presence so Helen couldn’t veto the notion—that they all share the evening meal out on the back porch where they could take advantage of the breeze.
His appetite as hearty as ever, Jolly smacked his lips appreciatively and ate with great gusto. After eagerly devouring several pieces of golden fried chicken, he joked that he had enjoyed the appetizer, now what was for supper, and his blue eyes twinkled with merriment.
Kurt courteously chuckled. Helen graciously smiled. Charlie’s glum expression never changed.
Jolly polished off two thick slices of apple pie, pushed back from the table, groaned with satisfaction, and loosened his belt a notch. Sighing with pleasure, he withdrew a cigar from inside his shirt pocket, put it under his nose, and sniffed it. And caught the brief flicker of envy in Kurt Northway’s green eyes.
“Join me in a smoke, won’t you, Captain?” he said, and fished a second cigar from his pocket.
“Thank you, Mr. Grubbs,” said Kurt, and took the offered cheroot.
“No need to be so formal, son. Call me Jolly. Everyone else does.” He looked at the clench-jawed Helen. “Don’t they, Helen, my girl?” Before she could reply, Jolly asked Kurt, “Know what we used to call Helen when she was a little shaver of two or three years old?”
“Hamilton Minor Grubbs,” Helen warned, “don’t you dare!”
Blue eyes still atwinkle, Jolly nodded sheepishly and said no more, knowing that when Helen addressed him by his full name, she meant business. He cleared his throat and steered the conversation to safer topics. He insisted Kurt tell them about his Maryland home.
Kurt volunteered little, but Jolly questioned him tenaciously. Showing little interest in what he had to say, Helen nonetheless learned that Kurt Northway had lived and worked on a large horse farm since he was a boy. And that the farm’s owner had taught him all there was to know about training fine thoroughbreds. Further probing questions from Jolly revealed that Kurt was to be given property of his own by the man who had been like a father to him. Their agreement was that Kurt would give Willis Dunston five more years of service in exchange for a section of prime Maryland grassland adjoining his own.
Jolly knew instinctively when he could get nothing more out of Kurt, so he turned the conversation to the weather, the crops, and the upcoming Baldwin County Fair. As he spoke, he keenly observed and evaluated each one of the uncomfortable trio seated at the table with him.
Maybe there was nothing he could do about the obvious impasse between the two adults. That was their lookout. Something they would have to work out—or not.
But he would take the mute, moping Charlie Northway in hand.
And the sooner the better.
Chapter Eight
J olly Grubbs showed up at the farm again the next day.
The quiet serenity of the lazy Sunday afternoon was shattered when Jolly, mounted astride his big gray gelding, came galloping down the tree-edged lane yipping and shouting and waving his straw hat like a wild, unruly youngster.
Helen was out beyond the yard at the south side of the house, cutting roses and dropping them into a basket on her arm. She heard the racket, looked up, saw Jolly coming, and shook her head, smiling.
It had oft been said of Jolly Grubbs that he possessed “an excessive propensity for fun and foolishness.” That statement had a great degree of truth. For a seventy-year-old man who had lived through more than his share of loss and tragedy, Jolly had managed to keep an amazingly cheerful disposition. His curiosity was unlimited, his optimism unshakable, his zest for living awe-inspiring.
Jolly thundered up to a clod-flinging stop a few yards from where Helen stood, climbed out of the saddle, and tossed the reins to the ground. Snorting and shaking his head, the gray gelding ambled off, his master paying him no mind.
Jolly hurried to Helen, flashing the sunniest of smiles, looking as if he harbored the juiciest of
His appetite as hearty as ever, Jolly smacked his lips appreciatively and ate with great gusto. After eagerly devouring several pieces of golden fried chicken, he joked that he had enjoyed the appetizer, now what was for supper, and his blue eyes twinkled with merriment.
Kurt courteously chuckled. Helen graciously smiled. Charlie’s glum expression never changed.
Jolly polished off two thick slices of apple pie, pushed back from the table, groaned with satisfaction, and loosened his belt a notch. Sighing with pleasure, he withdrew a cigar from inside his shirt pocket, put it under his nose, and sniffed it. And caught the brief flicker of envy in Kurt Northway’s green eyes.
“Join me in a smoke, won’t you, Captain?” he said, and fished a second cigar from his pocket.
“Thank you, Mr. Grubbs,” said Kurt, and took the offered cheroot.
“No need to be so formal, son. Call me Jolly. Everyone else does.” He looked at the clench-jawed Helen. “Don’t they, Helen, my girl?” Before she could reply, Jolly asked Kurt, “Know what we used to call Helen when she was a little shaver of two or three years old?”
“Hamilton Minor Grubbs,” Helen warned, “don’t you dare!”
Blue eyes still atwinkle, Jolly nodded sheepishly and said no more, knowing that when Helen addressed him by his full name, she meant business. He cleared his throat and steered the conversation to safer topics. He insisted Kurt tell them about his Maryland home.
Kurt volunteered little, but Jolly questioned him tenaciously. Showing little interest in what he had to say, Helen nonetheless learned that Kurt Northway had lived and worked on a large horse farm since he was a boy. And that the farm’s owner had taught him all there was to know about training fine thoroughbreds. Further probing questions from Jolly revealed that Kurt was to be given property of his own by the man who had been like a father to him. Their agreement was that Kurt would give Willis Dunston five more years of service in exchange for a section of prime Maryland grassland adjoining his own.
Jolly knew instinctively when he could get nothing more out of Kurt, so he turned the conversation to the weather, the crops, and the upcoming Baldwin County Fair. As he spoke, he keenly observed and evaluated each one of the uncomfortable trio seated at the table with him.
Maybe there was nothing he could do about the obvious impasse between the two adults. That was their lookout. Something they would have to work out—or not.
But he would take the mute, moping Charlie Northway in hand.
And the sooner the better.
Chapter Eight
J olly Grubbs showed up at the farm again the next day.
The quiet serenity of the lazy Sunday afternoon was shattered when Jolly, mounted astride his big gray gelding, came galloping down the tree-edged lane yipping and shouting and waving his straw hat like a wild, unruly youngster.
Helen was out beyond the yard at the south side of the house, cutting roses and dropping them into a basket on her arm. She heard the racket, looked up, saw Jolly coming, and shook her head, smiling.
It had oft been said of Jolly Grubbs that he possessed “an excessive propensity for fun and foolishness.” That statement had a great degree of truth. For a seventy-year-old man who had lived through more than his share of loss and tragedy, Jolly had managed to keep an amazingly cheerful disposition. His curiosity was unlimited, his optimism unshakable, his zest for living awe-inspiring.
Jolly thundered up to a clod-flinging stop a few yards from where Helen stood, climbed out of the saddle, and tossed the reins to the ground. Snorting and shaking his head, the gray gelding ambled off, his master paying him no mind.
Jolly hurried to Helen, flashing the sunniest of smiles, looking as if he harbored the juiciest of
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