Enright Family Collection (137 page)

Georgia followed him around back—Artie and Spam trailing along behind, the pig still keeping a wary eye on the rottweiler—and stopped when he did. There was a metal spigot sticking out of the back wall, and he bent down to twist the handle. It didn’t budge.

“I think I might need a wrench. I have one in the truck. I’ll be right back.”

Georgia hadn’t meant to stare, but there was just something about the way he wore those jeans that kept her eyes glued to his back as he sauntered across the grass and down the drive.

Not nearly the troll I once thought him to be,
she mused as he opened the door of his pickup and leaned in to reach under the seat.

Not even close,
she thought as he walked back toward her.

“I think this should do it,” he told her as he approached the chicken house. “And if it does, we can drive into Tanner’s and buy a couple of hoses. Two will probably do.”

“I already bought them,” she said as he fitted the wrench onto the pipe.

“You did?”

“I figured, either way, I’d use them.”

“Good thinking.” Matt stepped back as brackish water began to spurt from the old spigot. “It’s a little rusty, but it should run clean in a minute.”

“I’ll go get the hoses,” she brightened and sprinted off to retrieve the hoses that she had left near the back steps, “and we can hook them up and see if they reach the field.”

“They’ll reach,” Matt told her as she returned with a green vinyl hose looped over each shoulder. “They’ll be just right.”

He turned the water off and fitted the hose to the spigot while Georgia fitted the second hose to the first. They straightened out both sections, and turned the water back on.

“That’s perfect!” She beamed. “I can water all my little plants without using the watering can. I can tell you, that became a bit tedious this week.”

“You’ve been carrying that old watering can all the way from the barn?”

“Sure. It was the only way to get water back there.” “Completely filled, that can has to weigh almost as much as you do.”

“Not quite, but it did get heavy after a while. But I really am stronger than I look.” She flexed her biceps and offered her right arm for his inspection.

“Solid,” he nodded appreciatively. “And hard as a rock.”

“The dancing keeps me in pretty good shape.”

“You can say that again.” He muttered as he bent over and picked up the wrench, which he stuck into his back pocket. “Well, we have that problem solved and the afternoon to spare. What would you like to
do with the rest of the day? Assuming you haven’t made other plans, of course.”

“Oh, no other plans,” she smiled up at him. “Except I did think it might be fun to have a picnic down by the pond. If we had time, that is. Which we do.”

“That sounds great.” He was pleased—touched—that she had planned ahead and that she had included him in her plans.

“Great. Come back to the house with me and you can help me carry the stuff.”

The stuff proved to be an old quilt, a large thermos of iced tea, and an old wicker basket into which she loaded several prewrapped and packaged items. He was curious as to their contents. What does a vegetarian pack for a picnic? Whatever it was, it was still slightly warm and smelled wonderful.

“I have to ask,” Matt said, lifting the basket higher and sniffing as they walked down the back steps, “what smells so good?”

“Oh, it could be one of several things, but it’s probably the guacamole on the sandwiches. It always smells better when it’s warm.” She told him, obviously pleased.

“What’s in the sandwiches?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh, I made my favorite.” She increased her stride slightly to keep up with his longer legs as they made their way across the yard. “It’s grilled portobellos with red onions, lettuce, tomatoes and bean sprouts. Oh, and the guacamole, which I made myself.”

His own step slowed and his eyebrows knit closer together.

Could she be serious? Mushroom sandwiches?

“Mushrooms.” She nodded.

And mushrooms are a
fungus,
he inwardly grimaced.

Fungus and sprouts. With guacamole. Homemade. Matt could hardly wait.

“Actually, this is quite delicious,” Matt heard himself admitting after he’d eaten the first half of the sandwich, which was on a fresh whole wheat roll. “I suppose you made the buns, too.”

“Yesterday,” she told him.

Matt put his sandwich down on the paper plate. “I was kidding.”

“I’m not.” She grinned. “I couldn’t find any I liked that didn’t have tons of preservatives.”

“You know, you should probably consider doing a take-out business, or a line of prepackaged and frozen foods. Or, at the very least, a cookbook. Anyone who can make a mushroom sandwich taste this incredible obviously has something going for them.”

“It’s on the list.”

Matt leaned back against the trunk of the weeping willow tree that tilted toward the bank of the pond, its thin arms just starting to drip with pale green fringe.

“Well, so now we have a possible degree in psychology and a line of vegetarian specialties on the list. What else?”

“Just my dancing school.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Maybe I won’t do them all at the same time. Maybe I will.” She grinned and pulled her legs up
Indian-style and leaned her elbows on her knees. “The state college about fifteen miles from here offers a degree in performing arts with a concentration in dance. I called and spoke with someone in the department last week, and I may be able to get several credits for certain courses based on my professional experience. I could take dance as a major and psychology as a minor, or vice versa. I also learned that there’s a teacher’s training workshop this summer in New York, that I’m thinking about signing up for. It’s only for a week, but I think that would be beneficial.”

“How could you fit it all in?”

“I can dance in the morning, attend class in the afternoon or evening, and schedule my dance classes for the afternoons when I don’t have school. And classes on Saturday mornings, for Ally and her friends, of course.”

“That sounds like a pretty ambitious schedule.”

“After years of following exactly the same routine, I love having the freedom to try new things. I think I can balance teaching and going to school.”

“And farming.”

She laughed. “Right. Let’s not leave that out.”

“Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

Georgia shrugged. “Well, by then, certainly, I hope to have my degree. And maybe a master’s, too, who knows? And of course, I’ll still be dancing.”

“And farming.” He added.

“A girl’s gotta eat.” She grinned. “How ‘bout you? Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

“Here.” He answered without hesitation. “At Pumpkin Hill.”

“You’re planning on living here?”

“I always have. It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember to open a veterinary clinic here in the barn and live in the old farmhouse.”

“That’s a lovely dream,” she said softly. “Pumpkin Hill is a special place. There’s both peace and energy here, it’s hard to explain.”

“I’ve always felt it. It’s what always draws me back. I’ve never wanted to settle anywhere else.”

“Then why are you living in Shawsburg?”

“Ah, that’s a long story.” He sat up and reached for the second half of his sandwich. “Doc Espey was one of my instructors in vet school. He’s a wonderful man. A truly dedicated vet, an innovator ...”

“How so?”

“For example, for years he’s been developing dog foods that have lower fat, sodium, and animal products.” He grinned. “Sort of a quasi-vegetarian approach, if you will.”

“Ah, that explains why Artie is so partial to carrots.”

“Exactly. Doc Espey has been trying his formulas out on Artie for years. And the dog has thrived, as you can see.” Matt motioned with his head in the direction of the dog in question, who was at that moment, his nose to the dirt, following the hopping motions of a small frog as it fled toward the safety of the pond. “And he’s also encouraged the use of chiropractic treatment and other nontraditional methods of treating animals.”

“He sounds like someone I’d like to know.”

“I think you would. There’s a lot that we just don’t know about disease. I think a holistic approach, using
a variety of modalities, may be the ultimate answer, for humans as well as animals. And I admire people like Doc Espey who aren’t afraid to investigate and utilize other techniques beyond conventional practices.”

“But you won’t be staying with him ...” She sensed that there was something more coming, and tried to ease the way.

“I interned with him. He’s had several strokes since then, now he’s mostly retired. I stayed on to help him to keep up his practice for a while.”

“That’s very nice of you. Considering that you would rather be running your own practice here.”

“Well, not so totally altruistic. For one thing, I couldn’t afford to start up my own clinic when I first got out of school. For another, he taught me so much, that I just felt I owed him. Now, more than ever, I owe him ...”

“What do you mean?”

Matt told her about Espey’s decision to sell his clinic and his gift of equipment to Matt for the clinic at Pumpkin Hill.

“Oh, but that’s wonderful!” Georgia clapped her hands together, startling some ducks who napped in the shade of some nearby cattails and causing Artie to mosey over to investigate the movement. “Then you’ll be able to open your clinic and move back to ...”

She stopped midsentence, realizing the implications. “Oh. Of course. I’m in your house. My dance studio is in your barn,” she said flatly.

“Look, it’s not going to happen tomorrow. I haven’t even figured out what I’ll need to do to
reconfigure the barn. Then I still have to see if the bank will give me a loan to get started. It will take a few months.”

An awkward silence settled in and hung over them for a few long minutes.

“Well, you know, I have an apartment here, I have a place to stay,” Matt told her. “It’s not like I’m going to throw you out. Besides, for a while after I get my practice set up, it may be easier for me to just stay in the apartment anyway. Especially since I might have farm animals staying there that might need care in the middle of the night.” He was rationalizing and they both knew it, but he didn’t want her to think that he was anxious for her to leave. On the contrary. The thought of her leaving Pumpkin Hill disturbed him.

“Well, that’s nice of you to say. We’ve had a fairly open-ended sort of arrangement, and I think I’ve let myself ignore the fact that this is a temporary situation for me because I’ve been so happy here. I just will have to make more of an effort to remember just how temporary this is.”

“Where would you go? If you left?”

“When
I leave ... I don’t know.” She opened the picnic basket and took out a bowl of fruit and set it between them. “Maybe I’ll look for another place to lease in the area. Maybe I’ll look around Bishop’s Cove. I like this part of the state, and I’d hate to leave my dance students high and dry.”

“You can stay on in the farmhouse and find a place in town for a studio.” He suggested, suddenly as concerned about her options as he was of his own. “We’ll work it out somehow.”

There had been a For Rent sign on that storefront
two down from Tanner’s. While it wouldn’t be the quite the same—she’d have to drive into town every time she felt like dancing—it could work. She didn’t want to think about that now. She was here, and so was Matt, and the sun was warm on her skin, the air was sweet with wild hyacinth and the day felt ripe with promise.

“It’s not a decision I’m going to make today,” she told him. “Besides, it’s a beautiful spring day, one to lean back and watch the clouds.”

And she did just that, dropping back to rest her head on the ground, her hands shielding her eyes from the sun. “Look, there, Matt, there’s an alligator ...”

He put his half-eaten apple down on his plate and laid down next to her, following her finger that was directing his gaze to the left.

“Alligator?” He frowned. “No, no. That’s a snake.
Definitely
a snake.”

“A snake? Snakes don’t have legs!”

“Where do you see legs?”

“Right there, see ...?”

“Nah, those aren’t legs. Those are the weeds the snake is crawling through.”

He caught her hand as it stretched upward, encircled it with his own, and let them both rest on the quilt in the space between their bodies. Georgia tucked her other hand behind her head and turned sideways to look at him.

Her eyes are almost as green as the new grass,
he was thinking, right before he raised himself up slightly and, drawn to her mouth like a bee to a flower, kissed her. Her lips were pliant and soft and welcoming, just
as they had been earlier that day. His free hand caressed the soft cheek and traced a line from her temple to her chin before sliding through the silken stream of hair that had eased onto her face. His fingers slid through the warm shimmer of it, and bunched it gently into a fist. From the first moment he’d seen her, he’d wanted to do this, to send his fingers through the golden wave and feel its silk, tangle in its thickness and measure its weight. His teeth scraped across her bottom lip and he felt her tongue meet his own to take those first tentative steps in a slow dance of seduction. He traced the inside of her mouth before plunging into it, and he knew that for the first time in his life, fantasy had met its match in reality. The hand that he had held found its way free and was making its way around his waist, and her other hand sought the back of his neck to draw him closer still. She arched her back and strained against him, and he covered her body with his own, thinking that she was every bit as sweet and soft and yielding as he had dreamed she would be. Her fingers twisted in the back of his shirt and he raised himself onto his elbows and slid his mouth down the side of her jaw, teasing her skin with his tongue and his teeth until he reached her neck. Drawing the soft skin between his lips, he inched his way to her throat, his breathing matching hers in short quiet gasps.

“Matt,” she whispered, “kiss me again ...”