The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (16 page)

The old coot spat affirmation and walked away without explanation.

“He’s such a grumpy...” She held her tongue. Talking trash about old people wasn’t attractive, even on Pluto. “If we had walked past without interrupting his music, he would have chased after us, accusing us of stealing. There’s no winning, I swear.”

Candy grabbed Sam’s hand—almost protectively—and waited. Mr. Lowry came back outside, still cursing and spitting, but he pulled a money pouch out of his voluminous overalls. At least things were moving forward. “That’s $10 for two, son.” He thrust an open palm towards Sam, with no recognition of the girl standing next to him, who had lived in the sparsely populated neighboring county all her life.

“Thank you, sir,” Sam said, handing over the cash. The man snatched it into his claw and stuffed it into the zippered bag, then turned his back on them.

“Tickets, please, sir,” Candy said sweetly, undaunted.

Mr. Lowry wheeled around with a scowl, chewing his cud and peering at her under thick, wiry eyebrows. She held the gaze serenely for a couple of seconds, and he growled something incomprehensible about stupid tourists, plunging his knobby knuckles into another pocket. He withdrew two numbered raffle tickets and tossed them towards Sam, who was quick enough to catch them midair before they fluttered to the ground, foiling the old codger’s attempt at making him grovel. The man cursed them again and hobbled back to his rocking chair, his harmonica already on his lips. Within seconds he was piping out beautiful music, once more.

“Shit,” Sam whispered, chuckling under his breath, as Candy hauled him through the entrance under the banner.

“He’s always like that, forget it.” She was using most of her will to smooth down her hackles. That bastard. “But you don’t want to get on the Lowry clan’s bad side. It’s pretty backwoods in these parts, and they’re sort of….”

“Hillbilly gangsters?”

“Yeah,” she said, catapulted out of her funk. “How’d you know that?”

Sam caught her gaze and held it for a heartbeat. His smile was easy, a lifetime of experience behind it, somehow. “Something about the eyes.”

“Know a lot of gangsters?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Sam shrugged and glanced back at the skinny, partially senile sack of bones, whose eyes were murderous behind his jubilant tune.

Candy felt a primal urge to be gone. “Well anyway, I wouldn’t stare.”

chapter twenty

The old man’s song grew fainter as they strolled up a tree-lined path. Birdsong joined in with the fading harmonica, high in the canopy above them. Before long, the din of a bustling crowd started to rise in between the fluttering notes of a fiddle. They rounded one last turn around a granite outcrop and were greeted by a raucous party, the mountain pass widening into full-scale country jamboree. People of all shapes, colors and sizes were meandering around tables and tents full of hand-woven clothing, jewelry with local gemstones, Civil War paraphernalia, old Appalachian replicas of all sorts and any other oddity that made the grade that year. A stilt walker was handing out fliers, probably for the late-night show that was reportedly pretty bawdy. Candy had never attended the show, but one of her cousins told her it was the closest Shirley got to cabaret. Makeshift stalls lined the avenue to serve a hungry, bustling crowd. Her stomach clenched when the smell of roasting meat hit her nostrils.

“Whoa, what a party.” Right on cue, orange flame shot up in a diagonal next to the stilt walker. The crowd oohed and aahed. “Jesus, there’s a firebreather.”

“Unexpected?” Candy smiled; it was rare to see Sam caught off guard.

For Candy, after months of the wide-open fields and lonely mountain roads, such a throng was an admitted novelty She imagined a bird’s eye view of the festival grounds, like there were tiny ant lines trickling through the countryside, draining into the cauldron of people before her. Festival time was easy to love. The crowd was mostly tourists, snapping pictures and pointing and generally behaving badly, though. She pulled Sam off to the side to wander in between the tents and tables from the inner alleyway between vendors.

Right away, she spotted a tall, gangly girl in overalls sporting two long braids on either side of her neck. Candy didn’t know many people she’d call a best friend, especially at school, but Erica Norman was a close buddy. “Hey, Erica,” she called, going in for a hug.

“Hey, guys.” Erica pushed her horn-rimmed glasses higher on her nose and regarded the new guy warily. Of course she would’ve recognized him from the previous school year, but up close was a different story, of which Candy was well aware. “Whatcha been up to?”

“You’ve met Sam?” Candy beamed.

“Uh…no. I mean, I remember you started at Andrew Jackson halfway through last year, right?”

Sam held out his hand, those impeccable manners surfacing again. “Yes. It’s nice to finally meet you, Erica.”

The three chatted for a few minutes about how they had spent the summer, school starting, and Erica’s dad’s new line of mountain dulcimers. They were gorgeous instruments, all hand-made, with intricate inlay work, hanging from the roof of a tent and lying in row upon row on display tables. Candy hoped they sold well at the festival; Erica had often described how much hard work and expert craftsmanship went into them.

“Hey, let me get a picture for Dad’s scrapbook,” Erica said, producing a cellphone from her pocket.

Sam ducked out of shooting range, and held out his hand to accept the phone instead, “Let me take it, you two get together.”

“Oh, okay. Come ‘ere, Candy.”

Sam snapped several shots with Candy dwarfed under Erica’s armpit. Under his direction, Erica leaned down and Candy went on tiptoe so they could grin into the lens on a level. His oh-you’re-so-precious-little-Candy look made her want to smother him with kisses and kick him in the balls, simultaneously. He captured a few with Erica holding one of the beautiful dulcimers and asked her to demonstrate how they were played. She was happy to oblige but Candy ushered them on, assuring her they would come back soon.

“You do not want to set Erica Norman on that course right now, trust me,” she said, holding onto an elbow and weaving them through the crowd to reach the other side of the avenue. “We could be stuck there for hours.”

“Is she good?”

“She
is
, but I’m starving.” She pointed to the line of food stalls across the way. “Let’s eat.”

Candy’s stomach had been growling since before Popcorn tried to kill Sam, and the smell wafting from the food carts was heavenly. There were several smokers chuffing out wonderful incense, and Sam headed for the pulled pork lines. But, smell could be deceiving, especially with barbecue. “You want my advice; you should go for the kebabs.” Candy redirected him towards a shorter line to the left, where the locals were milling and gesticulating about something either important or gossip-worthy. Several were holding her favorite variety of gyro sandwich. “The Williams’ goats herd right in Shirley Valley. The meat is fresh, organic, and for sure cruelty free—you can meet them, if you want to be sure.”

“Are they friendly goats I’d be eating, then? Good personalities?”

“I meant the
Williams’
are good people, smarty pants. They treat their animals well,” she said. “Hey, better to know they frolic in the fields, rather than stand around in their own poop.”

“Yes, of course.”

She got in line, and didn’t care for once if he followed. Not that much. “And the cucumber mint sauce is to die for, trust me.”

“Locals always know best.” Sam sidled over next to her and slid his arm around her waist.

“Darn right.” She rose up to give him a quick peck on the lips, but he held onto her and made it a kiss to set her body aflame.

“Next!” Sam let her go and she spun around, forgetting where she was for a second. A pimple-faced boy was working the register. “Oh hey, Candy.”

“Hey, Jimmy,” she said, returning the lukewarm attitude. Not a friend, but not an enemy. “I’ll have the veggie, and he’ll have the regular.”

“Twelve bucks.”

She frowned at the little thief. “Tourist prices,” she said flatly, while Sam handed over the money.

“We ain’t givin’ local discounts today, sorry.” The boy craned around her to see the next customer. “Next.”

They moved to the side to await their meal, and Sam regarded her curiously. “I didn’t know you were a vegetarian. I guess I never have seen you eat meat.”

“I’m not a ‘vegetarian.’ I don’t like rules.”

“Hmm, I noticed that.”

“No, but I do know those goats,” she laughed, embarrassed. “They’re next-door neighbors to my grandma.”

Another teenage boy that Candy nodded to, but didn’t greet, pushed two steaming pita sandwich cones wrapped in paper into their hands, and they both went silent devouring their lunch.

“God, that
is
good sauce,” Sam said between bites. Juice from the rare meat mixed with cucumber sauce and ran down his wrist. “And the goats are definitely friendly.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Candy managed with her mouth full. She snatched several napkins to take with them and they sauntered through the throng towards the sound of a fiddle, devouring their messy gyros. The avenue opened onto a large, circular clearing, and they hung at the edge while they finished their feast and watched the stage on the far side.

“Think this is the fiddle competition,” Candy offered between bites.

A makeshift stage had been erected on risers, about two feet off the ground, and a young girl was planted right in the center of it, sawing away at a fiddle for all she was worth. She was probably only eight years old, and though her execution was not perfect, in terms of exactness in tone, the notes flowed naturally and there was no denying her passion. When she was finished, she held her bow on one side and her fiddle on the other, giving a petite curtsy in her flowered dress, to modest applause. Sam looked at Candy, with raised eyebrows.

She shrugged. “Pretty good.”

The atmosphere quieted, while a middle-aged man dressed in most of a three-piece suit (he’d already removed the jacket in respect for the rising afternoon heat) claimed the stage, next to the emcee. A smattering of applause erupted in pockets around the clearing, and several older couples moved to the center of a loose crowd, taking up position and establishing the dance floor as others graciously moved aside.

“Y’all, now we’ll have a listen to our own Albert Young, while the judges make their decision,” the emcee, a portly man in overalls and a baseball cap, said into the microphone. He backed off the stage, then amended, “Thank you, Harriett Woods,” clapped awkwardly with the microphone pinned under his arm.

The gentleman on center stage brought his fiddle to his chin and straightened his back, breathing in deeply and loosening his shoulders. He brought his bow up to the strings and pulled a long, cool, high note before erupting into song. The dancers flowed with him; it was a song they all knew well.

“Oooh, Mountain Waltz,” Candy said, dreamily. Her impromptu clapping ended in cherished fists clasped to her chest.

“Fuck it,” she heard Sam mutter next to her.

“Huh?”

He grabbed both of her hands in his and pulled her towards the center of the clearing.

She pulled him backwards in a panic, “No, I can’t waltz!” She had always wanted to learn, watching the adults covetously since she was a kid. But no one ever taught her. She looked around, wild-eyed; Sam was so strong, he had moved them to the dance floor with little effort, even with her protestations.

“Well, I can.” He held her still with his eyes and positioned their hands for the dance, squaring his shoulders in a solid frame. “Just follow me.”

He pushed forward, his body a driving force, and she fell back into his momentum, their bodies locked together, spilling into the rhythm of the dance floor. The fiddler turned the love song into a bittersweet lament; his high notes masterfully off tune, hopeful and desperate, and his low notes lengthening into mournful regret. As Sam and Candy whirled in a slow, sweeping rhythm, the strings wailed against the circle of enclosing trees and the noise of the crowd escaped into waves of afternoon heat drifting into the open sky above. He spun her around in a perfect twirl, and pulled her back into a strong embrace, reclaiming her eyes with a sure, steady gaze.

“I… I didn’t know you could dance,” she spluttered. “How do you know how to dance?”

“How does anyone know how to dance?”

He spun her out and pulled her back in. Artful. She smiled up at him, entranced and tongue-tied.

“Someone taught me, Candy.”

“But…”

“Never would have thought?”

“No—I mean, who?” Sam hadn’t told her much about his family beyond snippets. “Your mom taught you?” she asked doubtfully. When he remained quiet, her face darkened, “Some girlfriend?”

He laughed, “My grandmother taught me how to dance.”

“You have a grandmother?”

“Candy.” He dipped her with a flourish. “Just dance with me.” He held her inches from the ground. His face was silhouetted in shadow, but the sunlight behind him lent a halo to the edges of a dark, tousled mantle.

Well that’s a sight to keep from your mama, if ever there was one.
If she had a mama. She blinked hard.
Oh, screw it.
Her surrender was complete. She heard the music and felt Sam’s body, reacting to every nuance, as he moved them around the floor. He watched her face and let her lose herself, his eyes glinting when she opened hers and focused. She smiled and melted into him, feeling herself glide along with his steps. Effortless.
What is happening? Is this really Sam?

The song was over before it had begun, and Candy felt empty as the crying fiddle went silent. When would she ever feel so strange and lovely again?

The cloddish emcee was back, barking into her consciousness. “Okay, y’all. The results are in.”

In silent accord, Sam and Candy slipped away from the announcements to the shade of the trees. They sat together on the limb of an old oak; Candy snuggled into the nook of Sam’s arm. Four fiddle contestants returned to the stage and formed a line, awaiting the results.

“Oh, it’s Carol,” said Candy, pointing to a red-haired thirteen-year-old who was waiting close by, fiddle and bow in hand, for her placement to be announced. “I wasn’t sure if they were coming.”

“Who?”

“My Uncle Pat and fam—Pat is Carol’s dad. They’re my favorite cousins, that’s cool you’ll get to meet them. If Pat is here, everybody’s in for a celebration, family style. He just doesn’t know any other way to be, and neither do his kids.”

They watched the results from their hiding spot and Candy cheered inwardly, not ready to be found just yet. But, it was only a matter of time if Pat were there. She bounced up and down and grinned ear to ear as each musician was given some kind of award. Her cousin took third place and the eight-year-old girl in the flowered dress won first prize. “Huh, you never know,” she whispered. “Cuteness tempers the sound of the music, I guess.”

Sam looked offended. “I thought she was great.”

“Nah, now you’re gonna see the good stuff,” Candy murmured and pointed to a musical troupe too large for the stage. They were setting up around it, in haphazard arrangement.

The unnamed band was always changing, but that day Candy counted three fiddlers, two guitarists, and a woman dragging over a chair and pulling out what looked like one of the mountain dulcimers that Erica Norman’s father made. A bearded man pulled up a chair next to her, with no apparent instrument, and another lady wheeled over a cello case. Before all the others were even set up, a beautiful Asian girl in a sundress, her long hair tied to one side in a leather thong, hopped up to sit on the stage with her fiddle. Her boots dangling over the edge, she began playing casually. The bearded man pulled out two spoons from his back pocket and, after listening to the fiddler for a few beats, joined in. He used not only his spoons and hands, but also his legs, chair and even his shoes for percussion. His rhythm was simple at first, then gained in complexity, as he found his groove and others joined in. Before long, the whole ensemble was rolling along together, meandering in and out of a basic melody, each player randomly assuming the lead and taking up a complicated solo. A banjo player from the crowd sauntered over and took up the song, the cellist nodding and smiling at him in encouragement.

Most of the band was tapping their feet already, and then the first fiddler hopped from the stage while taking a solo. She began to shuffle her feet in time, almost as if beyond her own will. Sam seemed to understand the inclination; his thumbs were tapping out the beat of the joyful music on Candy’s thighs. The audience seemed to agree, and several old men began a shuffling dance, similar to the fiddler’s.