garden centers, and fast food restaurants—sparkling clean with nary a speck of dirt of them. She checked out the huge tires on Steve’s truck. They were caked with mud.
She wasn’t surprised. Thanks to Lizzie, Kelly had heard about Steve’s latest building project, his next development planned north of town, how he started his business, his college career, all the academic as well as athletic honors, why he chose getting his hands dirty building houses after obtaining his architect’s degree rather than working in an office, his family’s connections to Fort Connor, and on and on. Kelly was truly impressed at Lizzie’s grilling techniques. She’d put any corporate interviewer to shame. Kelly half-expected Lizzie to ask Steve his bank balance.
To Steve’s credit, he’d tried several times on the hour-long ride into the mountains to change the conversation. Kelly would pick up his lead and Lizzie would cooperate for a few minutes. Or until one of them stopped for a breath. Then, straight as any marksman who’s found his target, she’d return to probing Steve.
Steve would catch Kelly’s eye overtop Lizzie’s immaculately coiffed silver-gray hair and grin, then politely, good-naturedly answer her questions.
“Grab hold, and I’ll help you down, Lizzie,” Kelly offered.
Lizzie scooted herself to the edge of the seat, which was difficult because she was wearing yards of rose pink cotton, gathered fetchingly with, what else, but white lace. “Oh my,” she declared, eyes wide. “It’s so far down.”
“Don’t worry, Lizzie. Let me help you.” Steve stepped up and in one smooth movement had picked up Lizzie and deposited her safely on the ground.
“Ohhhh, thank you, you’re so considerate,” Lizzie chirped, hand fluttering at her breast. “Isn’t he, dear?”
“To a fault,” Kelly concurred obediently, watching Steve turn to hide his grin.
The unmistakable whine of bagpipes sounded suddenly, and Kelly was about to ask who they were, when Megan strode up.
“I’ve found them, ladies,” she called over her shoulder to the little gaggle following in her wake. “I almost lost you guys when you went right past the parking lot.”
“It’ll be easier for me to load the loom here. The builder said I could use his space,” Steve explained.
“Ladies! I hear bagpipes. Hurry up, or we’ll miss them,” Lizzie called to Megan’s charges.
“Okay,” Megan glanced at the ladies, then Kelly. “Let’s get them all inside together, pick a meeting place, then let them scatter.”
“Sounds like you’ve done this before,” Steve said with a chuckle.
“Oh, yeah.” Megan nodded, waving her charges forward. Lizzie was already heading toward the entrance. “Steve, I’ll call you on your cell when we’re ready to round ’em up and leave. Will you be here the whole time?”
“Yeah, I’ve gotta track down this guy and load the loom and secure it for the ride back.” He glanced around. “Don’t worry. I’ll amuse myself. I already recognize some people I know, plus I’ll check out the vendors. Good luck, you two,” he added before he strode off.
“Anything I should know? I’ve never chaperoned seniors or knitters before,” Kelly teased as they fell in behind the ladies.
“Yeah, matter of fact,” Megan said, pulling the entrance tickets from her jeans pocket. “Keep an eye on Lizzie, okay? She’s prone to mischief sometimes—”
The rest of her sentence was drowned out by the bagpipers’ nasal hum and whine. As the little group rounded the corner, there were the pipers—bagpipes wailing and plaids fluttering in the mountain spring breeze—cutting a swath through the crowds. Kelly felt her blood stir as it always did at the sound of the pipes. Her dad used to say it was “the Irish” stirring in her. The pipers, twelve in a
ll, headed toward the livestock barns, while spectators paused at food stands and llama lectures to watch. Kelly noticed a young boy bringing up the rear with a placard proclaiming the upcoming Battle of the Bagpipes that weekend.
“Okay, ladies, here’re your tickets,” Megan waved the packet in the air. “Let’s get inside and find a meeting place, then you ladies are on your own.” The ladies flocked around, accepting their tickets and obediently handing them to the door attendant.
All except one, Kelly noticed. Lizzie stood, staring after the departing pipers as if mesmerized, the pipes fading into the distance. “Come on, Lizzie,” Kelly encouraged, taking her arm and guiding her to the door. “Let’s go inside and see the wonderful world of wool.”
“Very well, dear,” Lizzie acquiesced with an audible sigh. “Those pipers were magnificent, weren’t they? Such strapping men, too. Don’t you think? I especially noticed the tallest one in the back with the gray beard. My, my, he was a handsome devil.”
“Uh, yes, I suppose they were,” Kelly agreed, a little surprised at Lizzie’s turn of thought.
“I wonder if they’re real Scotsmen. What do you think?”
“Ahhh, gee, Lizzie, I really don’t know,” Kelly admitted, shepherding her through the doorway and into the cavernous hall.
“I’ve always wondered what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilt,” Lizzie said, as causally as if she were describing a new yarn. “Do you know, dear?”
Kelly barely heard her, her attention was already captivated by the myriad variety of vendors’ booths and stalls that stretched almost as far as she could see. “Uhhh, no, Lizzie, not really,” she replied, absently.
Megan’s voice cut through Kelly’s fascination long enough to imprint where and when they were all to meet for the return trip. Sorting that tidbit away, Kelly felt the pull of the colors and textures all calling out to her at once—come and touch. She gave an offhand wave to Lizzie as she merged with the clusters of people moving between booths. “See you later, Lizzie. Enjoy yourself.”
“Oh, I will, dear. Don’t worry about me.”
With that, Kelly dove into the colorful sea surrounding her, floating from stall to stall—fingering lace so delicate she was sure it was cobwebs, not thread at all, knitted sweaters and shawls in every color and texture imaginable, and weaving like she’d never seen before. Nubbly and patterned. Fabric so fine and soft, she was sure it was woven by fairies. Kelly was amazed at the designs. Some were worn, others were hung as art. And, indeed it was. Dazzling colors and designs that tempted you to touch as well as admire.
Kelly immersed herself in the sensation of it all, drifting happily through the busy aisles, stroking fabrics and squeezing twisted coils of wool and mohair and alpaca in every hue, brazen and demure. The silk vendors’ stalls held her captive as she caressed the sinfully soft selections. Hand-painted or blended with fibers less regal, Kelly swore it whispered her name, just as it did in the shop every time she passed. Perhaps she’d become good enough to knit that sweater after all. Maybe. She was nearly finished with the chunky scarf.
It was only when she caught sight of a food vendor’s hot dogs and her stomach growled did Kelly notice the time. Whoa. She’d been wandering for over two hours. Only an hour and a half left to sightsee. Indulging the sudden craving for a hot dog with all the trimmings, Kelly also grabbed a soda and left the exhibition hall. She really owed it to herself to visit the animals that provided the luxurious fibers for all those glorious creations.
Walking toward the livestock barns, Kelly glanced at the mountains and took in her breath. She hadn’t been up here to the national park in years. She’d forgotten how gorgeous it was. The views of the Rockies were stunning, as sun glinted off the glacier-tipped peaks.
She lingered at the llama lecture, as a man explained the varied abilities the stately animals possessed. The llama stood patiently, clearly used to being ogled and examined, while the handler pointed out the animal’s qualities to a cluster of listeners.
From there she wandered toward the barn with the alpacas, similar to llamas but a bit smaller. There, the breeders were holding forth as eager owners-to-be gathered around and asked questions. Kelly noticed all the blue and red ribbons adorning the stalls. Here, the alpacas watched her and came up to the fence as if posing for a photo. Kelly was convinced they looked disappointed she didn’t have a camera.
She also couldn’t help noticing the heightened level of care and nurturing lavished on these interesting animals. Most stalls had carpets covering the dirt. And the owners were quick to clean up any of nature’s occurrences, lest their expensive animals step in anything. Perusing a newspaper article on the growing alpaca business with the title, “Have You Hugged Your Investment Today?” she could see why the owners were so solicitous. Each animal was worth tens of thousands of dollars.
Kelly was pondering why until she spotted the spinners with their wheels. There, she sank her hands into a loose skein of one hundred percent alpaca wool and understood at last. Soft, soft, luxuriously soft. Unbelievably soft. Creams, grays, browns, combinations of all, even a stunning tweed.
She began to notice the intricate patterns on the animals’ bodies and saw that the spun wool often varied in color as well. Before leaving the barn, Kelly glanced over her shoulder once more and could have sworn she spied an alpaca smirking at her, as if to say, “Told you.”
Draining the last of her soda, Kelly tossed the can into a handy trash barrel and headed toward the sheep barn. Here, the familiar sound of bleating filled the air, and she realized another alpaca bonus. They were quiet.
Lambs prodded into an unruly judging line protested each maneuver. Some were as docile as their reputation. Others were unrepentant troublemakers and made Kelly laugh out loud with their antics.
“He’s having none of this,” Steve observed as he drew beside her.
Kelly chuckled. “You know, it’s been ages since I’ve been around farm animals. I’d forgotten how much fun it was.”
“It’s fun to watch, all right. But if you have to clean up after them, that’s another story.” Steve shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Helen told me they had sheep in the early days, until it cost them more to raise than they fetched at market.”
Kelly closed her eyes to recall. “You know, I can still remember the sheep. It was when I was real little. Then they sold them off.” She shook her head. “It just didn’t pay in those days. If Uncle Jim hadn’t had his job with the state highway department, they never would have made it. Finally, he started boarding peoples’ horses, and that helped a lot. At least it allowed them to keep the farm.”
“Let’s go over there,” Steve said, pointing across the barn. “That’s the best of breed awards.”
They skirted around the younger animals, and Kelly spotted the huge adult sheep. Wow. She’d forgotten how big the woolly creatures could get. A huge black ram strutted past them, head high, clearly lord of the realm. Kelly had to agree. He was magnificent.
As she and Steve strolled slowly around the fenced judging area, Kelly noticed three men standing and talking. Two were dressed in corporate attire—suits, ties, and shiny shoes—definitely out of place in a barn where one could, and frequently did, step in something. The other man, taller than his companions, was dressed appropriately in Colorado Cowboy Modern—jeans, boots, denim shirt, and a Stetson. Something about the man was familiar, and Kelly found herself staring. Fortunately, the man was actively listening to his companions and didn’t notice her.
“I thought we’d spy Lizzie here,” Steve spoke up. “She was headed down toward the livestock barns a little while ago.”
“Lizzie was heading to the livestock barns?” Kelly repeated, surprised for some reason. Dainty little Lizzie didn’t strike her as a budding alpaca breeder. Of course, she could have been after the wool.
Steve shrugged. “Well, that’s where I assumed she was going. She was actually talking to one of the Scottish bagpipers when I saw her, but they were close t
o the barns, so I figured—”
Kelly grabbed his arm. “Wha-what did you say?”
“I said she was talking to one of the bagpipers.” Steve peered at her. “Anything wrong?”
The memory of Lizzie’s curiosity about the Scotsman’s undergarments suddenly flashed through Kelly’s mind, along with Megan’s earlier warning: “Keep an eye on Lizzie. She’s prone to mischief.”
“Oh my gosh,” breathed Kelly. “We’d better find her. Now! ” She turned and raced from the barn.
“Why? Hey, where’re—?” Steve called out then hastened after her. “What’s the matter?” he demanded when he caught up.
“Megan warned me to keep an eye on Lizzie before we split,” Kelly explained while they threaded their way through masses of people. The crowds had increased since morning. “She said Lizzie could get into mischief. I didn’t know what she meant until now.”
“What kind of mischief is she talking about? I mean, she’s nearly seventy, isn’t she?”
“That may be, but Lizzie was transfixed by the bagpipers earlier, particularly one of them she described as ‘a handsome devil.’ ” Hearing Steve’s laughter, Kelly shot him a look. “It’s not funny.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Not when her last question to me when we entered the hall was, ‘What do Scotsmen wear beneath their kilts?’ ” Kelly noticed heads turning on that one, and the crowd seemed to part around her. She felt Steve’s hand on her arm.
“Wait a minute,” he said between spurts of laughter. “You can’t seriously think that sweet little old lady would . . .” He gestured aimlessly.
Maggie Sefton Page 14
