At eleven the next morning, Abby was bending over the layout table, drowning in proof pages, when she looked up to see Ford Hambrick standing in the doorway with a cat-caught-the-canary grin on his face. “You’ve got company.”
“Company?” Abby frowned. “I don’t have time for company. Who is it? Birdie again? Tell her I can’t see her now, but I’ll call her tonight.”
“It’s not Birdie.” He arched one eyebrow in a rakish expression. “It’s a man.”
“A what?”
“A man. You know—tall, tanned, good-looking. Says you asked to interview him.”
“Devin Connor?”
“Exactly. From the look on your face, I gather you know who he is?”
“Yes, of course.” Abby took a deep breath in an effort to return her heartbeat to normal. Her mind recalled the echoes of his music and the glint of intensity in his clear blue eyes.
She straightened up and ran a hand through her hair. “Take him into the conference room, will you, Ford? Get him coffee— or whatever he wants—and tell him I’ll be with him in a minute.”
“You got it, Boss.” Ford disappeared, and Abby looked frantically around the cluttered office. Where was her tape recorder? And her camera. She’d need her camera.
Annoyed with herself for getting so flustered, she rooted in her desk and came up with her palm-sized recorder, a legal pad, and a pen. She hefted her camera bag onto her shoulder and headed out the door.
The conference room, the largest room in the suite of offices leased by Carolina Monthly, doubled as a staff kitchen. The middle of the room was dominated by a large rectangular table surrounded by chairs. In the far corner, a more intimate seating area offered a sofa, two easy chairs, and a coffee table, and on the left-hand wall an arrangement of cabinets held a coffee maker, a small refrigerator, and a sink.
When Abby entered the room, Devin Connor was standing with his back to her, stirring sugar into a stoneware mug bearing the Asheville logo and a design of blue and purple mountains. She hadn’t remembered him being so tall. Six-two, at least, and wearing blue jeans with a carefully ironed collarless white shirt. A well-worn brown leather jacket hung on the back of one of the conference chairs.
She plunked her camera bag onto the table, and he turned.
“Mr. Connor,” she said briskly, moving toward him with her hand outstretched. “I’m Abby McDougall. We met yesterday.”
“I remember,” he said in a deep voice that just hinted at amusement. “I’m here, after all.”
Abby felt her neck grow hot. “Well, thank you for coming, Mr. Connor.”
“Devin,” he corrected.
She inclined her head. “Devin. My assistant got you some coffee, I see. Do you need anything else?”
He smiled. “Not at the moment.”
“Fine. Fine.” Abby cringed as she heard her own voice pitched half an octave above normal. She cleared her throat. “Shall we sit down?”
Devin pulled out the chair at the head of the table and waited until Abby settled herself, then took the seat at a right angle to her. “I’m not exactly certain why you wanted to interview me,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m simply a fiddler who plays music on the streets. I doubt that’s very interesting to anyone.”
“It’s interesting to me,” Abby blurted out, then corrected herself. “To our readers, I mean.” She found herself staring at him— at those blue eyes, and the recalcitrant lock of sun-streaked hair that fell over his forehead. At his tanned face with the smile lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. At his fingers, long and lean and squared off at the tips, with clean, well-cut nails.
He seemed perfectly composed, sitting there with his hands wrapped around his coffee cup. Not nervous or the least bit uneasy. Contentment radiated from him, and her mind summed him up in a single sentence: Here is a man at peace with himself and his life.
Seeing him up close, she also realized that he was younger than she had originally assumed. Mid to late forties, perhaps. Quite handsome in an outdoorsy sort of way. He was clean and neatly dressed, his beard and hair professionally trimmed. This is no mountain man, she said to herself.
Her mind, unbidden, finished the thought: But he is a man. Definitely a man.
Abby pushed the notion aside. She’d best get down to business— and quickly.
She centered the legal pad on the table in front of her, laid the tape recorder between them, and looked up. “Do you mind if I tape our interview? I’ll take notes as well, but I like to make sure I cover all the bases,” she said, sliding into her role of professional journalist.
“Of course.”
“All right, then.” She pushed the red button on the side of the machine and checked to make sure the tape was running. “Now, Mr. Connor, let’s start with the basics. You are—how old?”
“Please, call me Devin,” he repeated. “I’m forty-eight.”
“And you live—”
“Here, near Asheville. I have a cabin up in the mountains.”
Abby smiled to herself. A cabin. In the mountains. Maybe he was a mountain man after all.
“Do you have—” She paused. “A family?”
“I did, once,” he said. “They’re gone now. I’d rather not talk about them, if you don’t mind.” He took a sip of coffee and looked at her. “And what about you? Husband? Children?”
“I live with my teenage daughter and an elderly mother.”
“No husband?”
For a split second Abby hesitated, exasperation rising up within her. Who was doing the interviewing here, anyway? Then she stifled her irritation and answered, “I’m a widow. My husband died two years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be difficult for you,” he said, leaning slightly forward, as though he might reach out a hand in sympathy.
The sincere starkness of his words were a sharp contrast to the myriad of platitudes and pat responses she had received after John Mac’s death. This man did sound as if he genuinely understood the difficulties she faced.
But Abby didn’t want the interview detoured. She steered the conversation back to him. “I’d like to know—that is, I think our readers would be interested in what motivates you to play your music on the street,” she said. “You’re very good, you know. Maybe even good enough to do this professionally. But you can’t possibly make a living on the donations people give you.”
“I don’t care about making a living,” Devin answered. “I care about making a life. Music is life to me. It’s love. You don’t sell love; you give it away. You lift it up as an offering, and you are enriched whether the world affirms it or not.”
Abby scribbled his words on the pad, just to make certain she got them right. She could almost see the article now, perhaps with a cover spread. The mountain philosopher. The fiddler of life. Her mind spun with the possibilities.
“Tell me more about yourself,” she said, shifting back in her chair. “About your background. How you live. What generates such passion for your music.”
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Let me show you.”
Never in all her fifty-one years had Abby ridden on a motorcycle, nor had she desired to do so. Every year, when the Honda Hoot rolled into town, she cursed the clogged traffic and the noise and the exhaust. Motorcycles were nasty, dangerous machines ridden by anarchists and hippie throwbacks. Now she swallowed down another of her preconceived notions and held on for dear life.
Devin’s bike wasn’t a motorcycle, technically. It was an Italian-made scooter, silvery-blue. “I have an old pickup truck, too,” he said, “but I prefer to ride this when the weather’s nice.” He handed her a helmet. “It’s a Vespa. A classic.”
The wind whipped her face as they headed down 240, out Old Charlotte Highway, and up into the hills south of town. Once she got over her initial terror, the experience reminded Abby of younger days when she had owned an ancient Triumph Spitfire convertible. That long-forgotten sense of freedom washed over her again, and she laughed out loud.
Devin turned and smiled over his shoulder at her. “Great, isn’t it?” he yelled.
Abby laughed again and clutched tighter to the leather of his jacket. Her life was still the same, with all its stress and struggle and loneliness and frustration. But somehow, from the back of a little blue motor scooter, everything felt different. With the wind coursing around her and the mountains before her and the glorious clear sky bright above her, she could almost see light and color washing over her world again.
A mile or two past the entrance to the Parkway, Devin slowed the scooter and turned left, and they began to wind up a long paved road. At a break in the trees, she looked down and saw that they were very high. The city spread out below them like a toy town, remote in the distance.
The scooter kept climbing. The road narrowed and turned to gravel. Tall trees on either side tangled their branches overhead to make a living arch, a tunnel of green. And then, just when Abby was beginning to think they had no choice but to crest the ridge and come down on the other side, Devin veered right into a clearing and killed the engine.
“We’re here.” He slid off the seat, removed his helmet, and helped Abby to dismount. “Did you enjoy the ride?”
“My legs are still vibrating, but yes, I liked it very much.” She smiled up at him. “Where are we?”
“This is where I live.”
Abby looked around. It was a tranquil, stunning location, totally secluded. Just up the hill, a log cabin blended into the surrounding scenery as if it had grown organically out of the mountainside. Behind it, the ridge shot up steeply, heavily wooded and studded with huge boulders. To the right, the land leveled off in an open stretch of pasture before plunging downhill again. A rushing stream, dammed with rocks to create a small waterfall, splashed and sparkled into a pond. Two deer browsing at the edge of the water lifted their heads in curiosity.
For a moment Abby felt as if she had stepped into another world, another time. The clearing was absolutely silent. There was no sound of civilization, not even the distant white noise of cars passing by on the highway.
She listened again. No. It wasn’t silent. She could make out the calling of birds and the rustle of small animals in the woods— squirrels, perhaps, or rabbits. A hawk soared overhead and disappeared beyond the tree line. And underneath it all, she heard the rush of water cascading down the mountain into the pond, and out again in a small cataract on the other side.
“This is so beautiful,” she said, and found herself whispering. It seemed a sacrilege to intrude on such beauty.
The idea startled her. Abby hadn’t given much thought to the idea of holiness—indeed, to anything spiritual—in a very long time. And yet the presence of God, or at least the presence of something deeply loving and peaceful and sacred, clearly permeated this place. This, a voice in the back of her mind murmured, is what heaven must be like.
And yet something didn’t quite fit. They couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes from town. Abby’s mind retraced the route they had taken. By her figuring, they must be near the top of the ridge that backed up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. This was a prime location, and very expensive—the kind of land developers purchased for gated communities of half-million-dollar homes. Not the kind of property owned by a street musician who had no visible means of support.
“Come on,” Devin was saying. “Let’s sit on the porch and talk. I’ll make us some lunch.”
She followed him to the cabin and settled into one of the big oak rockers on the covered porch that faced out over the valley and the mountains to the west. Leaving the front door wide open, Devin went into the kitchen. She could hear him puttering around, humming to himself as he worked.
Abby waited. A medium-sized dog—a cross between a beagle and a shelty, she guessed—appeared at the side of the porch and came up to investigate. She extended her hand to be sniffed, then rubbed his ears. “What’s the dog’s name?” she asked through the open doorway.
Devin poked his head around the corner and looked. “That’s Rachmaninoff,” he said. “Rocky for short. Mozart’s around somewhere. He’ll show up as soon as he gets wind of the food.”
Sure enough, the moment Devin reappeared with a tray bearing sandwiches and tall glasses of iced tea, a sweet-faced golden retriever came barreling up from behind the pond and plopped down expectantly at his master’s knee. “He’s a real lover,” Devin said, “but a terrible beggar.”
Devin served her a lunch of chicken salad sandwiches on homemade bread. A simple meal, and yet Abby had not tasted anything so good in months. They ate quietly, with Abby sneaking a couple of bread crusts to Mozart when Devin wasn’t looking. After a while she gathered her courage to ask the questions that were pressing in on her.
“This place is so . . . secluded,” she said. “There must be a lot of undeveloped acreage surrounding the cabin.”
Devin nodded. “About sixty-five acres, give or take. The property runs from the main road all the way up to the crest of the ridge.”
She looked past him into the cabin. It appeared to be one large room, with a kitchen divided from the main room by an island, and a loft overhead. Beyond the kitchen, on the far side, she could see a closed door. A bedroom, perhaps?
Abby set her tea glass on the small table between the rockers. “Do you mind if I use your rest room?”
“Be my guest. Through the bedroom door, on the left.”
“Thanks.” Abby didn’t really need to use the facilities, but she was uncontrollably curious about how Devin Connor lived.
What she found inside his cabin surprised her. It was, as she had suspected, basically one large open space, but crafted with meticulous care. To her right as she entered, a compact kitchen formed an L, with a cooking bar set at an angle to the corner. On the opposite wall, a huge stone fireplace rose up into the vaulted ceiling, surrounded by a brown leather sofa and several comfortable-looking overstuffed chairs. In one corner stood a baby grand piano littered with staff paper.
She crossed the room and opened the door. The bedroom, although not large, was decorated in soothing tones of dark green and burgundy, and furnished with an iron bed neatly covered with a handmade quilt. An oval area rug covered much of the wood floor, and in one corner a cozy sitting area had been created—a mission oak library table topped with a Tiffany lamp stood between two dark green easy chairs.
“I’ll say one thing for him—he’s got good taste,” Abby muttered as she pushed the bathroom door ajar. The bath, nearly as large as the bedroom, was tiled in forest green with burgundy accents and dominated by a double-size shower encased in glass bricks.
She washed her hands, took a last longing look at the glorious shower, then wandered slowly back through the bedroom and out into the main living area. Devin Connor might claim to be a simple man, but this home was no rustic mountain cabin. Anyone who played a fiddle for quarters on the street couldn’t afford luxuries like leather sofas and a baby grand.
She returned to the porch and resumed her seat in the rocking chair. “You have a nice house, Devin,” she said.
He lifted his eyebrows and gazed at her. “And you’re wondering how a penniless street musician can manage sixty-five acres and a log cabin with leather furniture and a glass block shower.”
Abby ducked her head. “It crossed my mind, yes. A place like this—” She waved a hand at the cabin and the stunning vista spread out before them.
“What makes you think I own it?”
Abby looked at him and saw once again that hint of amusement in his clear blue eyes, that almost-smile that played about his lips. Her heart did a little flip-flop. “This property doesn’t belong to you?”
“You’re the reporter. What do your instincts tell you?”
She thought a minute. “I’d guess that—well, maybe you have friends in high places. And you’re looking after this property for them . . . like a caretaker.”
He pushed the hair back from his forehead and stared out across the pond. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Exactly like a caretaker.”
Abby glanced at her watch. It was nearly two. “Devin, I appreciate your bringing me up here. And I’d like to get to know you better—” The words came out before she could censor them, and she scrambled to explain. “For the article, I mean. But at the moment I really need to get back to the office. I’ve been gone too long.”
“Right,” he said, getting to his feet. “I ought to get to work myself.” He took the lunch tray back into the cabin and returned with his battered black fiddle case. “But before we go, I’d like to respond to one of your questions.” He opened the case, retrieved his fiddle and bow, and sat down on the top step of the porch. “You asked earlier what generates my passion for music.” He waved the bow at the far mountains. “There’s your answer.”
He began to play, a lilting, haunting melody. A ballad, Abby thought, although she couldn’t identify the tune. The music soared into the bright afternoon air, wove through the trees, and reverberated back from the mountainside. With a gentle plaintiveness, the notes worked their way into Abby’s heart and stirred within her the longing for—
For what?
She didn’t know. But the music called to her, reaching some empty, tender spot hidden within her. The touch hurt, but it was a bittersweet pain. A nostalgic yearning, a deep homesickness of the soul.
Without a single word, the music spoke to her of love and risk and new beginnings, of wishes granted and yet to come, of beauty far beyond her own understanding.
And when it ceased, she had a glimpse—perhaps for the first time in her life—of the kind of passion that drove Devin Connor to give his music freely to the world.