It was after nine when Emma called her dad and Michael in for breakfast, but she barely had to call—the smell of bacon frying in an iron skillet spoke loud enough to draw them away from work. A stack of silver dollar pancakes rested on an antique serving plate she’d found in the china cabinet.
“If it feels like we’re on a camping trip in here, I’m sorry,” Emma said, apologizing for the state of the kitchen.
“I’m impressed you were able to make breakfast at all,” Will said, as the three of them sat down at the table. “It all looks so nice, does anybody mind if I say grace?”
Will offered thanks for the meal. A loud boom of thunder clapped just as they opened their eyes from prayer. In the darkening skies above them, a familiar rain began pouring again.
“Looks like Bo’s done for the day,” Michael said. “Glad I have somewhere indoors to work.”
“Looks like this storm is going to hang around for a while,” Will remarked.
“I hope it clears out by tomorrow,” Emma said. “Samantha called to invite us all to the Whitfields’ barn dance. Do you know anything about that?”
“Honey, everyone knows about the Whitfields’ fall dance,” Will said. “They’ve hosted one every year for the last six or seven. Michael, you’ve been before, right?”
“Can’t say I have,” Michael answered, cutting into his pancake.
“What did Samantha say, Emma?”
“She just said she and Jim were going, Christina and Bo, too, I guess.”
“Why don’t the two of you go?” Will said. “If the rain clears, the Whitfield farm will be beautiful. Frank really takes care of the place.”
“You want to go?” Michael asked.
On the surface the question seemed to ask for an easy answer, but scratching a little deeper, this had all the markings of a real date, a second date.
“Sure,” Emma said. “We can all go as a group.”
“I think you’re in for a wonderful time,” Will said. “Once this rain stops, it’s going to be a beautiful fall. Speaking of rain, I just remembered leaving my bedroom window cracked upstairs.”
Will carried his breakfast plate to the sink. “I like the fresh air at night, but I don’t much like a soggy bedspread.”
Will left for upstairs.
“Michael …”
“Emma, don’t worry about last night or tomorrow night. They don’t have to mean anything. We’ll go and have a good time, and that’s all it has to be.”
“This feels awkward,” she admitted. “I don’t mean to presume anything. I’d love to go to the Whitfields’ with you, but I’m going back to Boston next week. Can we just say we’re going as friends?”
Michael stood up. Following Will’s example, he took his breakfast plate to the counter near the sink and set it down.
“You’re right, Emma, this is awkward. And we are only friends. I’m helping your dad because it’s what folks in Juneberry do. Well, that, and we agreed on a fair price so it’s a good job for me, too. I asked you to dinner last night because you looked like you’d fallen into a shredder and needed some down time. As for the Whitfields’ tomorrow night, it’s like square dancing––everybody needs a partner and it just makes sense for us to match up.”
Emma studied his face. His brow scrunched up just a little before he continued.
“Emma, I learned long ago that we’re different people. I’m as attached to everyone here in Juneberry as an oak tree is rooted to the earth. I think you’re more like a leaf. When the wind blows, it picks you up and carries you someplace far away. I guess there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s your life, but you don’t have to explain to me how it all works and how you’ve got to go back. I don’t expect you to do anything less.”
Michael exited the kitchen and went back to work. Emma sat at the kitchen table, her mind spinning thoughts of Michael like she was flipping through channels on TV. She cleaned up the kitchen and went upstairs to take a shower. As she dressed afterward, she heard her cell phone ring. She had to dig through the unmade bed to find it.
“Emma? Hey, it’s Lara. How’s it going down there in Hooterville? Seriously, we’re all starting to miss you up here in civilization.”
“Hi, Lara. I miss you, too. So, what’s the latest at the shop?”
Emma sat on her bed brushing tangles from her wet hair.
“Well, you’re at the top of Adler’s poo-poo list. He’s not used to not getting his way around here, and the meeting with Northeast Federal today is huge! Just what were you thinking when you said you wouldn’t be here?”
“I just couldn’t make it, Lara. I’m right in the middle of things.”
“Well, that’s not how it’s going over here. I just thought you should know people in the office are divided over whether you’re quitting your job, or making some power statement with Adler after your amazing victory in court this week. Odds are three to one on the latter.”
“This has nothing to do with that,” Emma said, defensiveness creeping into her voice. “I’m helping my dad put his life back in order. I wish I could make it sound more complicated than that, but it isn’t.”
“Hey, I get it, but saying no to Robert and missing this meeting has got everybody in the office talking. I think he sees your not being here as some kind of betrayal.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve taken some time off for a family emergency, that’s all. He knows that.”
“Honey, I totally understand, but Robert’s hung a star on your door and he expects you to perform. Today’s meeting is like opening night at Carnegie Hall to him, only his star, you, says she won’t go on. Do you get it?”
“Okay, I get it.”
Emma dropped the hairbrush onto the bed and stood to pace the room.
“Lara, I’ve never realized how hard it is to balance work and family,” Emma confessed. “Until now, this hasn’t been an issue.”
“Well, to be completely honest with you, Em, until now, you haven’t had a family.”
Emma made a sound like air was stuck in her throat.
“Lara, I’ve always had a family, it’s just that I’ve made work my priority. It blows my mind that it’s only taken four days of shifting my focus to completely upset the apple cart.”
“Well, I know of a way to get the cart back on its wheels.”
“What’s that?” Emma asked, standing in the stormy light of the bay window, looking out over the farm damp with fresh rain.
“Robert wants you patched into the meeting this afternoon via conference call. He instructed me to call you this morning to set it up.”
“Ay, yi yi, doesn’t anybody understand the meaning of time away from work?”
“I wish there was such a thing, Emma, but for law partners, that’s an illusion. So, can I patch you through?”
~ Twelve ~
Do you remember when
things were really hummin’?
Come on, let’s twist again.
Twisting time is here.
—CHUBBY CHECKER
“Let’s Twist Again”
The Whitfields’ farm was spread out over a hundred acres and it felt more like two hundred the day Frank Whitfield’s tractor broke down on the far side of his land and he had to make his way back to the farmhouse on foot. The Whitfield estate was built a century earlier a half mile off Scatterfield Road, where the land was hilliest. It was done this way because hills were less farmable, but the effect was that the house stood out like a monument, surrounded by a rolling landscape and a sprawling, broad-branched oak tree.
Several barns had been raised on the property over the decades. The smallest of these was approximately the size of a three-car garage. The largest barn stood three stories tall and had been painted barn red, with a brown shingled roof the color of auburn hair.
Acres of apple trees on the estate’s horizon were sketched in mystery by the setting sun. The untamed woods growing on either side of the river gave the farm just enough mystery to hearken visitors back to the fictional world of Ichabod Crane and a party he attended two hundred years before. Perhaps more than one party guest would recall the night of Ichabod’s ghostly encounter with a headless horseman on his ride home, and the grim reality that he was never heard from again.
A round, bright moon hung between the barn and the farmhouse as Emma and Michael lead a three-car convoy up the Whitfields’ long, dirt driveway. Michael parked his truck in an open field where cars, trucks, and minivans were parked willy-nilly, an impromptu community undertaking. Bo and Christina parked his Blazer next to them, and Jim and Samantha claimed the next spot for their minivan.
The Whitfields had decorated the barn with care. Its large doors were thrown open and a welcoming yellow light emanated from inside. Colored Christmas lights strung on nails glowed around the square entrance making it clear to first-time guests which barn held the party.
The night air was cool and crisp as they walked through the grassy field. It was the first moment of twilight. Samantha threaded her arm through Jim’s as they walked.
“I’m just amazed at how the Whitfields are able to put all this together every year,” Samantha said. “It must take them weeks of planning and days just to do all the decorating.”
“It looks amazing,” Christina added, adjusting her gaze from the barn to Bo hiking through the field beside her. Bo’s everyday workman’s attire naturally resembled the Western look of a barn dance. Christina took hold of his arm, giving it a squeeze as they walked.
Michael and Emma walked side by side too, but with a buffer zone between them that made physical contact unlikely. Michael had worked at the Madison farm all day Friday and Saturday morning. He and Emma had chatted a bit, but only briefly.
Mrs. Whitfield stood inside the open barn doors greeting guests as they arrived. Esther Whitfield was a lifelong farmer’s wife, committed to keeping on with the old traditions, and to whom entertaining came as second nature. She’d started hosting “the great barn dances,” as she called them, several years earlier when she had begun to worry that Juneberry was losing its sense of community. She crafted the dance idea based on a memory she had of going to barn dances as a teenager when the men came back to the farm after fighting the war in Europe.
“Welcome, everyone. Won’t you come in?”
“Mrs. Whitfield, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the farm so lovely,” said Christina.
“You know, this old barn dance has given us an excuse to dress the old place up and have some fun. We all need a night just to enjoy our neighbors and have a good time.
“Emma, how’s your father doing?” Mrs. Whitfield asked. “I felt so badly when I’d heard the news.”
“He’s doing much better, thank you. I’ll tell him you said hello.”
“Please do, and tell him our prayers are with him. Now, go on inside and help yourselves to some food. There’s cider and doughnuts, apples from the orchard, cakes, and lots of fresh pies.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Whitfield.”
Emma turned and whispered in Samantha’s ear.
“How did she know who I was?”
“Mrs. Whitfield knows everybody, Emma.”
Inside the cavernous barn, brown and orange paper streamers floated down from the plank rafters. Bales of straw had been stacked around the edges for seating in addition to a dozen card tables with folding chairs set up underneath the loft. Loose straw had been strewn across the barn’s makeshift dance floor giving the wood planks a Gilley’s-honky-tonk feel. In the far corner the Whitfields’ youngest son, Tommy, acted as DJ behind a long table set up with audio equipment and post-mounted speakers.
Along the side wall, two banquet tables covered with pumpkin orange tablecloths displayed the pies, cakes, punch, and plates all arranged with care. The most popular objects in the room were two space heaters radiating heat throughout the barn. Forty people were already milling around, making the large space feel cozy and full of life. Country music poured through the speakers.
“I love country music,” Bo said. “It gets you feeling all Cracker Barrel inside.”
“I’ll bet they don’t do this in Boston, Emma,” Christina joked.
“Not for the last hundred years.”
“How about a glass of cider, ladies?” Bo asked.
“Perfect!”
Michael, Bo, and Jim swaggered to the refreshment tables dressed from hat to boots like cowboys while Samantha, Emma, and Christina searched for a place to perch. Tommy Whitfield switched on his microphone and brought it to his mouth.
“Ah, as you can tell we’re not real formal around here,” he said. “If you’ve got a request, just ask and I’ll try to play it for you. Otherwise, I’ll just try to keep the place hopping.”
With the timing of a pro, Tommy brought up the lively sound of twin fiddles underneath his short and sweet introduction, and the room came alive. The men returned with six cups of apple cider, setting them on the table, and Christina jumped up to take Bo by the hand.
“Come on, let’s dance!”
Before Bo had a chance to voice his agreement or objection, he and Christina joined a dozen other couples pouring into the middle of the barn to form a country line dance. Samantha and Jim soon followed, she doing her best to teach her rhythmically challenged husband the four basic steps to country line dancing in the equivalent of the slow lane on the dance floor.
Emma scooted closer to Michael, who leaned against the barn’s post support beam closest to their table. His white cowboy hat threw an angled shadow across his eyes.
“Do you still know how to dance, Michael?” she asked.
He tilted his head back, lifting the shadows away from his face.
“I’ve always been more of a slow dancer,” he said, looking and sounding like a real cowboy. “I like to think what I do has a little more soul.”
Emma admired the way he looked just then, standing there in the glow of red and green lights in jeans, white shirt, cowboy hat, and a larger-than-life oval belt buckle any rodeo rider would be proud to call his own.
They watched the other couples dancing in rhythm and step. The irresistible sound of a new song brought more partygoers to the dance floor. The room was full now, the music loud and thumping, and the mood festive. Jim was just getting the hang of the Electric Slide when Samantha needed a break.
“He’s trying his best out there,” Samantha laughed. “But I think he’d better keep his day job.”
“Are you okay?” Emma asked Samantha, whose cheeks looked a little flushed and splotchy.
“I think so. I just got a little worked up.”
Samantha sat down with Jim at the table and drank some apple cider. Emma pulled out the metal folding chair next to hers and sat.
“I had no idea Bo could dance so well,” Emma said, leaning in so Samantha could hear her over the music. “They look great together.”
“She thinks he’s Garth Brooks and Patrick Swayze all wrapped up in one,” Samantha said.
Christina and Bo line danced in perfect rhythm on the dance floor through the first three songs. On the fourth, Tommy Whitfield slowed things down with a country waltz.
Michael leaned down to whisper in Emma’s ear. She got up without answering and took Michael’s hand. He led her to an open spot in the dance floor and touched his hand to her waist. Emma rested hers lightly on top of Michael’s shoulder while their other hands clasped together. Slowly, soulfully they began to move with the music. She could feel strength and warmth in the way he held her hand.
The singer’s voice was familiar as love itself, and Emma recognized the song; she’d always loved it. Michael had sung it to her once that summer sitt
ing outside at her father’s farm, watching for falling stars. She wondered if he remembered as they waltzed along in their own private space.
“Are you lonesome tonight?
Do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?”
Her eyes locked with his and Emma couldn’t help but think how the song’s famous lines mirrored their own story.
“You’re right,” Emma said. “This dancing definitely has some soul to it.”
“Yep,” Michael said, in the relaxed voice of a cowboy. “Slow dancing’s like that, ma’am. In fact, anything you want to see turn out right you gotta take slow.”
“I hope you’re not saying great dancing is just about tempo,” Emma said, having fun with their banter. “I think it’s all about knowing you’re dancing with the right partner.”
“Well, some would argue that the secret to truly great dancing is all in having an ear for hearing the music,” Michael said. “If one of the partners doesn’t know it’s time to dance, they’ll both just be sitting it out until it’s too late to move.”
Emma smiled at him, surprised by how effortless it was to be with Michael. It’d been that way at dinner, and while they carted furniture from out of the spare bedroom together. It had been effortless that entire summer; like that time they fell asleep in each other’s arms out by the lake one afternoon. She could still feel the soft fleece of the blanket against her face and smell the coconut scent of the suntan lotion.
“I’m sorry for what I said, Michael. I mean, not that any of it made much sense. You deserve my gratitude, not my clumsy attempts at trying to clarify things. Would you forgive me?”
“Emma, would it hurt your feelings if I said you were like a carrot on the end of a stick? Every time I make a move toward you, you get one step farther away. Forgiveness is easy when it comes to you. It’s all the rest that’s hard.”
“What’s hard?” she asked.
A Beautiful Fall Page 12
