Page 45

Dad carries over an old wooden pallet and adds it to the stack leaning against the wall where the stage will be. “Oh good, you’re here,” he calls out as Kash strides over, his heavy work boots thudding over the floor. “Do you think you can help me with these pallets?”

“Sure, Mr. Morgan,” Kash says. He gives me a nod and then gets to work.

I finish sweeping the dance floor, but it’s hard to keep the broom moving when Kash is right over there lifting things and being all strong. I hadn’t noticed the muscles in his arms before, probably because he’s never had a reason to flex them, but they definitely exist.

“Keep staring like that, and you’ll be mopping drool before you know it,” Halley whispers as she walks by with a crate full of cloth napkins and wooden napkin rings.

I snap my jaw shut and turn away from Kash and his distracting deltoids. Blistering heat creeps up my face and burns my ears as I attentively sweep the dirt pile into a large, rusty dustpan.

Close friends and our extended family start arriving around two.

Uncle John sets his steel guitar into one of the stands I carried over from the Hideaway and goes to help Marty Mitchell set up his drum set.

The Rowes show up with a giant Crock-Pot full of sweet potatoes, a glazed spiral ham, and their banjos.

Soon, the barn is bustling as everyone lines their instruments along the wall and sets their side dishes on the serving tables. Mom and Dad timed it so that the turkeys would be ready by three, and most everyone we’re expecting has arrived.

“The invite said this was supposed to be a small gathering,” Kash says when he comes to stand next to me.

“This is small,” I say. “At least, it is compared to some of the other gatherings we host during the year.” Our Spring Fling Hoedown easily has at least three hundred musicians descending on Hidden Acres. There aren’t more than fifty or so people here today.

Dad takes the stage, carrying a microphone stand. He sets it front and center. “Testing, testing. Can y’all hear me back there?”

I give him a thumbs-up.

“First off, I’d like to thank you all for coming to our annual Thanksgiving dinner and good old-fashioned country hoedown. Each and every one of you are here today because you mean so much to our family. We’re grateful to have you in our lives. And, not going to lie, I’m thankful for all the side dishes, too,” he says, rubbing his belly.

A soft rumble of laughter fills the barn.

“Now, it’s time to eat up before we kick our feet up.” Dad pulls a cowbell out of his back pocket and clanks it like a dinner bell.

Uncle John lets out a “yeehaw,” and a line starts to form at the buffet table.

Dad, Mom, Halley, and I take our positions at the serving side of the table, oldest to youngest. I’m spooning a heap of mashed potatoes onto a plate for Jim Atchley when Kash steps up beside me. “Put me to work, boss,” he says.

Halley kicks my shin under the table, and when I look over at her, she’s waggling her eyebrows at me. I shake my head and give her a “cut it out” stare.

Older sisters are the worst.

Tilda and Bill Rowe kick off the musical entertainment portion of the gathering with their rendition of “Dueling Banjos.” Steve Scruggs plays the spoons with his brother, Sam, on the washboard. Then Marla and the Magpies play a few traditional bluegrass numbers. Next, Uncle John plays an original piece on his steel guitar. Most everyone is saving the boot-scootin’ songs for later, after we’ve had time to digest.

“I can’t believe how much talent there is in this room,” Kash says, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the table. “I wish I could play like that.”

“Mom says Uncle John’s been playing like that since they were kids.”

As we listen to the folk, bluegrass, and country music being played, Kash gradually shifts closer. I feel the body heat radiating off him before his knee brushes against mine. His elbow crawls across the table until it touches mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him glance my way a few times and electric tingles spread from my belly to the tips of my toes.

I’m so distracted by his proximity, I don’t see Halley slip away from the table. It’s not until I watch her step onto our makeshift pallet stage, my Fender in one hand and her old Martin in the other, that I realize what she’s about to do. My hands curl into tight fists as tension fills my body.

“Hi, y’all.” Halley beams. “I hope everyone’s having a good time.”

There is a smattering of hoots and hollers in reply.

“Us Morgans are big on tradition,” she continues, with a nod of acknowledgment to Mom and Dad. “And, as all but one of you know,” she says, turning her focus to Kash, “one of our family traditions at the Thanksgiving Hoedown is what we like to call the Sister Song.”

I let out a low groan. I am not prepared to step up on that stage.

“Paisley, can you please join me?” she asks.