Free Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels) by Alex Bledsoe

on the side of the cup were the words, TAKEN BY MISTAKE FROM THE CATAMOUNT CORNER, NEEDSVILLE, TN.
    “You’re up awful early for a musician,” she said.
    “It’s my best thinking time,” Rob said as he sipped the coffee. “Mm, thank you. That hits the spot.” He noticed that her pink fur-lined jacket matched her pink fur-lined boots. “So what is there to do around here first thing in the morning?”
    “Like I said, most of our visitors tend to be here doing genealogical research. Or they spend their time in their rooms, honeymooners and such. Like the two folks opposite you. They checked in while you were out last night, I hope they didn’t bother you. Sometimes young couples can get a little overexcited.”
    Could that have been the source of the cry that had awakened him? No, he was absolutely sure it had come from outside the building, from a distance. “Never even knew they were there.”
    “Good. They left before dawn to go prowling in graveyards and such.”
    He took another sip and said, “Wow, this is great. ”
    “I’m glad you like it. I grind it myself every morning. I sing a special song over it.”
    “It’s sure worth it. But let me ask you about something. Do you know of any place nearby where there might be … stone carvings?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Places where people might have carved words into rock. A cave, maybe. Or one of those boulders that stick out of the ground.”
    “Mr. Quillen, I can truly say I’ve never heard tell about anything like that. Do you mean like caveman paintings?”
    “I’m not really sure. Someone told me to look for the stone carvings when I came through here. Maybe on a hill?”
    “They must’ve been pulling your leg. There’s nothing like that in Cloud County.”
    “Is there anyone around here who’s older than you who might know of something?” He realized how it sounded, and could only hope she didn’t take offense.
    “The only one who might know is old Rockhouse Hicks. But good luck getting a civil word out of him.”
    Rob perked up at the name. “Does he play the banjo? And have six fingers on his hands?”
    “That’s him.”
    “I saw him at the Pair-A-Dice last night. He was awesome.”
    “Well, if you’re feeling brave, you can find him down on the post office porch. He likes to watch people coming and going, so he can keep up on all the gossip.”
    “Is his name really Rockhouse?”
    “That’s what we’ve always called him.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “When we were kids, we called him ‘Rock- head ’ behind his back.” She smiled as if this were privileged information. Then she looked wistful. “Course, the kids now, what with cable and the Internet and all, call him Rock A-s-s , pardon my French. The world’s just harsher than it used to be.”
    “Sounds like you don’t care for him.”
    “He’ll say anything to anybody just to get a rise out of ’em. I remember being a little girl, and him making fun of my daddy for being 4-F for the draft. If somebody had cleaned his clock a couple hundred years ago … Well, he’s just a mean old man now, isn’t he?” Without waiting for a reply, she went back inside.
    He chuckled to himself. A couple hundred years ago. He loved the way Southerners used exaggeration to make their points.
    He recalled the way the old man blew him off the night before. This time, Rob would use all his considerable charm, the very thing that got him through the SYTYCS? audition process when more blatantly talented performers were ruthlessly weeded out. At the time, he’d felt no remorse about it, since everyone was entitled to use whatever gifts he or she naturally had. Now he wished that the show truly judged people on talent, instead of just paying that idea lip service. He’d never have made the finals, and Anna would still be alive.
    Peggy reappeared with a cordless phone. “You have a call, Mr. Quillen,” she said. “And please bring the phone back in when you