Page 30 of Autumn With The Grumpy Mountain Man

Deb looked at Hazel. Then she looked at me. I kept my face very still.

“Lead the way,” Deb said.

Hazel gave her the whole tour. She showed her the big pumpkin and explained how the ribs were built and the paper laid. She showed her the platform sections stacked behind the barn, the gourds, the hay wagon. She showed her the scrap bins with the tiny grain drawings on every label, and Deb bent down and studied them for a long time.

“You did these?”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

Deb straightened and looked at me. “She did these.”

“She did.”

I stood back by the workbench and watched them. Hazel talked with her hands. She knew every technique and every reason behind it, and she explained it all better than I could have. Every so often she glanced over at me to make sure she’d gotten something right, and I nodded, and she lit up again.

I was proud of her. I hadn’t known I could be that proud of somebody.

“I brought my sketchbook,” Hazel said. “It’s upstairs. There’s a whole section on the armatures. Hang on.”

She ran up the stairs. Deb watched her go. Then she turned to me and lowered her voice.

“She’s good, Shepherd.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean she’s really good. Better than I knew when I sent her up here.” She took off her reading glasses and let them hang. “Has she said anything to you about Kessler?”

“About what?”

Deb went still. I watched her realize it, and then I watched her decide to keep going anyway. That was Deb. She’d always rather say the hard thing than let it sit.

“The Kessler Studio in Sedona,” she said. “They offered her their residency. One year, paid, starting in June. They only take one artist a year. I called her about it last week.”

Last week. Last week, she’d come up the hill for supper and sat in the chair by my woodstove and smiled at me all evening.

“She hasn’t mentioned it,” I said.

“Well.” Deb was quiet for a moment, studying my face. “I’m worried she’s going to talk herself out of it.”

“Why would she?”

“Because she’s falling in love with this place. I could see it the minute I got here.” She looked around the shop, at the pumpkin and the bins and the radio on the shelf. “And I understand why. I do. But Shepherd, this is the kind of chance that sets the whole rest of your life. It’s the kind you and I would have killed for.”

I kept my eyes on the pumpkin.

“At twenty-three, everything’s still open,” she said. “You remember what that was like. By the time we were in our mid-thirties, we’d already made our choices, good and bad.” She put her glasses back on. “I just don’t want her making one too early. For the wrong reasons.”

She probably didn’t mean anything by it.

“They want an answer by Thanksgiving,” Deb said. “If she talks to you about it, tell her to go.”

The stairs creaked. Hazel came back down with her sketchbook clutched to her chest, beaming.

“Okay,” she said. “Prepare to be amazed.”

Deb smiled at her and held out her hand for the book. I went back to the workbench and picked up a brush I didn’t need, and kept my face exactly as it had been all morning.

She came up the hill for supper at the usual time.