Some Like It Hawk(2)

“Come on, Rob,” I muttered. “Hurry up.”

I pulled the rod out of my forge and began the much more complicated job of hammering the handle end into a sinuous vinelike coiled shape. Mercifully, by the time the iron needed reheating, the amplified tour bus had moved on, and I had only the tourists’ questions to deal with.

“What happens if you break it?”

“Don’t you ever burn yourself?”

“You shoe horses, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t it be faster to do that with a machine?”

I spun out my answers in between bouts at my anvil. Finishing the poker required several return visits to the forge, followed by several vigorous rounds of hammering. I could see Rose Noire, cell phone in hand, keeping a close eye on my progress. I treated the rod—and the tourists—to one last crescendo, a great deal louder than it needed to be, dunked the rod into the water bucket, releasing a small but dramatic cloud of steam, and held up the finished poker for the tourists to admire.

And then I did it all over again. Several times. I answered what seemed like several hundred more questions—or more accurately, at least a hundred iterations of the same half dozen questions. Finally the clock in the courthouse building chimed eleven, signaling the end of my shift.

I finished up the andiron I’d been making and thanked the tourists. Then I changed my sign to the one saying that Meg Langslow’s next blacksmithing exhibition would begin at 2 P.M. and slipped through the gate in the back of my enclosure. The cousin I’d recruited to mind the booth and sell my ironwork for me dashed in and began quickly shoving the tables of merchandise from the side of the enclosure to a much more prominent place front and center before the crowds dispersed.

Normally I’d have stayed to help her, but Rose Noire was waiting for me. She looked anxious. Not good.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Rob’s been delayed,” she said. “He’s fine, and he’ll try again later.”

“Delayed?” I realized that I’d raised my voice. Several tourists were looking at us, so I choked back what I’d been about to say. “Back to the tent!” I said instead.

I strode rapidly across the small space separating my forge from the bandstand at the center of the town square. At the back of the bandstand was a tent. The town square was filled with tents of every size, shape, and description, but whenever anyone barked out “the tent!” as I just had, they nearly always meant this one.

Rose Noire scuttled along anxiously behind me.

As soon as I stepped inside the tent, I felt my fingers itching to tidy and organize. Even at its best, the tent was cramped and cluttered, since it served as the dressing room, green room, and lounge for all the craftspeople and performers participating in Caerphilly Days. Several coatracks held costumes for performers who would be appearing later or street clothes for anyone already in costume. And every corner held plastic bins, locked trunks, totes, knapsacks, boxes, grocery bags, suitcases, and just plain piles of stuff.

“Mom-my!” Josh and Jamie, my twin eighteen-month-old sons, greeted me with enthusiasm. They both toddled to the nearest side of the huge play enclosure we’d set up, holding out their arms and leaning over the child fence toward me, jostling each other, and repeating “Mom-my! Mom-my!”

Eric, my teenaged nephew, was sitting at the back of the enclosure, holding a toy truck and looking slightly hurt.

“They were fine until you came in,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “They just want to guilt-trip me.” Making a mental note to chivvy my fellow tent users into a cleaning spree later in the day, I stepped into the enclosure, sat down, and let the boys climb on top of me. Hugging them calmed me down.

“Thank you for watching them,” I said. “And not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing here instead of Natalie?” Eric’s sister had been our live-in babysitter for most of the summer.

“Grandpa says Natalie’s ankle is broken and she needs to stay off her feet,” Eric said. “So Mom drove up this morning to take her home and bring me as a replacement for the next few weeks. Assuming that’s okay with you.”

“It’s fine with me.” Having Eric babysit was fine, anyway. Should I feel guilty that my niece had broken her ankle chasing my sons? I’d worry about that later.

“And thank goodness you’re here to help out in time for the Fourth of July,” I said aloud. “Everything will get a lot easier after the Fourth.”

“I thought Caerphilly Days went on all summer,” Eric said. “What’s so special about the Fourth?”