Page 6 of Smoky Mountain Dreams
“Go get your backpacks and shoes, sweethearts, so your dadcan take you home.” As soon as they scampered off, Nova turned to him withtender, sorrowful eyes, and Jesse’s stomach dropped into his shoes. “Thehospital called Ronnie today. And, of course, Ronnie called me.”
Jesse rubbed his napkin against his mouth and stood. Ronnieonly called Nova when the news from the hospital supported her cause. Hewondered what it was this time. Had Marcy opened her eyesandmade vocalizations? That wasn’t too unusual. They’d told him long ago thosebehaviors were only reflexes and not indicative of consciousness. Not even alittle of Marcy was left in her body.
“And?” His heart thumped.
“Well, more of the same,” Nova said meaningfully. “Ronnie’sfired up about it, of course.”
“Shit.”
“Jesse, it’s been five years next month. I know now isn’tthe moment to talk about this—”
“I’m heading out the door, Nova.” He pushed in his chair andput his dish in the sink.
“But we need to talk about it again soon.”
“Why? We have mediation appointments scheduled and—”
“Not just mediation. That’s not what I’m talking about.Honey, it’s getting to betime.”
“Long past time,” Tim said taking hold of Jesse’s elbow. “Longpast, son.”
Jesse shook them both off and started toward the front door,the spaghetti tasting acidic in the back of his throat.
“I know it’s hard, Jesse, but please let us take this burdenfrom you,” Nova pleaded as she followed him. “She’s our baby girl and if anyoneshould—”
Jesse opened the door and held his hand up to stop her. Theyall stared at each other for several long moments. Words that had been spokenover and over cluttered the air between them. The tension broke as the kids ranpast, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and their shoes crunching on thegravel of the drive.
“Got everything?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad,” they chorused with matching eye rolls, andBrigid shoved Will and he laughed before shoving her back.
“Cut it out,” Jesse called.
“Drive carefully,” Tim said.
Jesse knew it was unintentional, but the words hit him hardenough to stop him dead in his tracks. It was only a moment, though, before hestiffened his shoulders and herded the kids into the car.
Chapter Three
GATLINBURGON AN EARLY MONDAY MORNINGwasn’t all that bad, really. Rounded,comforting mountains rose up on either side of the narrow cleft in which thetown was nestled. The splashy color of autumn leaves continued to work its waydown from the higher elevations, prettying up the place. The trash was clearedand the streets nearly ached with the sweet scent of pancakes, sugar, andsyrup. Most of the tourists had departed on Sunday or were still in their hotelbeds. The only people out and about were shopkeepers getting ready for the rushlater in the day.
Jesse Birch’s Jewelry Studio wasn’t on the parkway, butChristopher had left his house a little too early. He’d needed to waste sometime, so he walked up the main drag and back, noticing the most recent changesto the little tourist town he’d made his home. The street was, as always,colorful with bright signs to lure in tourists, but there was still a gap inhis heart when he passed the place where Gran’s store used to stand. There wasan airbrush T-shirt shop there now.
He paused in front of the Ole Smoky Mountain Candy Kitchento look at the taffy stretcher. He admired the smooth wood and the curves ofthe machine, remembering Gran holding his hand in front of that very window,watching the machine pull and piece the taffy before his amazed eyes. She’dalways bought him a box when he visited, and he’d do his best to eat it beforehe had to head back home to Knoxville. When Gran was around, his mother didn’tdare tell him he couldn’t stuff his face with “devil sugar,” or do whateverelse he might like, for that matter. Gran was his champion even back then.
Christopher glanced at his watch as he turned up the steeproad that led both to the jewelry studio and his own home. The studio was in arefurbished cottage decorated with lovely wrought-iron protective bars on thewindows. He’d never been inside, but he’d seen some really nice pieces in thewindows over the last several years. Not to mention his friend Holly, who ranthe Crazy Hat Stand at SMD, told him if he wanted a custom piece of jewelry,then Jesse Birch was the best, most trustworthy man to make it.
“He’s not tacky,” she’d said under her breath, so no oneelse could hear, as she pushed her brunette hair behind her ear, and narrowedher brown, thickly lined eyes conspiratorially. “He’s nothing at all like thistheme park or this town. It’s like he was transplanted from New York or Parisor something.”
Christopher had been skeptical. After all, Holly was fromFriendsville and didn’t know Paris from her armpit. She also didn’t have astrong fashion sense herself. He’d seen pictures of her prom dress, and even ifthat could have been written off as youthful extravagance, her regulargoing-out-on-the-town clothes made his brain bleed.
“What? You don’t trust me?” She’d rolled her eyes. “Let’sput it this way, okay? I wouldn’t be caught dead in Jesse Birch’s jewelry. Notflashy enough for me.Comprendes?”
“Comprendes,” he’d echoed,laughing as she’d plopped a multi-colored beanie on his head and set thepropeller spinning with a flick of her thick index finger.
The outside of the Birch studio was creamy white, withwell-kept beds of lustrous rhododendron along the sides of the front walk,glossy and evergreen. In the spring, they offered up a splash of purple-pinkflowers that looked beautiful against the pale color of the building.
The inside of the studio, Christopher discovered, wasnothing like the jewelry stores he’d seen in malls growing up. It had a calm,almost regal atmosphere, with small glass cases that showed only a few piecesin each.
