How the subway had fascinated her and a store had reduced her to a quivering puddle of nerves, he couldn’t comprehend, but it seemed Willow did nothing but confuse him. She’d loved the announcer’s voice, the strange and normal people all jumbled in one tiny car, and somehow she had not realized that the weight of the city was above them. How did Kari ever think it was a good idea to keep her so isolated?
He walked to the Towers from the corner substation and handed his ticket to the valet. Within minutes, he cruised along the city streets to his apartment building. Halfway up the elevator to his fifth floor apartment, Bill glanced around him and realized that everything he did was on a semi-autopilot. At his floor, he punched the down arrow and retraced his steps.
Outside, Bill looked around him. Several apartment buildings, an office building, a parking garage, and a gym surrounded him. A quick glance at the entrance to the Roark Building gave him a perspective he’d never seen. Sixteen floors towered above him in a mass of steel, concrete, and glass. The modernist style contrasted sharply with the royal blue and gold canvas doorway awning that seemed more suited for older architecture.
Security cameras and personnel were such a part of his life that Bill had never questioned them. He did now. He pictured Willow in her farmhouse surrounded by fields of grass, wildflowers, and windows that probably didn’t even lock. Security measures that prevented him from entering his own home without proper identification seemed extreme in light of Willow’s world.
The corridors and elevators were spotless. The walls and trim were clean and the paint unmarred. As he entered his own apartment, closed the door, and locked it, he stared at the lock, deadbolt, and safety bar. Three locking apparatus, a security card entrance downstairs, a camera monitored lobby, and a security doorman seemed a bit excessive, even to Bill. The idea of living without them seemed terrifying.
Designed in the loft style, Bill’s apartment was open, airy, and tastefully decorated. Only his bedroom and bathroom had actual walls. The rest of the space was separated by furniture, screens, and sliding walls used to create privacy when desired. He loved his home, but seen through Willow’s eyes, it looked sterile and empty.
The Finley women made an art of beautifying everything around them. He’d made an art of minimizing and stripping everything to its barest core. His walls held no art—his windows, no coverings. His bed, covered with a thick black down comforter boasted nothing more. There were no rugs on the highly polished floors and no pillows on the sleek leather couches. The coffee table held no books, no vase, no sculpture—nothing.
Lin Chen had already left for the day. The six singles on floors five and six paid Lin well to keep their apartments clean. It was an easy job for Lin—most of her clients ate meals out and sent out their laundry. Bill was no exception. He liked the arrangement, but after twenty-four hours with Willow, it seemed lazy.
Frustrated, he moved to his closet, stripping off his shirt and tie as he went. He left his clothes in a heap on the floor, and clad in shorts and a t-shirt, he tied on his athletic shoes and started up the treadmill. His usual workout at the gym across the street—not happening.
Friday night. He’d assumed he had a date. With Willow. Bill punched the speed arrow twice and went from a speed walk to a jog. The more he ruminated, the more disconcerted he became. His index finger jabbed at the up arrow again. Again. Now he ran. His feet pounded on the belt as it spun on rollers. Sweat poured over him as though a rain cloud hovered above the treadmill.
Twenty minutes later, he collapsed on his exercise mat exhausted. Bill lifted one knee to his chest, then the other. He did a few stomach crunches and then, as though to punish himself for some undeclared sin, began push-ups. After fifty, he dropped face down on the mat—cleansed.
As he lay there, he realized that Willow too worked her muscles until they refused to do any more. She was in excellent shape. Her arms were tan and the muscles well defined from hard and consistent work. Work. That was the difference. Bill worked with his mind. To keep his body healthy and physically fit, he had to manufacture work for it. Treadmills, rowing machines, rock walls—the trappings of a modern lifestyle devoid of physical exertion to sustain life.
Willow had that. Perhaps— Bill stood, and putting the thought of her from his mind, dragged himself to his shower. Three showerheads spraying filled the bathroom with steam. He wondered if she even had one. Growling at himself for turning his thoughts back to her yet again, Bill hurried out of the shower, into clean clothes, and out of his apartment. His city—he loved it. He’d enjoy himself without any more false guilt.
Alone in the Sushi Garden, Bill bit into his favorite eel and seaweed wrap. Immediately he thought, I wonder if Willow has ever had sushi.
The server watched concerned as Bill threw down a few bills and strode from the restaurant. Frantic Japanese flew between the manager and the chef, followed by an order to the server to follow him. Several patrons looked at their plates nervously as their servers arrived with their plates.
The young woman grabbed Bill’s money and raced after him. Several patrons watched through the window as she offered Bill his money back and apologized profusely. The silent scene played out before them as if a moment in an old movie. Bill waved the money back at her and made apologetic gestures. A look of sympathy crossed over the young woman’s face as she laid her hand on his arm. He shook his head as she gestured, inviting him to return. Bill walked away, shoulders slumped.
The server entered the restaurant and found all eyes on her. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “He said the food was fine, but his heart isn’t. It sounds like he got dumped today.”
Chapter Eleven
Willow, unaware of the turmoil she’d left churning in Bill, stepped off the bus in Fairbury, smiling. Home. She’d often noted that many songs and poems were written about home. Now she knew why—understood it in a deeper way than she’d ever imagined. All she could think of was Othello, Wilhelmina, her porch, the lamp by the chaise in the living room, and her mother’s journals.
She walked along Elm to Market Street to the convenience store, shifting the suitcase between her hands from time to time. In their restrooms, she switched her shoes to athletic shoes and swiftly braided her hair. Inside the store, she purchased a bottle of water and a tube of Chapstick, waving cheerily as she left.
Cars slowed, but she waved them on, ignoring the invitations for a ride. Perspiration cooled her, drying stiff on her clothes. The familiarity of it—so comforting.
Halfway down the driveway, Othello raced to meet her. Her arms encircled the collie and held on tight. She glanced at the porch to see if Mother waited for her return, but the sight of Chad’s truck hit her in the gut. Her mother would never stand on the porch, hand shielding her eyes, and wait for Willow to arrive with flowers, fish, or rabbit again.
As she neared the house, the gentle strum of a guitar reached her ears. Willow recognized the plaintive strains of country music as she rounded the corner to the back porch. Her mother had despised the genre, but Willow loved the stories, the heart, and the down-to-earth themes of the songs. Once inside the back door, she paused and listened to the beautiful harmony of a western ballad sung by a man and woman accompanied by a simple acoustic guitar.
Chad strode into the kitchen, empty plate in hand and stopped frozen at the sight of her. “How— I thought you were coming home tomorrow.”
“I’m sure that’s what Bill arranged, but I wanted to come home.”
“How did you get here?”
Willow saw irritation flash in his eyes even before she spoke. “I walked, of course.”
“Of course.”
He put his plate in the sink and rinsed the crumbs down the drain. Everything about him, his posture, his short jerky movements, and of course, the mask of anger descending over his face told her he was upset with her, but Willow didn’t know why. Without a word, Chad grabbed the handle of her suitcase and disappeared through the doorway.
Minutes later
, he reappeared with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and found her sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, head cupped in her hands, listening to his Argosy Junction CD. “What a hauntingly beautiful song! Who are they? Where do I order a CD?”
“I got mine from their concert in New Cheltenham, but you can probably get it from their website or Amazon.”
“Is there a catalog I can write for? Oh, listen!” Her eyes filled with tears as the young man in the song sang of someone waiting at home for him. She crumbled emotionally as the song progressed, causing Chad to hesitate. He dropped his bag at his feet and pulled the other chair around straddling it with his arms draped across the back.
“Rough time in Rockland?”
She shook her head and reached for a napkin from a basket to one side of the table. “Mother wasn’t waiting for me when I got home.”
“What?”
“She wasn’t here. It was the worst feeling of my life. Mother always waited on the porch for me.”
Chad’s mellow voice soothed her as he nodded sympathetically and said, “And I’m sure the song doesn’t help.”
“But it does. Someone somewhere wrote a song about something that has always been special to me. I just never knew it. This will probably become my favorite song.”
Before Chad could reply, his cell phone rang on the kitchen windowsill. He snatched the phone and answered it, slipping out the back door and away from the music. Trying to be considerate, Willow punched the power button on the CD player, gathered the dishes in the sink into the dishpan, and carried them to the summer kitchen.
Chad found her there singing fragments of the chorus of the song as she rinsed the dishes he’d dirtied that day. “…light shining bright… tonight… somebody’s waiting for me.”
“Did you call Bill when you got in?”
Willow didn’t turn around, but she shook her head. “No. Should I have?”
“He might sleep better knowing you got home safely. Want me to call him?”
She turned and smiled sheepishly through her tears. “That would be nice.” Her voice cracked. “I should myself but—” Willow, unable to finish, raced from the barn and into the house.
Chad scrolled through his phone looking for Bill’s number. “Hey Bill? Chad Tesdall here. I just wanted you to know that Willow made it home a little while ago.”
Bill’s flat voice told Chad something more had happened in Rockland than Willow knew or was willing to share. As Chad started to say goodbye, Bill stopped him. “Wait, did you say just got home? It’s almost seven!”
“She walked home.”
“Why weren’t you there to pick her up? I hate that she walks along that road. She had a suitcase!” Bill’s outraged voice irritated Chad.
“Well, because the memo I got, from you I might add, was that you were bringing her home tomorrow afternoon. Had anyone bothered to tell me the plans changed, I would have been there.”
“Why didn’t she call for a ride? I don’t und—”
“Because it’s not what the Finley women do. They do for themselves. It never occurred to her to call for a ride. If she wants to do something, she walks. Period. It is who Willow Finley is.” Why he bothered to explain, Chad didn’t know.
“That I am beginning to discover.” A sigh followed. “Just like her mother. Why did I think she would be any different?” Chad started to disconnect the call but one more question from Bill stopped him. “Hey, Tesdall?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you mind calling me when you leave Willow’s place?”
The sight of Willow setting up the Chinese checkers on the kitchen table brought an involuntary smile to his face. “It could be pretty late…”
A trace of irritation entered Bill’s voice as he replied, “I don’t care how late it is; I’d appreciate it.”
“Will do. Anything I should tell her?”
“No,” Bill sighed. “I’ll just get it over with all at once. Say, Tesdall?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ever make plans for Willow. I keep forgetting how backward they are in some ways.”
Confused, Chad stared at the phone before he queried, “What do you mean?”
“Don’t make plans to do stuff with her. She may show up, she may not.”
“Bill, did you make plans with Willow or for her? I’ve found her very conscientious about anything she plans.”
Bill stammered and sputtered for a minute. “Well she was coming here so I—”
“Let me ask you this. If you made the same plans for another one of your clients without asking their input, how would they react? Willow may be inexperienced in the world and a tad naïve at times, but she’s not a child. She’s accustomed to making her own decisions.”
Silence hung in the air subtracting minutes from Chad’s cell plan mercilessly. He couldn’t wait until the free night minutes took effect, he complained inwardly.
At last, Bill’s voice, humbled and quiet, said, “Ouch.”
Filled with a sense that all was right with the world, and not a little satisfaction of three games won, Willow lay on her chaise reading her mother’s journal when the phone rang. She didn’t move. Her eyes scrolled back and forth across the page until she finished it. Her bookmark, frayed from years of constant use, noted her place, and she pushed herself up off the chaise, into the other room to retrieve it.
When the phone stopped ringing, she almost returned to her book without bothering to see who had called. Alas, she realized that perhaps Chad remembered something important she needed to know about the animals or some other part of the farm and decided to try to remember how to check the messages and see if the caller had left one. Bill’s name and number flashed at her, telling her she had one missed call.
Bill’s voice sounded upset as he said he hoped she was fine and that he could talk to her soon. Without a second thought, she punched the button to dial his number and returned to her chaise. “Hello, you called?” Willow remembered that people said hello first and felt quite proud of her newly acquired telephone skills.
“Willow?”
Her laughter soothed his spirit. “Have you called many people in the past few minutes?”
“I owe you an apology.” Unsure how to reply, Willow kept silent. Again he spoke. “Willow?”
“Yes?”
“I thought maybe you’d been disconnected.”
He still sounded upset to her, but Willow answered his unspoken question anyway. “No, I wasn’t sure what to say so I thought I’d wait to see what you were apologizing for before I answered.”
“I was presumptuous and rude. I was so excited to show you my city that I didn’t even ask.”
“Well that’s understandable,” Willow began.
“But it was still wrong of me. I would never have done that to your mother.”
The mention of her mother made Willow curious. “If you wouldn’t have—”
“I kept my relationship with your mother strictly professional. With all of my faults, I know how to treat a client.”
Understanding dawned. “And you were trying to be my friend as well as my financial advisor.”
“Yes. Can we try again? Can I come get you for the day tomorrow or next Saturday and we go see some of the things I think you’d enjoy?”
“Just the day?” Visiting Rockland and seeing museums, zoos, and parks sounded wonderful, knowing she’d sleep in her own bed in her own home.
“Especially at first. Eventually you might want to stay over and spend more time here, but you’re not that far away. I can pick you up and have you back in the city before ten.”
She grew more excited as she thought about the possibilities. “Could I be home before six? Six is really the latest I should milk Willie.”
“That’s totally doable.”
“Great! This weekend won’t work—I have a lot to do in the garden tomorrow, but maybe next week…”
“Of course,” Bill replied sounding relieved. “What would you like to do
most?”
They discussed their options—from bowling to roller-skating, to ice-skating and the museums. Eventually, they decided on the Pennsylvania Avenue Museum. “Mother described it in great detail when I was little. If they haven’t changed much, I think I will know every room by heart before I ever see it.”
She started to say goodnight when Bill’s voice asked tentatively, “Willow?”
“Still here.”
“Have you ever had sushi?”
Unaware of the hours ticking past, Willow read until the dawn streaked across the sky and into her living room. Each year grew more familiar than the last. Their first cow, the dog that Mother had to shoot when a rabid raccoon bit him—they all flooded into her memory bringing her deeper into the past. A reference to her education in the year Willow was four intrigued her.
August-
I can see that Willow is an intelligent child. She picks up on everything much more quickly than I anticipate. I’ll need to keep ahead of her if I want to keep her curiosity piqued and challenge her. I tried to convince myself to send her to school, but I won’t do it. I’ll educate her, but I’m going to do it differently than the schools. I ordered a book by John Holt on teaching children. We’ll see.
December-
She’s reading! Everything. Those bright eyes fly over a page faster than her mouth can keep up! If I wasn’t her mother, I’d call her a prodigy, but I know I am extravagantly biased. I started by pointing out letters on everything. Simple things like, “That’s a W. It makes a wwww sound like at the front of your name. Wwwwillow.” By the end of a couple of weeks, she could tell me most of the letters and the sounds they made. I took note and filled in the gaps. By the end of September, she was combining letter sounds, but I didn’t realize it. I thought at just four, she wasn’t ready for “real reading.” How silly of me. I taught her things like a silent e and l and about combined vowels, and now, she reads everything. I caught her reading my book on how to raise and butcher chickens.
Past Forward Volume 1 Page 11