Our Song (16 page)

Jacob gaped at Nanny.

“Um, that's pretty much spot on,” he said. “Except I worry more about flash floods than sinkholes. But Ms. Annie, how did you know all that?”

“Your tempo,” Nanny said with a shrug. “Your fingering and vibrato—I can see the wheels turning while you play. Not that you don't play magnificently . . .”

“Aw, thanks, Ms. Annie,” Jacob said, looking shy. “I
am
working on the overthinking thing.”

“I can see that you are,” Nanny said. “Why, practically overnight, you started bending that bone between your elbow and your wrist. The rest of it will come too, darlin'!”

My eyes locked with Jacob's, and I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.

Then Nanny turned to me.

“And you, Little Miss Blacksmith,” she said. “Will I see you tonight? I'll make the popcorn.”

Nanny loved thunderstorms too. I guess she was the one who'd taught me to appreciate them. When I was little, she used to come over to our house for every big storm. She'd make popcorn, the way other grandmas do before putting on an old movie. It was never microwave popcorn. It had to be made on the stove in a saucepan—a cloudy, dented pot that was pretty much used for that purpose only. Then we'd go upstairs to the hallway window seat, and Nanny would gather me into her lap. We'd watch the lightning zigzag through the sky and stare, mesmerized, as the silhouetted tree limbs waved and wobbled in the wind. We'd count the seconds between lightning flashes and thunderclaps. We'd sing songs to the rhythm of the thunder. We'd definitely eat the whole bowl of popcorn, racing to get to the half-popped
kernels in the bottom of the bowl. Then we'd lick the salt off our fingers while she walked me to bed.

I realized later, when she started doing the same thing for my little brother, Carl, that the popcorn was just a trick. She made thunderstorms into a party to make sure we loved them instead of fearing them.

It had worked. To me, storms were more cinematic than sinister. They had everything you wanted in a good movie—passion and drama, volatility and conflict, and plenty of brooding rain.

So I smiled at Nanny and nodded.

“I can't promise that I won't dash outside during the storm, though,” I said. “A cold rain sounds like heaven right about now.”

“Absolutely not,” Nanny declared. “With all these hills and those toothpicky pine trees that'll tip over you if you so much as blow on 'em? You will stay inside with me. In fact, you might want to plan on a slumber party. Make sure to bring your jammies.”

“Nan-ny,” I said through gritted teeth, casting a quick glance at Jacob. My grandmother talking to me about “jammies” was
so
humiliating-slash-infantilizing. (Yes, that last term I'd picked up from Annabelle.)

Nanny waved me off with a roll of her eyes.

•  •  •

We still had the entire sweltering day to get through. Luckily, I had something new to hold my attention in the barn. I'd decided to make my parents an iron platter—big and oval with a shallow lip. I wanted to twirl the handles to make them look like licorice twists.

I knew my mom would love using it to serve Arnold Palmers at front-porch jams. And it would show both my parents that I was sorry for the ditch that got me sent to Camden.

Talking to Jacob about the music parties might have even made me a little nostalgic for them.

Maybe,
I thought as I pounded my metal out to a flat sheet,
I'll even serve the drinks at the next party
. I started imagining what it would be like to have
Jacob
at one of our jams, fiddling so hard that he broke into a sweat, then cooling off with one of the Arnold Palmers. I imagined showing him the magnolia tree out front. It was so old that some of its low, swooping branches almost touched the ground. Standing within them, we would have had the perfect cover for a kiss. . . .

“Ugh!” I groaned.

I was getting pretty sick of all these daydreams about Jacob kissing me. It clearly wasn't going to happen, so I needed to get over it.

I resolved to start obsessing over my tray instead, just as soon as I cooled off at the pump outside the barn.

On my way out, I stopped at the table where we all stashed our works in progress.

Jack had added another couple of prongs to his set of fireplace pokers, and Anthony's bocce balls were starting to look less like wobbly ostrich eggs and more like bocce balls.

The most stunning WIP was Coach's. He was making a fireplace screen of thin-stalked iron cattails, bulrushes, and even a
couple of tiny frogs. It was gorgeous—as sweet and delicate as Coach was huge and brawny.

Coach lumbered over as I admired the latest addition to the screen. A wafer-thin grass blade undulated as if it had just caught a gentle breeze.

“Wow, Coach,” I said. “I still can't believe
that
came out of
those
!”

I pointed at his enormous hands.

“Always expect the unexpected, Olive Oyl,” Coach said with a grin. “You of all people should get that.”

I laughed.

“I get it,” I said. Then I headed for the door.

When I emerged from the barn, squinting in the strong sun, I found Clint and Joe already at the water pump. Joe worked the handle, while Clint held his head beneath the spigot. He hooted happily as the water ran over his red neck.

When he saw me, though, Clint immediately stepped aside and gestured me toward the pump.

“Chivalry isn't dead,” I joked as I plunged my hands into the water. I wasn't about to thrust my whole head into the stream like Clint had. Without Annabelle's magical product, wet hair in this heat would definitely lead to dandelion-head. So I splashed a handful of water onto my face, then patted some onto my neck. I held my wrists under the water and even dabbed the back of my knees. But nothing worked. I was still hot. Very hot. So hot I was going to melt. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, which only made me feel worse. The air felt like heavy cotton in my lungs.

“You know what you really need?” Joe asked from somewhere behind me.

“Hmmm?” I responded absentmindedly. I was trying to think about Popsicles. Snow angels. Penguins.

“This!” Joe shouted. Suddenly a cascade of water tumbled over my head, hitting me so hard that I fell down in the dirt. That dirt, of course, quickly turned into mud.

I gasped as cold water streamed through my hair, soaking my clothes, even trailing into my boots. I stared at Joe, my mouth open wide in shock.

This was the kind of thing the guys did to one another all the time. They pulled pranks and told jokes and said disgusting things about one another's mothers. The recipient of the ribbing laughed it off, and it was understood that he'd be the next one to pull a prank.

But they rarely included me in their games. I didn't know if they were being sexist or courteous or if it just hadn't occurred to them. And, of course, they couldn't insult my mother, because she was also Nanny's daughter-in-law. Everybody at Camden knew you didn't mess with Ms. Annie.

The real reason I thought I was often excluded from the guys' games was this—I was an outsider. Even if I'd managed to pound out that spike and a few other weighty baubles; even if the guys had gotten comfortable enough with me to resume their rampant swearing, I was still an accidental smith. I wasn't one of them.

Until now.

That pail of water might as well have been an initiation rite. And I was surprised at how happy it made me.

Physically, it saved me too. My cold, dirty shower left me feeling exhilarated and 100 percent less fuzzy than I'd felt a few minutes earlier.

I guess that was how I had the wherewithal to scoop up a gushy clod of mud and pelt it at Clint, whooping and laughing as it hit him square in the chest of his plaid shirt.

“Hey!” he yowled.

In the next instant, we were racing each other to the pump. Because I probably weighed fifty pounds less than Clint (and I was closer), I made it there first. I grabbed an empty pail, caught the last of the water coming out of the spigot, then tossed it at him.

Clint laughed so loud that I didn't hear the squeak of the pump handle behind me. That was Joe, of course, filling up another bucket. He used it to douse me.

Our splashing and shouting drew the other smiths out of the barn. Coach, Michael, Jack, and Anthony looked at one another and then at us. They were red-faced and as draggy as basset hounds.
We
were sopping wet but
very
spry.

It took them about three seconds to join in. Within a minute, we were engaged in an all-out water war. I ended up teaming up with Joe and Clint to chase the other smiths (even Coach!) with pails and mud balls. Within ten minutes, we were all soaked. We
were all filthy. And were all laughing hysterically, complete with loud snorts.

That, of course, was the moment that Jacob showed up. He was carrying a tall water bottle filled with cloudy amber liquid. He stopped short of the now-muddy courtyard. He gaped at me and the other mud-slick smiths.

“Nelllll?” he said, as if he didn't quite recognize me. He looked pink-cheeked and a little sweaty, but other than that, he was perfectly clean and respectable.

I stopped myself in mid-snort and took a few steps backward, as if I would contaminate him with my grossness if I got anywhere near him.

“I brought you this drink Ms. Betty told me about,” Jacob said. “It's iced tea mixed with lemonade? It's pretty much the best thing I've ever tasted.”

I opened my eyes so wide, my lashes stuck to the mud on my eyelids.

“You brought me,” I breathed, “an Arnold Palmer?”

“Is that what it's called?” Jacob asked. “Cool!”

Then he walked right to me, not caring about the mud that spattered his sneakers and bare legs, and handed me the bottle.

I stared at it. I couldn't have been more shocked if Jacob had given me a dozen roses.

If ever there was a gesture that deserved a thank-you kiss, it was coming to the gross blacksmithing barn, simply to bring me a cold drink.

But of course, I was more disgustingly unkissable than I'd ever been in my life.

It was so unfair, I could have cried. But what came out was laughter. Really hard, life-is-ridiculous laughter. Between hoots and hiccups, I gasped out a thank-you.

Jacob laughed too, more in bewilderment than because he got the joke.

The joke being, of course, that the more I wanted to lock lips with Jacob, the less likely it seemed that it would ever happen.

Chapter
Sixteen

I
t took me a long
time to scrub all the mud away, but by dinner that night, I was wearing a cool, breezy sundress and looked reasonably presentable.

Not that it matters,
I told myself as I sat down next to Jacob at the big green
V
. Before we could even say hello, though, the first bolt of lightning flashed outside, followed by a thunderclap that rattled the windows.

“Here we go!” said Marnie, taking a deep, shuddery breath.

“Ooh, drama,” Annabelle said, clapping her hands. “I love a good thunderstorm.”

“You and Nell both,” Jacob said, and I flashed him a smile.

The next thunderclap, though, was scarily loud, even to me. As the lights flickered, the rain started. It came so suddenly and
so hard, it was as if someone had turned on a faucet. Or more accurately, a car wash. The gushes of water obscured the windows almost completely.

Alarmed voices rippled through the dining hall like waves of water themselves, until Mrs. Teagle's voice rang out. She was standing near the room's interior door, her hands cupped around her mouth.

“Since nobody wants to go out in this rain until it lets up a bit,” she called out, “I suggest we all head up to the sing-along right after dinner? If the rain doesn't come down the chimney, we'll build a fire and have a surprise treat. It involves marshmallows, y'all. And, well, chocolate and graham crackers too. Oh, heck, I just ruined the surprise.”

The room filled with nervous laughter.

But Jacob wasn't one of the ones laughing.

Neither was Nanny, whom I spotted at the table next to ours. Her face looked tight with worry as she glanced my way, so I held up the little overnight bag I'd brought to dinner.

“See you after the sing-along,” I called. “Don't forget the popcorn.”

“Don't you want s'mores?” Nanny replied. “I'm pretty sure that's what Mrs. Teagle was alluding to so subtly.”

“Of course!” I said. “S'mores followed by popcorn is pretty much the perfect slumber party menu.”

“Oh, to be fifteen again with an iron stomach,” she sighed.

Either due to nerves or the promise of s'mores, everyone ate quickly, then headed up to the sing-along.

I was one of the last people up the stairs. In the landing outside the great hall, Jacob was leaning against the wall. His fiddle case was tucked beneath his arm. He seemed agitated, fussing with his case's zipper.