Moon Dance Page 30

  "Wish what?"

  "That somehow I could get Matt to come around." Laura frowned, thinking back to Ally's birthday party. "I think we almost had him turned around at Ally's birthday."

  "I'll work on him," Georgia tried to suppress a giggle. Obviously Delia hadn't discussed Matt's presence at breakfast the previous weekend.

  "I wish someone would," Laura sighed. "I wish he wasn't so hard-headed. I love all of my family. I want you all to love each other."

  "Well, maybe he'll surprise you." Georgia bit the inside of her cheek.

  "Maybe Spam will learn to fly." Laura grumbled.

  "Stranger things have happened."

  Grinning, Georgia hung up the phone, thinking what fun it would be when Laura realized that Matt had "come around" in a big way.

  Georgia's construction of her scarecrows took most of the afternoon. Having found the wooden forms— six of them—leaning against the wall inside one of the old stalls in the barn, she dragged them outside and dusted them off before heading to the attic to search for proper attire.

  "Wonder who these belonged to?" she muttered as she went through box after box of old clothes. "Laura said Hope always had a theme. Let's see what we can come up with."

  Pleased with her final selections, she folded the garments over her arm and turned off the light.

  All I need are a few inexpensive straw hats to complete these ensembles, and I'll have scarecrows to make Hope proud, Georgia grinned as she stood up the wooden T-shaped forms—one at each end of the garden, two on each of the sides. Over each of the forms, she draped the garments, then stood back to view her handiwork.

  All Georgia's scarecrows wore housedresses, the skirts of which billowed in the light breeze. Over the arms she had slipped long sleeved blouses, the cuffs of which dangled and flapped slightly.

  "You ladies definitely do need hats," she said aloud as she straightened a shirt collar.

  Gathering her purse from the house, and admonishing Spam to keep out of the garden, Georgia drove over to Tanner's and looked at the selection of straw hats. She bought one for each of her scarecrows, along with six pair of neon sunglasses from a barrel near the door.

  Once back at Pumpkin Hill, with hammer and nails in hand, she proceeded to the garden, where she distributed the hats and the sunglasses to her crones, as she had begun to think of them.

  "Scarecrones," she told the silent forms. "Much more apropos for ladies such as yourselves."

  Three nails—one on each of three sides of each pole—held on the sunglasses, and one nail through the top kept the hats from blowing off.

  "You are altogether too charming, each and every one of you," she announced as she tied the long hot pink scarf that bedecked one of the hats. "Stay right there… I'm going to take your picture."

  Georgia ran back to the house, grabbed her camera from the sideboard in the dining room, then dashed back to photograph her crones in all their glory.

  "Now, do your job well and maybe I'll have some pretty beads to drape around your necks." She told them as she shot the last frame.

  "Lord help me, I'm starting to sound like Zoey." Georgia laughed out loud, recalling how her fanciful sister used to talk aloud to the stuffed animals in the craft shop she had once owned when her stock had been more plentiful than her customers.

  The phone in the kitchen was ringing when Georgia reached the house.

  "Ah, there you are, sweetie. I'd almost given up on you today. Don't you ever check your answering machine?" Delia admonished.

  "Oh, hello, Mother. Actually, I was going to call you tonight."

  "And what have we been busy with today?"

  "I was making scarecrones to keep the birds out of my garden."

  "Scarecrones?" Delia laughed.

  "Picture nineteen-forties housedresses and straw hats," Georgia told her. "With sunglasses and long-sleeved polyester blouses from the sixties…"

  "Oh, I can just imagine," Delia laughed. "I cannot wait to see them."

  "They are fun. And hopefully, they will keep the pests from devouring my garden. I've worked so hard, Mother, trying to get all my plants in. I'm not so generous that I want to share with the wildlife."

  "Perhaps a well-stocked bird feeder will keep the birds out of the garden. And perhaps you should think about a fence to keep the deer from eating the plants as they get a little bigger."

  "I've been wondering about that. I did plant marigolds…"

  "They'll do as long as there's other plants for the animals to eat. But I wouldn't depend on them."

  "I'll ask Matt this weekend. Maybe he'll have some ideas."

  "Oh? Will Matt be there again this weekend?" Delia asked nonchalantly.

  "Yes. He's helping me to…" Georgia tried to remember what it was that Matt was helping her to do. "…to adjust to farm life."

  Delia bit her lip and tried her best not to laugh. "I see," she said.

  "Yes." Georgia cleared her throat. "You probably do."

  "Well, perhaps in return you can help Matt adjust to life with the Enrights," Delia said. "I'm planning on having a party for Zoey and Ben in three weeks."

  "Laura mentioned it. She said you wanted to have it at the inn."

  "I thought it would be nice to ask Laura to host it. She's missed out on so many important events with us through the years."

  "That was a nice touch on your part, Mother."

  "Well, it would be especially nice if Matt attended."

  "And who all else will be there?"

  "Just family this time, sweetie—immediate and extended. Ben's grandfather and his lady friend, of course, and August… and certainly her friend Pete, which is convenient since his son is working with Gordon…"

  "And of course, Gordon will be there."

  "Well, he is staying at the inn, Georgia." Delia said casually. "We certainly wouldn't want to exclude him."

  "Oh, of course not," Georgia agreed. "We couldn't do that. How is Gordon, anyway?"

  "He's fine, dear, and if you're thinking to pry, don't waste your time."

  "Mother, I have never known you to be coy."

  "Yes, well, there's a first time for everything. And I don't consider myself coy… I hate that whole concept. I prefer discreet."

  "Ah, I see, so if I were to ask you…"

  "Which you wouldn't do," Delia laughed, cutting off her daughter, "because you were raised with much better manners. Now, not to cut you short, sweetie, but I have plans for the evening…"

  Plans for the evening, Georgia mused as she hung up the phone. My mother has plans for the evening.

  And I couldn't be happier. It's about time Mother had some fun and found someone who appreciated her for the extraordinary woman she is. Mother's worked so hard over the years and spent so much of her time and energy keeping up with her children, she deserves a little romance…

  Georgia searched the tool drawer in the kitchen, where, she had found, Hope had stashed wrenches of various sizes, nails, a screwdriver or two and other assorted things with which Georgia wasn't well acquainted. Finding the clippers she was looking for, she went back outside and began to clip away at the suckers that had sprouted along the bases of the apple and peach trees.

  "It's probably late in the season to be doing this," she said aloud to Spam as she inspected the thin clippings, some of which had already sprouted leaves as well as small flowers. "But it's better than not doing it at all, and I've made up my mind that every day I will do just a little. Before we know it, Spam, all of the fruit trees will be tidied up. Just think of all the apples that will just drop right off the trees and into your waiting mouth come September and October."

  Would she still be here to see the apples ripen and fall?

  Matt had said she could stay in the house, but what of her dancing school? She couldn't give up her plans to have a dancing school, not now, when she had students clamoring to attend and she had so newly discovered the joy of teaching, of sharing her love for the dance.

  Perhaps she sho
uld find the classified section from last Sunday's paper and see what kind of space might be available to rent out. If there was nothing suitable, what would she do? Maybe someplace closer to Bishop's Cove, if there is nothing here around O'Hearn.

  I guess I should call the realtor whose name is on the sign on that store front in town. There's no point in waiting until the trucks pull in the drive and Matt starts to unload his equipment.

  Gathering the pruned-off apple suckers she'd dropped to the ground, she carried them to the side of the house where the trash cans sat and dumped them in a pile. Later she'd come back out with a ball of string and she'd tie them up into a neat bundle. Right now, she had a few phone calls to make.

  Late Friday afternoon, as Georgia turned toward the farmhouse with the armful of iris she had just finished picking, the black pickup pulled into the drive. She'd tried to pretend all day that she wasn't waiting for him, wasn't watching for him, didn't jump every time a car slowed down, but her efforts to convince herself were futile. Matt had called the night before to remind her that he'd be making dinner for her on Friday, and it was Friday, and just about time for him to show up. And there he was, cool and handsome getting out of the truck, his dark hair tumbling down across his forehead just ever so slightly as he leaned over to get something from the floor of the cab.

  And there he was, walking across the yard to greet her, his eyes looking into hers telling her everything he'd not said on the phone the night before.

  And there he was, his arms closing around her and his mouth seeking hers before he'd said a word to her…

  "I think I mashed your flowers," he said, finally, his arms easing up just a little.

  "It's okay. I'll stick them in water and they'll be fine." She was looking up at him and so was unaware that several of the irises hung at awkward angles from their stems. "I thought I'd bring a vase of flowers over… to your apartment, that is… for the table. For dinner."

  "That would be nice," he smiled, thinking of the other little details he planned on tending to before she arrived later. "How 'bout if I take them over now? That way I can put them on the table when I set it?"

  He took the flowers from her.

  "I thought maybe we'd eat around eight. No earlier, though. I won't be ready before then."

  "Won't be ready?" She laughed. "That's another hour and forty minutes from now. What on earth are you making?"

  "It's a surprise. Eight o'clock. No earlier." He bent down and kissed the tip of her nose.

  Tickled that he'd taken the time to plan a surprise—of whatever sort hardly mattered to her— Georgia ran upstairs to shower away the dirt from the garden. She finished drying her hair and tried to decide, once and for all, what to wear. Finally deriding on a long, floaty gauze skirt of soft rose, with a matching short-sleeve shirt to wear over a tight-fitting camisole in a paler shade, she slipped on mother-of-pearl earrings and a wide cuff bracelet of silver, then tied her hair back in a thin scarf of rose and cream silk. Not too dressy, but not farmhand casual, either. Satisfied, she went downstairs and looked at the clock on the kitchen wall.

  Seven forty-five.

  She had fifteen minutes to spare.

  "Spam," she called out the back door, and the pig came rolling out from under the lilac bush. "Time for you to come in, girl. Oh, I know it's still light out. Now, if you were a little smarter, I'd explain daylight savings time to you, but things being such as they are, we'll just say that it's time for you to come in and let it go at that."

  Spam grunted softly as Georgia lifted her and carried her into the safety of the screened porch.

  "Yes, I know you'd like to come with me, but you can't. You weren't invited." She set the pig down on her bed and picked up the water bowl, taking the ceramic dish inside and rinsing it in the sink. She refilled it with cold water and took it back out to the porch. She patted Spam on the head, scratched under the pig's chin, sending Spam, momentarily, to piggy heaven before returning to the kitchen to wash her hands.

  Seven forty-nine.

  She pushed aside the curtains and looked across the yard. There was an odd glow from the front windows. Whatever was Matt doing over there?

  Seven fifty-one.

  I'm as nervous as a schoolgirl on my first date. How silly is that… it isn't as if we haven't… as if we didn't…

  And as if I haven't been thinking about it all week… as if I haven't seen his face every time I've closed my eyes, or dreamed about how good it felt to be in his arms, or wondered if this is what it's like to be falling in love…

  Seven fifty-two.

  Eight more minutes.

  How best to waste them?

  Georgia closed the door of the farmhouse behind her and stood on the back steps. The honeysuckle was just coming into its own, and the roses that hung over the fence had just come into bud that week. The first stars had already appeared. It was a perfect late spring dusk, the sun balancing atop the trees beyond the barn and the last of the bird songs drifting across the farmyard. Pumpkin Hill was, truly, a wonderful place to be in the spring. She looked forward to spending the summer there, to rising early to water her garden and inspect the newest growth, to the rich smell of ripe tomatoes and sweet cantaloupes, to air scented with rain-drenched basil and dill and rosemary, to harvesting her own produce for the very first time in her life.

  And what of autumn, of winter…?

  Georgia had high hopes of seeing both seasons come and go right here. There seemed to be just about everything she'd ever really needed, right here.

  From a open window Georgia heard the old mantel clock chime eight bells. Exhaling deeply, she headed for the barn, and Matt, and for whatever the night would bring.

  twenty-one

  Matt lifted the lid of the Dutch oven for the fiftieth time. A watched pot doesn't boil—he remembered hearing his mother saying that so many times that he thought she had authored the cliché—but it was almost eight o'clock and Georgia would be there any minute. He poked his head back into the living room where he'd set the small round table with white dishes on a blue and white checkered cloth, her irises off to one side.

  And candles. Everywhere.

  Tall white tapers and dozens of votives in pretty glass bowls stood on every flat surface around the small living room, all waiting to be lit. Matt ducked back into the kitchen and lifted the lid on the rice. Watched or not, it was boiling, and the stir-fry needed only a few more seconds. He turned the flame down and took a deep breath. He'd never cooked dinner for a woman before. Had never gone to such lengths to surprise a woman—to please a woman—before.

  But then again, there'd never been anyone quite like Georgia in his life before.

  Oh, Georgia had been on his mind, all right. All week long, she'd stayed with him, in his heart and in his mind. Just an old sweet song, indeed, he'd thought. It had disconcerted him at first, this always-on-my-mind thing, but he'd been unable to shake the feeling that there was more—so much more—ahead for them. He'd come to look forward to seeing her face in his mind's eye, to the vision of her in that pink leotard as she had walked away from him that day in the farmyard, to the memory of that lilting laugher and million-dollar smile. There'd never been a woman in his head before, and now that he was beginning to get used to the idea, he was thinking he might actually like it.

  "Just a minute," he called out when she rapped on the door. "I'll be right there."

  He paused, wondering if he should light the rest of the candles now, as he had originally planned on doing, hoping to dazzle her with the sight, or whether to wait till he was ready to serve dinner. Having decided to wait until dinner, he slipped the book of matches back into his shirt pocket and opened the door.

  "Ummm," she sniffed appreciatively. "Whatever it is, it smells wonderful."

  "Thanks," he grinned and stood aside to let her enter. "I remembered that you liked curry…"

  "Oh, I love it!" She went to one of the pots and raised the lid to peek within. "Oh, yum, you made the rice with the
raisins in it. My favorite."

  "That's one of my favorites, too." He checked the stir-fry, then turned off the flame. "I'm glad you were on time. Dinner's actually ready."

  "May I help?"

  He hesitated, then handed her a blue and white bowl.

  "If you wouldn't mind spooning the rice into this bowl, I'll be right back…"

  What is he up to? she wondered as he disappeared into the next room.

  Her curiosity was beginning to get the best of her when he came back into the kitchen and took the bowl from her hands.

  "Come on in and have a seat," he told her.

  She followed the sound of his voice, and walked into a room alive with the soft flicker of candlelight.

  "Oh, Matt, it's beautiful." She sighed. "Just beautiful. However did you think to do this?"

  "Candles on the table didn't seem to give quite enough light," he grinned, "and too much light would make viewing so difficult."

  " 'Viewing'?'' she asked.

  "The film." He held out a chair for her, gesturing for her to be seated, then poured wine into a pretty stemmed glass and handed it to her. "I thought we'd have a little dinner, and watch a little Holmes."

  The wide-screen TV sat at an angle to the room, and the lights blinking on the VCR indicated that the film was loaded and ready to go.

  "Let me just bring in the food, and we'll be all set."

  "What's the movie?" Georgia asked, pleased and flattered by the time and attention he'd given to planning this evening with her.

  "It's an old British production of The Sign of Four."

  He placed the bowl of brightly colored vegetables between them, then sat down opposite her. Filling his own wineglass, he raised it to her and said softly, "To many more evenings together."

  She touched the rim of his glass with her own, then sipped at her wine, wishing she could think of something to say, but caught off guard, could come up with nothing to match the romantic spell he'd already woven around them. Instead, she merely took another sip of wine.

  Matt served her first, then himself, saying, "Anyway, to get back to the movie. This one stars a British actor, Arthur Wontner, as Holmes. Now, I personally prefer Basil Rathbone in the role, but all things considered, I think that Wontner does an excellent job. This film is actually two stories in one. The first is Holmes's investigation into a death and a subsequent theft, and the second is a romance…"