Blue Willow

by Deborah Smith

  “Colebrook wants her to have it! I’ll never give that bastard the satisfaction! Not after he had his people sic the law on Joe!”

  Little Sis eyed him warily “If you tell her she can’t dabble around the farm anymore, I swear I’ll send so many bad vibrations your way, you’ll feel like an out-of-tune piano.”

  “Don’t talk that nonsense to me. I, uh, maybe I don’t care if she hangs around at her old place. ’Long as she doesn’t expect to own it again.”

  She brightened. “Why, Hopewell, if you leave her alone, I might just send good vibrations at you.” Looking at him wistfully, she added, “I’d like to, you know. You and I aren’t too old to—”

  “I’ve got no use for a woman who wears pieces of quartz rocks like they were some kind of magic totems and talks like a hippie and runs a store full of books by that Shirley MacLaine. Are you gonna tell me where to find Lily today?”

  Little Sis straightened like a rocket. “You closed-minded old goat. Go on. She left here a few minutes before you showed up. She was heading out to the farm.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said tersely. Turning on his run-down bootheels, he stomped down the porch steps and strode toward a shabby truck. He heard Little Sis slam the door behind him. He didn’t need her meddling sympathy or her outrageous, girlish hints. He did need revenge on Artemas Colebrook. Maybe, just maybe, Lily was a means to getting it.

  Lily had just finished putting her Christmas ornaments on the small cedar tree that had taken root at the edge of the yard when Mr. Estes drove up the old driveway, now rutted and lined with groves of young pines that had crept into the front pastures.

  She tossed a cardboard box into the back of her truck, sat down on the tailgate, and wearily draped an arm around Lupa’s golden neck. A cool breeze crept down from into the hollow as if funneled gently through the hills around it. The cedar tree swayed. A blob of papier-mâché that vaguely resembled an angel—Stephen had made it in kindergarten—bumped against a crystal ornament etched with her and Richard’s wedding date. Starched, crocheted stars made decades ago by Grandma MacKenzie floated like tethered snowflakes. The tree’s stiff needles clung to tiny, brightly painted wooden sleighs and nutcracker men Richard had created in his workshop.

  Staring at the tree, she had never felt so lonely in her life. Needing to huddle inside her own skin, she pulled up the collar on her quilted jacket, then wiped a sweaty palm on the thigh of her jeans and watched Mr. Estes park in front of the old farmhouse with its vacant, staring windows and peeling paint. He stalked over to her with a grim expression on his face.

  He gaped at the decorated tree. Feeling exposed and foolish, Lily said grimly, “I put the ornaments on it when I’m here, and I take ’em off when I leave. I know Christmas is over, but I just wanted to see ’em one more time before I pack them away.”

  She struggled against bitterness. “The least you could have done was block off the road so people wouldn’t dump garbage out here.” She jerked her head toward the overgrown field beyond the creek and the willows, and the village of gravestones at the base of the hills. “You know what I found in my family’s cemetery plot last spring? Beer cans and a dildo. If you don’t know what a dildo is, sir, I’ll explain.”

  Mr. Estes shifted from one foot to another. His furious teetering reminded her of an upset R2D2. “You watch your mouth. I’m not here to win no popularity contest.”

  She jumped off the tailgate and advanced on him, hands clenched by her sides. Lupa bounded down and circled them, growling softly. “You’ve never had any sympathy for anybody but yourself. I had a son, too, Mr. Estes. I wanted the best for him, just like you want for Joe. He’s gone, and I’ll never get him back. Joe’ll get out of prison someday. You’ve got everything to look forward to. Can’t you leave me alone? Even if I never get this place back, I need to put my hands on it, clean it up, sit under the willows, listen to the creek.” Halting, she shook her fists at him. “Working here has given me a small sense of satisfaction and purpose.”

  “Good. Good!” Mr. Estes shouted. “Then you stay here and make Colebrook mad as hell.”

  She stared at him. The swift, thready racing of her heart made her dizzy with hope. His offer was so unexpected, she blurted, “Are you having a stroke?”

  “Don’t argue with me!” He ducked his head and muttered, “If you want to stay, stay. All I’m sayin’ is, I’d, uh, rent the place to you.”

  She stepped forward eagerly. “I haven’t got enough money to pay rent. But I could work for you. Pay you that way.” He took a step back and looked at her in astonishment. The vague, fragmented ideas she’d been mulling over for so long suddenly crystallized. Lily found herself telling him about them at breakneck speed. A greenhouse. A nursery. For perennials—sweet william and yarrow and columbine and dozens of others—old-fashioned plants that people were starting to favor again.

  Mr. Estes began waving his hands. “I don’t have no interest in—”

  “You need something to work for, Mr. Estes. So do I. You make an investment, and I’ll manage the place. We can build something out of this mess. Prove to people around here that neither one of us is ready to lay down and die.”

  “I don’t care what nobody thinks. You sayin’ I’m ashamed on account of Joe?”

  “Yes, sir, and I think you’re eating yourself up with it.”

  His head arched like an angry rooster’s. “You don’t want a job, you want to order me around. Pffft. I ain’t got the time or the patience. You’re one of them that’s got all the answers when nobody’s asked you a question. Just like Little Sis.”

  “We could call it Blue Willow Nursery.”

  His mouth halted in midprotest. His eyes narrowed. He pulled his hat off and ran a leathery hand through a thick shock of white hair that looked as if it had been cut with a pocketknife. “Colebrook’d hate that, wouldn’t he? His whole family would have a fit.”

  “The Colebrooks have no legal claim on the name. It came from my family, from the willow my great-grandfather gave the Colebrooks when they built their estate. It’s mine more than theirs.”

  “You really want to make a point, don’t you?”

  “I want respect and fair treatment.” She shuddered, then walked back to the truck, her hands on her hips. “I won’t run from them. I won’t forget about them. I won’t let what they said about my husband make me hide from the people in my own hometown. If I did that, it’d be as good as saying I’m ashamed of Richard. No. I’m here to stay.”

  Lily slumped on the tailgate and rubbed her forehead. Mr. Estes began pacing, twisting his hat, slamming it on top of his head, then taking it off again.

  “Just who’s gonna buy these old-fashioned plants you want to sell?”

  She smiled thinly. “Nostalgia is big business, Mr. Estes. People’ll come here from Atlanta for the same reason they come to the mountains. Don’t worry. I can make this place a success.”

  Mr. Estes stopped pacing and faced her. “All right, it’s a deal. You live here and run things. Work up a plan. I’ll let you know how much money I can put into it. Maybe ten thousand dollars. That’s all.”

  “I warn you, you won’t make your money back right away. It’ll take upward of a year to get set up, and a lot longer than that to build recognition.”

  He nodded toward the old house. “I’ll get the electricity turned back on, but I’m not investin’ any money in fixin’ it up.”

  “I’ve got a little savings. And I’ve got something I can sell to get a little more. I’ll get by.” She thought of the Colebrook teapot, then lifted her head and looked around, her throat aching with hope. “I’ve got what I need. Thank you.”

  A shiny new metal gate hung between two sturdy railroad ties at the end of the driveway. Artemas touched the padlock and took in his surroundings with dismay. The forest seemed to press around him, whispering and brittle with winter. As he’d driven the long, winding dirt lane from the paved road, he’d felt as if he were going back in time.
/>   But time had not paused here.

  Fallen hog-wire fences were all that marked the old pasture boundaries, as if struggling valiantly to contain thick groves of waist-high pines. The house and barn sat in the distance, looking abandoned and forlorn. The willows, bare of leaves, stood out against a cold blue sky. Lily’s large red truck was parked in the yard.

  He stepped over the crumpled fence and walked swiftly up the drive, a black windbreaker curling back from his sweater and corduroys. He saw the jumble of trash piled in the side yard where Mrs. MacKenzie’s flower beds had flourished. Rusting appliances and tires were piled nearby. White paint was peeling off the house. The barn was a hollow shell, with pieces of tin missing from the roof and gaping holes in the sides. God, how awful she must have felt when she saw the place like this.

  Only the willow grove remained beautiful and dignified. Beyond the creek she’d cut a small clearing in the pines. It was scarred with small stumps, charred piles of debris she’d burned, and mounds of pines waiting to be burned.

  He went to the house, pulled the warped front door open, and grimaced at the musty scent of dark, empty rooms. Even in the dim light he saw how Joe Estes had ruined the interior. Cheap paneling covered the walls of the main room. The handsome pine floor was hidden under matted shag carpet. He yelled Lily’s name, his voice ringing with anger—anger at this scene, at the gut-wrenching sympathy he couldn’t indulge, at her for making him so hopelessly eager. The name echoed unpleasantly. He slammed the door and walked across the yard, searching.

  She must be in the woods somewhere, walking, exploring, doing what had always meant so much to her. Or hiding? Hiding from him, watching him from some vantage point, the way she’d done the day he’d left here so many years ago. If he tilted his head back and yelled that he loved her, it would change nothing, just as it had changed nothing then.

  By God, this time he’d find her. He strode to the creek, crossed its shallows on a path of flat rocks laid down by some long-dead MacKenzie, and skirted the clearing, scowling at the piles of burned timber and the rising hills beyond. The view from the farm’s valley was magnificent, as he lifted his eyes to gaze up to Mount Victory, which poked its bald granite dome into the sky. He angled around a jumble of broken limbs and came to a shocked halt.

  Lily sat there, facing the mountain view, her long legs crossed, her mane of red hair flowing around her shoulders, every stitch of her clothes piled beside her.

  Indelible images slammed into him. Large, high breasts with wide, dusky red tips. A long, slender back flaring into luscious hips. A flash of red between her thighs. But even more, he reacted to the deep emotional tug of the loneliness and grief in her face. He had not seen her since spring, the day she was preparing to move from her and Richard’s home. That she had been suffering so harshly since then, and was still in such despair, tormented him.

  His hiking shoe snapped a twig. She exploded into action, scrambling to her knees and facing him, her tear-streaked face contorting, one arm rising quickly to shield her breasts, the other snaking across her thighs. She slipped sideways onto one hip. Her eyes were strangely unfocused yet angry “Mine. It’s mine. You can’t ruin it. You’re spying on me. Go ’way.”

  His attention went to the half-empty bottle of bourbon tilted against a hummock of dead grass, and he made an animal-like sound of helpless pain. Sorrow and frustration left little room for kindness. He vaulted to her, sank to his knees, snatched a flannel shirt from her jumbled clothing, and threw it at her. “It’s not even fifty degrees out here. And anyone could have walked up on you like this.”

  She shoved the shirt aside. “Only you.” She hunched down, her arms sagging then clenching tight over her nakedness, and gave him an agonized look that radiated fury and ruined privacy. “Leave. Leave.”

  “If you can’t stand me, then why the hell are you here?”

  “My home. Home. You thought I’d run? You thought I’d let you make me feel like dirt and not fight back?” She jammed a hand into the ground. “It’s clean here. I’m clean.” She threw a clod of damp earth. It grazed his cheek. Something snapped in his control. He lunged at her, jerked her arms aside, then whipped the shirt around her shoulders. “Get dressed.”

  She hissed and drew a hand back, but fell off-balance. He pushed her over and straddled her, his knees clenching the sides of her hips. Her loose-limbed struggling accomplished nothing but the lurid writhing of her belly and breasts. He shoved one of her hands into a shirtsleeve. She caught him in the jaw with her free hand. He clamped her arm down.

  Bending over her, he stared into her eyes. Something in his expression frightened her enough to temper the fury. Before the fear could fade, he rammed her hand into the other sleeve and closed the shirt over her breasts. “Hello, neighbor,” he said with ugly sarcasm, and sat down beside her. The shirttail was draped halfway up her stomach. Her long legs were half-bent, her feet and ankles rust red with dried mud. Artemas flicked the shirt over her thighs and cursed.

  She gulped short, shallow breaths. Finally one hand rose to her shirt. Holding it together, she pushed herself upright. “I guess Tamberlaine tol’ you what Mr. Estes and me—”

  “Hell yes, he told me.”

  “Nothing you can do about it.” She reached for the bottle. Artemas beat her to it and flipped it upside down, then jabbed the tip into soft earth covered in brown pine needles.

  “There’s nothing worse than a mean drunk. We can’t talk unless you’re sober.” He leaped to his feet, pulled her up after him, and started toward the creek. She dug her bare heels in and stumbled when he plowed ahead despite her resistance.

  He dragged her into the shallow creek, turned, and scooped her legs out from under her. She sat down hard on the sandy bottom. Immediately he was on his knees beside her in the icy, foot-deep water.

  Lily gasped. The cold penetrated her bones. She couldn’t believe he was doing this. Hugging herself, she tried to wrench away from him. One of his hands sank into the back of her hair. He held her still and cupped water to her face, scrubbing it vigorously.

  “Stop,” she ordered, her voice small and weary. Twisting her head away and shutting her eyes, she hunched over miserably. The water flowed around them with peaceful gurgles, chuckling at their torment without compassion. She heard the ragged sound of his breathing. “God damn you, Lily,” he said, his voice soft and hoarse. “This is killing me.”

  She cried—helpless, humiliating, drunken sobs. “I know. I wish you never had to see me again. But I can’t leave here.”

  “Oh, God.” It was a groan of despair. “I don’t want you to go away, but I can’t do anything to help you.” He latched both arms around her waist and, half carrying her, pulled her to the bank. They leaned against each other, her head bowed by his shoulder, both of them shivering.

  “Tomorrow, it’s been a year,” she said, struggling to get the words out of her throat. “It seems like forever. It seems like yesterday. I miss them so much. The loneliness—God, the loneliness. It makes me feel crazy things. Friends came up from Atlanta last week. Hai and some others. I wanted them to stay with me—anyone, to stay with me. Richard’s cousins from South Carolina came to visit at Christmas. I could hardly stand to let them leave. They felt so sorry for me—one even asked me to move up there and live near them.” She beat her fist on one knee. She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop. “Richard would want me to go live with them. But I can’t. This is my home. This is where I have to stay—and fight for our honor.”

  Artemas leaned his head against her hair. “Your honor has never been in question.”

  “Oh, yes. He belonged to me. And our son … our boy deserves a better memorial than this gossip and accusation about his father.”

  Artemas kept one arm around her back, tight as a vise, holding her to him. “There must be something to look forward to. There has to be.”

  “Work. Making something out of nothing. And forgetting. I feel them going away, a little. It hurts. It hurts to
feel them fading. I don’t want them to go.”

  “We have to let them go.”

  “I can’t. Not with all the doubts, everything we’ll never know. Don’t you think about that? Not knowing exactly what happened?”

  “Every day. And I think about not knowing what will happen to you. Then, finding you alone and hurting like this …” His voice trailed off. He put both arms around her and kissed her forehead roughly. He was the only warmth in the world, and she couldn’t bear to move away.

  She moaned and tilted her face up, blindly yearning to give back his comfort, to make some small sacrifice of bitterness. He kissed her eyes, a fervent and quick caress, and she sagged against him. His face was wet and cold, his mouth like a smooth fire in comparison.

  Connect. Survive. Forgive. Crying again, she pressed her lips to his, and he responded. For the briefest of eternities there was no need to think of anything except him. Then remorse flooded her. She faced forward, her eyes squinted shut. Gritting her teeth, she groaned Richard’s name.

  Artemas caught his breath, then exhaled in one long, exhausted sigh. “I’ll drive you to your aunt’s house.” His voice was flat, dead.

  “No.” Dragging a hand over her ravaged face, she stared straight ahead, trying to repress the thought that she’d betrayed Richard and Stephen. And herself. “Don’t come here again. Mr. Estes doesn’t want you to set foot on the place. And neither do I.”

  Artemas took her firmly by the shoulders and twisted her to face him. “That’s guilt talking.”

  He got up and walked away in grim silence, crossed the creek, and stood, his back to her, his broad shoulders hunched. Several long minutes passed before he heard splashing sounds from the creek. He turned and watched as she knelt on the bank near him, dressed in jeans and a quilted blue jacket over the wet shirt that was plastered to her breasts and stomach. She tied the laces on her thick-soled work shoes, scooped the ragged hair back from her face, and stood, unsteady but in control again.

  “This place can’t be what it was,” he said slowly. “Under the circumstances, nothing can be wonderful again. All we can do is accept that.”