She reached for her guitar, which rested in its old, battered case in one corner of the crowded room. Her twin-size bed was neatly made, covered in one of Granny’s colorful quilts. A teddy bear she’d had since birth sat proudly in front of the pillow. Her small desk was littered with sheet music and scraps of paper holding promising scraps of song lyrics. Surrounding the small desk were bookshelves loaded with volumes on everything from Plato’s philosophy to Appalachian wildlife. Most of them had belonged to her parents before her, and she had read every one of them at least once.
Setting the guitar on the bed, she opened the case and reached for her best friend. The Gibson had belonged to her grandfather, Granny’s husband, who had gotten it from his father, who had accepted it in trade for some labor he had provided for a man in town in the early 1930s. Even scratched and worn as the finish was, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned, and her greatest joy was losing herself in the music it produced.
Addy had been home-schooled, because by the time she was five, things had gotten to the point at which she couldn’t safely mix with other people at all. Her family’s books had provided her with plenty of reading material, though, and Granny had proved to be an excellent teacher. When she’d been fifteen, Addy had managed to take and pass her GED exams at the local library, which had gotten the state off their backs about Addy not attending public school. Nine years later, she knew Granny was right: As much as Addy hated to even think about it, she was going to have to figure out what her future was going to be. Loving the farm wasn’t enough. Yes, she could manage to feed herself, but there were times when one woman couldn’t do for herself. She and Granny managed together, because Granny could call on the extended family for help, if they needed a strong back.
Would they come if I asked them to?
Addy frowned. When Granny died, their extended family—most of whom had never hesitated to treat Addy as an oddity at best and a complete freak at worst—would nevertheless probably insist she come live and work on one of their farms, leaving this one to be swallowed up by the woods. She hated the thought of Granny’s farm dying that way, but she wouldn’t have the money to keep it up, unless…
Addy looked over at the crumpled letter she had dropped in the middle of her desk, and sighed. Sinking to the edge of the bed, she began tuning her guitar. Someone wanted to buy one of her songs. She couldn’t imagine it, but if they did, what might that mean for her income? She hated the thought of actually selling her songs—it was too much like selling a part of herself—but maybe, if the band really appreciated them, maybe then it would be okay?
Shaking her head in annoyance at her own indecision, Addy left the letter where it sat, and taking up her guitar, headed for the front room, muttering to herself. She had reread Gone with the Wind recently, and Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlet O’Hara had it right. “‘I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.’”
Addy settled on the small couch, leaning back and allowing her fingers to wander over the strings of her beloved guitar. She was self-taught, having used an old chord chart she had found in the guitar case to get her started. Later she’d found chords of her own, the actual names of which she didn’t know, but they worked with her melodies. As she played, she began to relax, and soon the agency’s letter and any thoughts of the future were swept away in the music.
12
Overnight temperatures had left frost on the ground, and Addy welcomed the fresh, crisp fall air into her lungs as she stepped out of the chicken coop early the next morning. The chickens had been in fine form, and there would be enough eggs to take some to the market. She was glad, because she had spied a used rhyming dictionary at the thrift shop earlier in the week, and she would now be able to buy it, if no one else had snatched it up. She scanned the hills and marveled, as she always did, at the beauty of the countryside. The drop in nighttime temperatures had begun to paint the forestland in a wash of yellow and red.
The sound of a car making its way up their long drive brought her attention back to the present. Addy moved quickly to take the eggs into the cabin as a mid-sized SUV drove into the clearing.
“Granny, someone’s here,” she called out.
“I hear ’em,” Granny said, coming in from her bedroom, where she had been sorting linens. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” Addy said, setting her basket on the counter and reaching into a cabinet for the cardboard egg cartons the market provided for their eggs. She would wash the eggs and let Granny take care of whoever had come to call.
“Aren’t you even interested?” Granny asked, reaching for her shawl.
“No.”
Granny shook her head and muttering, went to see who it might be.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the stranger said when Granny opened the door.
“Well, good morning, young man,” Granny replied.
Addy thought she detected approval in her grandmother’s voice and braced herself, knowing the polite “young man” would be asked in for tea.
“Is this the Spencer place?” he asked.
“It is. May I ask who’d like to know?”