Terry-Joe Gitterman slowed his bike as he approached the Hyatts’ home. Something in the air felt different. He stopped just out of sight, hidden by the overhanging trees. He let the engine die, then listened.
Music drifted down from the house. He recognized “John Barleycorn,” and Aiden’s adolescent voice. Then he picked out the instruments. Guitar, also Aiden. Chloe’s autoharp, Deacon’s fiddle. A banjo, which meant Kell Hyatt had returned from college at last. And…
He felt a lump rise in his throat. A mandolin.
He should feel a sense of accomplishment, he knew. After all, Bliss Overbay, second in line of the First Daughters, had given him an important task, and now he knew he’d accomplished it. Bronwyn was once again playing Magda. Yet he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes aching for release. He didn’t understand until this moment how much he was looking forward to spending time with Bronwyn again, how he wanted to slip his arms around her slender body and guide her strong fingers to the right place.
But there was nothing for it now, he knew. She was playing with her family, and he would definitely be the odd man out. He turned the bike, kicked it into life, and sped away, grateful for the sharp wind in his eyes.
That afternoon, Don Swayback found the turnoff with no trouble.
He stopped in the middle of the highway and stared at the blatant turn he was certain had not been there before. He saw the intersection of Curly Mane Road, and the turnoff for Jenkins Trail. He saw the spot where he’d had the run-in with the state trooper. But this road, the one now plain before him, simply hadn’t been there that day. There was no way he could’ve missed it. If only he’d thought to take photos for comparison.
He checked his watch. It was two forty-five. He shot several pictures of the turnoff in case it vanished again. Then he considered his options. He could go back to his office and show Sam the photos, proving he’d at least tried to do the interview. Or he could suck it up and actually try to do it for real.
He thought of Susie’s disappointment if he came home with more excuses or, worse, no job at all. He sighed, turned off the highway, and headed toward the Hyatt residence.
The road dead-ended at their driveway, and the gate was open. He parked along the fence; after all, he hadn’t been invited. Then he took a deep breath, checked his hair in the sun visor mirror, and got out.
As he climbed the hill toward the house, he saw a woman working in the flower bed off to one side. She hummed to herself, and had her back to him. He stopped a respectful distance away and said, “Excuse me?”
She turned, shielded her eyes with one gloved hand, and said, “Can I help you?”
He recognized her from his research, and his mouth was suddenly dry. His whole career might ride on what he said next. “Ma’am, my name is Don Swayback and I’m with The Weekly Horn newspaper over in Unicorn. I’m guessing you’re Mrs. Hyatt?”
She stood, removed her gloves, and walked to him. She wore cutoff shorts and a sleeveless top. Her skin was tanned dark brown, and her jet-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “I’m Chloe Hyatt,” she agreed. “Swayback… I knew an Oswald who married a Swayback fellow.”
“Bengenaria? Everyone called her Benji?”
“That’s her.”
“That’s my great-grandmother.” He frowned, taking in Chloe’s comparative youth. Despite having three children, the woman looked younger than he did. “You knew her?”
“Knew of her.”
“That’s not what you said.”
She smiled. It was beautiful, dazzling even, and Don suddenly felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Mr. Swayback, are you calling me a liar?”
He smiled as well. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry it came out like that. I’m here because I’d like to make arrangements to sit down with your daughter and do an interview with her. I know she’s been badgered by the press, and I can appreciate that she still needs to recover from things. But I think the local readers have been ill-served by the national media, and I’d like to speak with your daughter about things other than the war or politics.”
Chloe smiled faintly. “‘Ill-served’?”
Don laughed. “Well, you know….”
Movement caught his eye. A tall young man with hair to his shoulders emerged from the house and leaned on the porch rail as he watched them. Don tried not to let it rattle him.
Chloe made a strange motion with her left hand, almost like she was trying to speak in sign language. He might not have noticed, except at that exact instant he felt a sharp pain above his left eye that made him wince. It faded immediately.
“So what would you want to talk to my girl about, if it’s not the war or politics?” she asked.
“What it’s like to be home, what she missed, what she didn’t miss, and what she plans for the future. Her favorite memories of Cloud County that helped her get through her troubles, that sort of thing. We’re not trying to beat the news channels at their own game. People read our paper for football scores and coupons.”
“Howdy,” a male voice called behind Don. He turned and saw an older man, dressed for farming, stride across the lawn. The young man now watched from inside the screen door. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” the newcomer said neutrally.
“This is Don Swayback,” Chloe said. “He’s a reporter. But Benji Oswald was his great-grandmother, so he’s one of us as well.” She said that with a wink, although Don noticed the man looked a bit puzzled. “Mr. Swayback, this is my husband, Deacon.”
“Well, pleasure to meet you, then,” Deacon said as they shook hands. “But our newsworthy family member is dead to the world right now, I’m afraid. She was up early, and after lunch she went out like a light. Just like she used to do when she was a baby.”
Don felt a sudden, embarrassing rush of relief. No interview today, and it wasn’t his fault. “If you’d do me the honor of passing on my comments, I’d be really grateful. You can reach me here.” He handed Chloe his card.
“You a musician, Mr. Swayback?” Deacon said.
Don blinked. “Er… funny you should ask, sir. I just dug my guitar out of the closet after about six years.”
“There’s a regular ongoing shindig some of us have every night around here. It’s a private thing, so we don’t advertise it or nothing, but I think you might enjoy it. Starts around sundown, goes until our fingers fall off. Bring your guitar and come sit in.” With a chuckle he added, “Nobody there expects anybody to be too good, and you might run into my daughter there.”
“I might do that,” Don said. “Where is it?”
“Just follow Spruce Line Road. You’ll know the turnoff.”
The pain above his eye momentarily returned. He would know the turnoff, just as he would’ve if he’d gone through with his plans last night instead of spending the evening with Susie. The emotional certainty overrode any intellectual skepticism. “Thanks for the invite.”
“We look out for our own,” Chloe said enigmatically.
As they watched the reporter drive away, Chloe undid her ponytail and shook her hair loose. “What’d you invite him to the barn dance for?” she asked.
Deacon shrugged. “Had a feeling about him. You spotted it, too. He’s got some of us in him, and it’s more’n just skin deep.”
“If it’s from Benji Oswald, though, he’s more Rockhouse’s people than one of ours.”
“Benji left. She knew what her blood was. I’d say that leaves him free to choose.” Suddenly he stepped forward and yelled, “Get outta here!”