A Note Yet Unsung Read online

  She threaded her fingers through his. “Now that’s something I know a great deal about,” she whispered.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it—once, twice, his lips lingering—and her skin tingled from the warmth of his breath.

  “I don’t think you realize how much it bothered me, Rebekah, that I had to say no to you that day when you first came to my office. I haven’t always felt this way, but if it were up to me, and if things were different, if the times were different, I’d welcome you to the symphony. I’d more than welcome you, I’d pursue you. Just as I’ve tried to pursue whomever the gentleman was who played at Mrs. Cheatham’s party that night. He was magnificent. I’ve asked Mrs. Cheatham about him numerous times, but she continues to insist she doesn’t know.”

  “And you don’t believe her?” Rebekah knew to tread carefully.

  “No, I believe her. I simply want—no, I need—that talent in my orchestra.”

  Guilt pricked her conscience again, and Rebekah briefly closed her eyes. She was bound by an oath not to reveal what she’d done at the party that night. But only her pride bound her in the other case.

  “Tate . . . I need to be—I want to be—honest with you about something.”

  He turned and looked at her.

  “While I was concerned about you and your . . . addiction”—even saying it now sounded foolish—“my motivation for following you wasn’t only to keep you from throwing away your career. . . . It was also to keep you from throwing away mine.”

  Wishing he weren’t watching her so closely, she rushed on to get the words out before he could say anything.

  “Once you and I have completed the symphony, and we’ve had the grand opening of the new hall, and Pauline, Mrs. Cheatham’s daughter, has performed in her recital . . . I’m going to New York. To audition for the philharmonic there. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. To play. And they’ve already accepted one woman, so . . . I figure, they might be willing to accept another. And oddly, considering how things have worked out here”—she smiled but felt sad all the same—“you’re the one who’s given me the courage to do it.”

  Saying nothing, he looked back to the window, but his hand tightened around hers. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky with emotion.

  “So we’re in this together, then. You help me achieve my dream . . . and I’ll help you achieve yours. I’ll even write a personal reference, if you wish.” He looked at her and smiled.

  And she did her best to offer her own in return. Because she was getting what she wanted . . . wasn’t she? Her dream was coming true.

  But if that was the case, why did she feel as if she was casting aside the most precious part of her life?

  24

  Tate sat by his father’s bedside, willing him to awaken, willing his pale complexion to regain color and fervor again. Tate could hear Rebekah and his mother talking in the next room, getting breakfast ready, while Opal and his brothers were outside doing their chores.

  “Pa,” he whispered, thankful for this time alone with him, a rare commodity in such close quarters. Especially with the rest of his brothers and their families coming over that afternoon. There were things he needed to say to his father, and a distant ache inside him whispered that time to give them voice was running out. “Can you hear me?”

  His father’s eyelids fluttered. His hand stirred atop the covers.

  Tate gripped it and leaned closer, holding on to his father much like a drowning man would clutch a lifeline. Because, despite his father’s failing health, Tate felt like the one who needed saving. “It’s me, sir. It’s Witty.”

  His father sighed, and a gradual smile crept into his face. “Witty . . . son.” His breath came hard earned, a deep rattle in his chest. “I dreamt . . . you was visitin’.”

  “It’s not a dream, Pa. I’m here. I came for the weekend. But . . . in a way, I’m always here. With you, and Mama, and the family. I think about you all so much, and I—” His voice threatened to break, and he paused. “I carry the mountains . . . and home inside me, wherever I go.”

  His father’s hand tightened around his, feeble though his grip was, and he slowly turned his head to look at Tate. “Don’t wanna be . . . hearin’ contriteness in your voice, son.” His father’s eyes watered. “You’re doin’ what the Almighty . . . fashioned you to do.” His father took a deep breath, wincing as he did. “Don’t ever be sorry for that.”

  Tate nodded.

  “She’s a pretty thing, that woman you brung with you. Your . . . friend.”

  Tate smiled. “She is a friend, Pa. And my assistant. But nothing more.” Not that he wouldn’t have welcomed more if the situation were different.

  His father shifted in bed, gritting his teeth when he did.

  “Are you in pain, Pa?”

  “A mite, I guess.”

  Which Tate knew meant a lot. He poured some water into a cup and added laudanum, then held the cup to his father’s lips.

  “No,” Pa whispered. “Not yet. I like havin’ my wits about me for a change.”

  “But I don’t want you to hurt.”

  “There’s far worse things than hurtin’, son.”

  Tate returned the cup to the bedside table, feeling guilty for not insisting his father drink the medicine. But it’d been so long since they’d had time like this with each other.

  “I don’t mean to sound like I regret my decision, Pa. But sometimes I do wish I could have lived both lives. The one here . . . and the one outside the hollow.”

  His father sighed. “The good Lord give us each a race to run, Witty. He be the one to . . . mark it out. It be your’n to run where He pointed. And I know you’re runnin’ well, son.”

  Tate looked at the well-worn Bible on the bedside table and recognized the verse his father was referring to. He was grateful now—more so than in previous years—that his parents had thought it important for their children to hide the Word of God in their hearts. “‘Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.’”

  His father smiled. “‘Lookin’ unto Jesus,’” he continued softly.

  Tate nodded. “‘. . . the author and finisher of our faith . . .’”

  “‘Who . . . for the joy that was set before him . . .’”

  “‘. . . endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand . . .’”

  “‘. . . of the throne’a God,’” his father finished, pleasure in his voice, his grip a bit stronger than before. His gaze turned earnest. “The Lord . . . He always keeps His vows, Witty.”

  “I know He does, sir.”

  They sat in silence, Tate watching his father as he looked out the window at his beloved mountains rising in the near distance, the sun brilliant in the cerulean sky, quickly burning off the ragged wisps of gauzy clouds that shrouded them each morning.

  “How’s it comin’ along?” his father asked, not looking away from the view.

  Tate shrugged. “It’s . . . coming, sir. I’m still working on it. I have a ways to go yet.”

  His father sighed and closed his eyes. “You’ll get there soon ’nough.”

  Tate bowed his head, willing his voice to hold. “You’re going to get better, Pa. And you and Mama are going to be there that night . . . to hear it. In person. It’s . . . it’s for you, after all. For all you taught me. All you gave me. I’m writing this symphony for you.”

  “I know ya are, son. And I’m mighty grateful.” His father slowly turned back, his gaze clearer than it had been in a long time. “And I’ll be hearin’ it too. Whether’t be in that”—he grimaced and gritted his teeth—“fancy music buildin’ over Nashville-way or in that great cloud’a witnesses.” His lips trembled, his eyes awash with tears. “Whatever way my race takes me, son . . . I be listenin’ for your music.”

  Tate nodded and reached for the m
edicine.

  “In the chest over there.” His father gestured. “In the top drawer. Would ya get my papers? There’s somethin’ I want you to read.”

  Tate put the cup back down and did as his father asked. He withdrew a stack of papers loosely tied with twine.

  “Should be near the top there. Just look through ’em, son. You’ll see it.”

  Tate flipped through various receipts for farming supplies and tools, dog-eared pages ripped from a farmer’s almanac with passages either circled or underlined—but as soon as he saw his father’s handwriting and read the first sentence, he knew this was what his father wanted him to read.

  Tate looked up.

  “It’s not fancy, son, I know. But it’s what I want read . . . when my time comes. That and some Scripture your mama and I already picked out.”

  As Tate scanned the poem, his vision blurred.

  “I penned it a long time back, Witty.” His father’s voice fell away. “For my own pa . . . after he died. I’d like to hear you read it, son . . . just this once.”

  Tate heard question in his father’s voice and tried to smile. Then he cleared his throat, doubting he’d get far, and started softly.

  “I grew up on a farm, but it did me no harm.

  We just plowed and we planted and hoed.

  We hauled bundles of hay, throughout the long day.

  I kept hoping”—

  Tate swallowed hard.

  —“to haul the last load.”

  His father sighed. “You ’member, son? That’s what you and your brothers used to always ask me too . . . ‘Pa, is this the last load?’ Same as I did with mine.”

  Tate nodded, the soft smile on his father’s face all that was keeping his emotions in check. He continued.

  “I learned lots from my mother,

  bonded strong with my brothers,

  took pride in our humble abode.

  And I’m still here alive, ’cause I learned how to drive,

  with my pa as we hauled one more load.

  I learned by observing, Pa’s method of serving,

  in silence and calm as we rode.

  And while feeding the cattle, no jabber, no prattle . . .

  Just thinking, ‘Is this the last load?’”

  As Tate read, he found himself smiling over memories the poem painted of his grandfather who’d died many years back.

  “Now he lived a long life, on the farm with his wife,

  who was happy to share the workload.

  You would not see him frown, though the years wore him down.

  He kept hauling and hauling that load.”

  Tate glanced at the last two stanzas, and it felt as though a cord tightened swift and fast around his heart.

  “We fought off the gloom, in his sickbed room,

  Pa was nearing the end of his road.

  He just eyed me and said, as I stood by his bed,

  ‘It’s time . . . to haul the last load.’”

  A single tear trailed down Pa’s cheek, but he nodded for Tate to continue.

  Tate firmed his jaw, and a moment passed before he could finish.

  “What a sobering thought, to be careless and caught,

  without tending your row to be hoed.

  So I challenge you, friend, to be true to the end,

  ’til it’s your time . . . to haul the last load.”

  His father reached for his hand and Tate gripped it tightly. They sat for several minutes, neither speaking. Then Tate held the cup of medicine to his father’s lips and sat quietly beside the bedside as his father slipped into slumber, his breathing even and deep.

  The words of the poem and the verse they’d quoted filled his heart, and Tate bowed his head and thanked God for making this man his father, for making Chicory Hollow part of his earthly race. Help me, Lord, to run well. To run better than I ever have. And please . . . He wiped the moisture from his cheeks as he studied the weathered lines of his father’s face. Give him more time.

  The train whistle blew in the distance, and Tate knew they’d have to hurry in order for Rebekah to board on time. Not that getting a seat from Chicory Hollow would be a challenge, but securing one on the connecting leg from Knoxville to Nashville later in the day often could be. And he didn’t want her arriving into Nashville past dark.

  Following breakfast, she and his mother had sat talking at the kitchen table for far too long, and this after they’d all visited with his father. Yet he wouldn’t trade that time with her, and them, for anything. He certainly wasn’t old at thirty-two—though some days he felt like it—but he’d learned not to rush certain moments in anticipation of those yet to come, no matter how urgent they seemed.

  Because some opportunities, once passed, never came again.

  Seeing Rebekah struggle to navigate her way over a boulder in her heeled boots, he lifted her by the waist and set her down before him.

  She laughed, a little winded. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”

  The confession she’d made earlier that morning, before sunrise, about moving to New York stuck in his thoughts like a burr. Add to that, just as they’d left the cabin, one of his headaches had come on, and every step down the mountain felt like a sledgehammer inside his head.

  Glad he’d made an appointment for Monday morning in Knoxville, he dreaded it all the same. He’d experienced headaches from time to time in recent years, but these were different. And were increasing in frequency. The spells made him feel off-balance and sent the sounds around him swirling, like it was coming toward him through a tunnel.

  Rebekah looked up at him, the light in her eyes fading slightly. “Are you all right, Tate? Or, should I call you Witty now?”

  He heard her voice, only from far away, like he had cotton stuffed in his ears. He managed a smile. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. As are you, I suspect.”

  He held out his hand, and she threaded her fingers through his. They walked the path together until it narrowed again, then he resumed the lead.

  “Tate?”

  He turned back, not sure if she’d spoken.

  She wore an odd expression. “I just asked you . . . Where did the nickname Witty come from?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he said quickly, trying to cover for not having heard her. “It’s because I’m so funny.”

  She laughed. “Of course, how did I miss that? I suppose it’s better than Banty, though.”

  “I would hope so.”

  She studied him. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just . . . had a headache come on earlier.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry.”

  He waved off her concern. “My head feels a little stuffy right now, is all.”

  They continued on. The air was cold with the bite of winter, but the sunshine and blue skies portended a dry day, which he welcomed after yesterday’s trek.

  “I enjoyed spending time with your father this morning,” she said after a while, walking beside him again. “He seems like a fine man.”

  “He is. The finest.”

  “He has a quick wit about him. Much like his oldest son.”

  Tate smiled. “He’s always had a way of seeing the world a little differently. But the laudanum dulls his mind, and that troubles him—I can tell.”

  “He’s been seen by a doctor, I take it.”

  “Several. They all say consumption, and that there’s nothing left to be done.”

  The silence lengthened.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  He hesitated to share his latest endeavor regarding his father’s health, not having shared the news with anyone yet. But maybe part of his hesitation was because he didn’t want to get his own hopes up, only to have them dashed.

  “I’ve written numerous letters to physicians in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, inquiring if they know of any new treatments or procedures for consumption patients.”

  “That’s wonderful. Have you heard back from any of them?
”

  “It’s been almost three months. And not one reply.”

  He maneuvered through a thick cluster of pine, the scent pungent and fresh. Then they came upon the clearing where the Slokum brothers had confronted her the night before.

  Rebekah slowed her pace, as though recalling the event. “Those men . . .” She paused. “Virgil and Banty. Do they really sell moonshine?”

  “They do. They make it themselves too. And they’re proud of their ‘recipe,’ as they call it. They caught a man spying on them once, as they were stilling. He was trying to figure out how they made it.” Tate laughed, remembering. “That earned him a seat full of buckshot and a fast trip down the mountain.”

  Rebekah smiled, then quickly sobered. “I’ve heard of blood feuds in these mountains before. Is there truth to those tales?”

  “Absolutely. Although, I’m grateful to say, none in my family since at least two generations back. But these people, like Virgil and Banty . . . They’re stiff-necked and strong-minded. A credit, in one sense, to their strong Scotch-Irish roots. It’s bred an iron will into them—which isn’t all bad. It takes that kind of bullheaded determination and strength to live in these mountains. The weaker ones don’t make it, I learned early on. These people, my people . . . they possess a proud sense of self-reliance and an intense love of freedom. But they don’t like anyone coming in here telling them what to do or how to live, or trying to take advantage of them. That’s the best way to get yourself killed in these mountains, underestimating a highlander. Or trying to cheat them. It’ll come to no good. Every time. You have to understand . . . Most folks around here, like Virgil and Banty, still live by the old mountain creed.”

  Her expression clouded.

  “People in these mountains have their own law. Sometimes it meshes with the one out there in the world, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s been a couple of years ago now, but three highlander men were shot and killed for running illegal stills.”

  “Moonshining.”

  He nodded. “The government’s fine with people running stills, as long as those people pay the tax on that liquor to the government. Revenue agents ride these mountains looking for those who don’t. An agent rounded up three of those men. They were unarmed and refused to go with him. So the agent shot them. Right there in front of their wives and children. Days later, that revenue agent—at the risk of being indelicate—was found some miles from here. With his throat slit.”