7

The sun shone on two bread slices with turkey, provolone, lettuce, and tomatoes generously stuffed between them. Two sodas sat beside them on the white kitchen counter. Tin foil rattled and a sweet aroma wafted up as I wrapped leftover brownies.

I picked up the sandwiches and sweet treats, placed them in a picnic basket, and snapped the lid. The doorbell rang, and I hung the carrier on my wrist, stuffed the drinks into a small cooler, and trekked to the door.

“Hi, thanks for bringing our lunch. After last night I know whatever’s in there is good.” Philip’s lips turned up on the corners as he reached out and took items from me.

“You’re welcome. The restaurants in New York must have lots of delicious dishes.” I headed toward the old car with New York on my mind. I’d told myself before this day ended I’d gather my nerve and let Philip know I couldn’t see him again. When I was with him so much joy surrounded me I forgot life’s harsh realities, especially the one in which he’d leave and break my heart. I had to stand firm.

“Not as good as the ones I’ve eaten here.”

Philip placed our lunch in the car’s backseat. I peered at the sheet of plastic covering my shop window and the part of the wall missing the bricks. I breathed deep trying to overcome the helplessness sinking into my pores. I’d left a key under a big rock beside the door in case Pete and Charlie showed up. They had to.

Philip let me into the car and I stiffened as he took the driver’s seat. Would the old vehicle take us to the festival? She grunted and groaned winding up the mountain road but lived up to the task.

I motioned toward the first picnic station under the shade of oak and sycamore trees by the river. “Stop there. It’s probably past your lunchtime.”

“No argument. I plead hungry.” Philip pulled onto the parking area beside a patch of emerald green grass and two mountain laurel bushes and cut the engine. We eased out of the car, and I set the wicker basket on the seat attached to the table.

English sparrows flew from it and scattered as I unlatched the top of the container. The loose hinges on the lid wiggled when I opened it. I pulled out the red and white checked tablecloth, and a mountain breeze carrying the scent of moist, fresh earth blew by and furled it. I whipped it in place, added the napkins, and plopped the basket on it as an anchor.

Philip swatted at a fly.

Nothing would interrupt this perfect picnic. I’d keep it in my memory forever. I pulled out a citronella candle and lit it. “Would you like to say a blessing?”

“Sure.”

We bowed our heads.

“Our Heavenly Father, thank you for this beautiful day and for time to relax. Thank you for Eve who prepared this food. Bless it to the nourishment of our bodies. In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.”

Philip rubbed his hands together and wiggled his eyebrows. “Now to eat.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I’ve never dined next to a river flowing at ground level.”

Crystal clear water babbled over rocks in the riverbed lined with white trillium and wild pink azaleas. Salamanders and trout swam downstream and a frog croaking mixed with tweets from the birds in the distance. I soaked in nature’s bounty and stress rolled off me like raindrops.

“Some people drink from it. They claim the stream rushes too fast for lizards, snakes, and such to contaminate it, and there aren’t any pollutants up here.”

“I’d like a few sips from the spring. Is that it spurting from those two boulders?” Philip pointed upstream to the other side of the river.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Yes. That’s where the water comes from.”

We finished eating, cleaned the table, and hiked up the narrow trail that wound through underbrush and wild flora. Sticks crunched underneath our shoes and leaves rustled until we stood on the riverbank facing the spring on the opposite side.

Philip tilted his head and stared at the water. “Do we wade over?”

“We can walk. See.” I motioned toward the stones stretching across the water.

“Wouldn’t we be better off wading? We might fall.”

Obviously, Philip hadn’t grown up near the great outdoors. I put my hand on my hip. “Well, yeah, if you plan on slipping.”

Philip bit his bottom lip as though he thought better of his suggestion to drink from the spring. Even if he did, he’d cart himself across that river. He didn’t seem the type of man to back down. “OK, you’re right. We’ll go one at a time. Usually it’s ladies first, but I’ll let you choose.”

I’d crossed here many times. If I led the way, he could follow my path. The last thing I wanted him to do was misstep and take a tumble. “I’ll go.”

I grabbed a low-hanging branch on an oak tree and leapt to the first rock. Balancing with my arms I trod the short distance to the second. One wide stride took me to the slab on the other side in front of the spring. I peered over my shoulder.

Philip stood on stone number two. Secure on the large boulder, I turned around and waved him over. “Come on.”

He bounded over and landed right beside me. He flashed a grin so big it looked as though it might crack his cheeks. We stood for a moment then bent down and scooped up handfuls of natural spring water.

“It’s so beautiful here.” Philip swung his arm toward the river. Then, he pulled me close and I melted into his arms. He brushed his lips against mine then deepened his kiss. I swirled with the roar of the waterfall. Cool, moist droplets splashed onto us from the cascade, and I rose like the swell of the river and floated to a place I’d never been.

He released me and took my hand. “This is the best part of the Western Hills Festival.” He looked at the surroundings then me. “I would offer to carry you across but...”

He’d already transported me where I never intended to go. “Go ahead. I’m right behind you.”

Stepping carefully, we reached dry ground. Philip leaned over, picked up several pebbles, and skipped them across the rippling water. The joy he brought and the pain his leaving would cause sent my emotions crashing faster than the current. Had he experienced the swell of the river? Did he want it to never end?

He brushed off his palms and clasped my hand as we strolled to the old car. A short drive took us to a stoneware display. We got out and proceeded to a woman with short, curly black hair seated at a pottery wheel. A mound of clay spun around and around on the throwing device while she touched the vessel with both hands shaping it. The sun glinted off one of the finished pieces, and it caught my eye. An iris that looked as though it grew on the side of a vegetable bowl with a royal blue band testified to the artist’s talent.

Philip smiled at her. “I’ve never watched pottery in progress before. Thank you for demonstrating.”

“You’re welcome.”

We left and drove to a parking space farther into town. A wooden replica of a pioneer woodsman dressed in buckskin holding a rifle stood guard over a two-story inn. I studied the long tail on his fur cap as we got out of the old vehicle. It appeared a coyote had donated its skin.

We continued down the street past a faux black bear and entered a store with a log cabin front. The scent of moss mixed with pine filled the air. Handmade baskets covered the ceiling. More stoneware dishes, small beaded purses, and handmade rugs sat on the shelves. I studied a pair of brown, tear-drop earrings peppered with tiny copper-colored specks lying on a display counter. Then I picked them up and wandered past shelves of colorful quilts to reach the clerk, an attractive woman with high cheek bones. The light bounced off the earrings. “These are so pretty. What are they made of?”

Philip leaned close to me and gazed at them. “I believe those are quartz.”

“Yes, the semi-precious gemstones come from this area. We cut and polish them.”

Philip pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket. “We’ll take them.”

“Philip, that’s not nec...” I had to stop him. How could I accept a gift from him when I intended to tell him not to call me? The strength to say the words escaped me every time I was with him, or I wouldn’t have been here today.

The lady promptly took hold of the jewelry, rang up the sale, and handed me the purchase. “I hope you enjoy these.”

“I’m sure I will.” I turned toward Philip. “What a nice surprise. Thank you.” It was all I could do to keep tears from spilling over my eyelashes. This kind man burrowed further into my heart every time I went out with him. Soon it would be too late to turn back, impossible to not see him. I had to take care of it today.

“A little something for showing me around.” He flashed a satisfied-looking grin as though giving me a gift made him happy.

What a sweet guy. God put one of us in the wrong place. We walked outside, and the bright sunshine nearly blinded me, but I put on my sunglasses to shield my misty eyes. If only I didn’t know the pain of losing someone I loved, maybe I could embrace each moment with Philip. Most women had dated at least three times more men than I had and never experienced the heartache I carried every day. I couldn’t add to it.

The sound of a fast-paced tune filled the air. We turned a corner and joined a crowd gathered around a group of women wearing tap shoes on a stage. The ladies donned short light blue dresses with poufy skirts. They weren’t performing a traditional rendition as Fred Astaire would. Instead they formed in a line and clicked the toes and heels of their shoes in staccato movements. In unison they swung their left legs over their right in what resembled an Irish jig.

Philip stared at them with intense eyes. Then he turned to me. “What are they doing?”

“In this area folks call it clogging. I understand some refer to it as buck dancing. The dance form originated in these mountains when the Irish, Scottish, English, and Dutch-German settlers arrived. They toe-tapped to the fiddle or bluegrass music and the dances from their countries merged to create clogging. The word clog means time. The dancers keep rhythm with the downbeat with their heels.”

I watched their feet and the fast pace mesmerized me until Philp said, “Wow. That was great.”

He grasped my hand, and we meandered to the other end of the block. A fiddler dressed in jeans and a red plaid shirt played a snappy tune while eight men and women square-danced. The men wore blue jeans and western style red shirts with gold ribbing. The dancing ladies had on gold blouses and red skirts that swished just below their knees when they turned.

Those participating joined hands and walked forward with their elbows bent. Then the caller instructed, “Circle left.”

They formed a circle keeping time to the music in that direction until the caller sent them to the right. Then he declared, “Right and Left Grand.” They continued in the circle, but passing each other and clasping hands until he instructed them to Do Si Do.

Each of the four couples faced their partners, passed right shoulders, slid back to back and ended up in front of one another.

“Looks like fun.” Philip tugged at my elbow then guided me beyond the woman demonstrating how to weave a basket as the happy music faded behind us.

I was glad he’d brought me with him. If we had nothing else, we’d have memories from the time we spent here. I’d been to many Western Hill Festivals, but today I was with Philip. His open innocence like that of a child, a side of him I hadn’t seen, endeared him to me even more.

Philip and I crossed the street and headed up the other side of the village amid the vendors’ smells of popcorn and cotton candy. Philip kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk. “I lack the freedom to think. Uh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I think all the time about stocks, numbers, and portfolios, but I don’t contemplate the world around me.”

“That’s true of lots of us. A hymn about this being God’s world comes to mind every time I visit here, and I can’t help but repeat the words from Psalm 19, the one that says, ‘The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.’ I think it’s because I stop bustling around, breathe in the wonder of the lush green hills meeting the blue sky, and relish the cool breeze on my cheeks.

Wrinkles creased Philip’s brow. “After spending time here, I almost feel like a computer, as though I’ve been programmed to live a certain way.”

Here was my opportunity. “I don’t know if that’s true or not, but we do have different lives. I’ve been thinking about that.”

Philip’s eyebrows shot up as he helped me in the passenger’s side of the car. He scooted into the driver’s seat and tilted his head. “You’ve been thinking about our lives?” Shock lined his voice.

Maybe in his mind we hardly knew each other, but this relationship, or whatever we had, had crashed into my life the same way his vehicle hit my shop. I couldn’t live with the emotional wreckage it could bring any more than I could the bashed-in wall and window. “Yes, I wonder if we should keep seeing one another. You’ll meet with Mr. Jacobsen soon then you’ll be off to New York.”

The corners of Philip’s lips sagged as he turned on the engine and backed out. “I’d be so bored and lonely here without you.”

Would he be bored and lonely in New York without me? “Naw, you’ve met lots of people. You know your way around. You’ll find plenty to do.”

Philip stared straight ahead. “I’m not looking for something to do. I want to see you.”

A warm tingle skipped across my skin. Thinking logically was difficult around Philip, but he was like a dream. I’d wake up one day, and it’d be over. I had to plant my heart in reality. “We don’t have much in common.”

Philip drove down the mountain without speaking then pulled into my driveway and parked.

“Look, Pete and Charlie came today and put in the window.” I flung the car door open and practically ran into my shop.

Philip followed and stood beside me.

“This is such a relief. They won’t be in here tomorrow when I have customers.”

“Sweetheart, they’ll have to put up drywall and paint it.”

The fire of excitement burning inside me for my shop the way it used to be dwindled like a flickering flame as we strolled outside and I locked the door. “That’s true, but I could ask them to come at night after I close.”

“That would work.” Philip put his hand behind my back and guided me to the house. “Please don’t say you won’t see me again.” His eyes pleaded with me.

He’d leave and forget me. I had to be strong. “I’m sorry, Philip, but that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He stuck out his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Eve Castleberry.”

That’s what I thought. I’d mean nothing to him once he left Triville. I shook his hand. “Likewise, Philip Wells.”

His eyes looked damp.

Silent sobs erupted inside me as he plodded with slumped shoulders to the old car. I shut the door on the only man other than Jordan who’d ever touched my heart. I’d soon know how big an imprint he’d left on my life.