Page 40 of Heartland

Dylan lifts his fiddle to his chin, and I’m saved from further conversation as Isaac begins to pluck at his banjo. The three of them launch into a fast, raucous tune. A party song.

Leah and I reach the front of the line, and I fill my plate to the sound of Dylan’s playing and the crackle of the big fire. I load it up, taking care not to forget a napkin or a fork.

All the seats around the fire are already taken, but I don't mind standing so long as I can hear the music.

Dylan looks happier now. This isn’t the grim Dylan who played beside his father's grave earlier today. He looks loose and cheerful. It may have something to do with the weed I smelled earlier, wafting from the backside of the cider house. Or the beer in the keg that Keith hid in the blackberry bushes by the chicken coop.

Everyone is watching them play, including a row of local girls seated on a long log by the fire. They all have plates on their knees and adoring smiles on their faces.The swarmis how I’m used to thinking of them.

I still feel guilty for contributing to his blowup with Kaitlyn. Then again, there are always more Kaitlyns. They’re drawn to him like the moths that are already flitting too near the bonfire.

Dylan and his merry crew bring a song to a raucous conclusion. Isaac lets out a whoop when it's over, his dark eyes sparkling over his bushy beard.

“More!” hollers one of the girls on the log.

“Time for eats,” Keith says. “But maybe later, hot stuff.”

“Why don't you two play gigs in Burlington?” asks Debbie.

She’s the girl who used to show up most frequently in the passenger seat of Dylan’s truck. And the backseat, too, according to the whispered gossip I used to hear.

“You could make a pile of easy cash,” she says. “Anyone would hire you guys for their wedding entertainment.”

This had never occurred to me, but now I realize she's absolutely right. Dylan doesn't need to make caramels. He could be making piles of money just playing that fiddle.

“Are youkidding?” Dylan yelps. “First of all, you have to hustle for every job, because wedding customers don’t repeat. And then you're responsible for the most important day in someone’s whole—” He checks his language. “—flippinglife?Does that sound like a good job to you?”

“I would if I could play like you,” Debbie insists.

“Nah,” says Daphne Shipley. “That's too many details for Dylan. Too much responsibility.”

Dylan shrugs like his sister’s comment doesn't bother him. But I wonder if it does. He tucks his fiddle under his arm and follows Keith toward the food table.

“Dude, Debbie is right,” Keith says. “What if I got us a gig or two? Please?”

“Sure, man,” Dylan says absently. “Just not weddings.”

“Dylan is allergic to weddings!” Debbie calls out, and all the other girls laugh.

* * *

It takes a long time for Griffin’s fire to burn down to coals.

The party rolls on, although the partygoers are spread out. There are lights on in the cider house, where Zachariah has poured some samples and where Griffin cons some of his friends into taking a turn at the presses. I can hear the crank of the apple-washing machine from here.

In a little while, they’ll come out and light some fireworks in honor of Mr. Shipley.

Meanwhile, I have a marshmallow on the end of a stick, and I’m toasting it slowly. I like them brown but not blackened, and it takes a while.

It also happens that this spot is conducive to some excellent eavesdropping. I’ve learned that Debbie hates her job at the hair salon and is reconsidering her decision to go to beauty school next year. And that she’s sooverBillie Eilish, whoever that is.

“So, did you hear about Dylan?” one of the girls asks. “He broke up with that piranha he was dating.”

I feign great interest in my marshmallow and move a half step closer.

“Yep. I did hear that,” Debbie says. “Supposedly she cheated on him. As if that makes any sense.”

“I know, right?” her friend says with a laugh. “Maybe he cheated first?”