Past Forward Volume 1

by Chautona Havig

  “You’ve never seen chickens?”

  Lee shook her head. “Not in real life. I’ve seen them in movies and books, but the only other ones I’ve seen were butchered and wrapped in plastic at the store.”

  While Willow shooed the birds into their coop, Lee watched from the other side of the fence. When Willow returned with an egg in hand, she asked, “All those chickens and only one egg?”

  “I gather them in the morning, but one of the gals in there is on her own schedule. I can’t complain, though. They’re all double yolk and show up around seven o’clock like clockwork.”

  Willow cracked the egg into a bowl by the back porch and waited for the puppy to eat his late night treat. Lee stifled a gag at the sight of the puppy she’d just been petting, inhaling the raw egg. What other gross things had the dog eaten recently?

  “Ok, girl, it’s time for bed.” Willow pointed to the barn. “I’ll be right in. I just have to lock her in again, or she’ll drive me crazy all night.”

  While Willow dragged the reluctant puppy to the barn, Lee hurried inside to wash her hands. Petting a dog had never grossed her out more. Willow entered the kitchen and smiled at the sight of Lee scrubbing her hands with a bar of soap. “Farm animals are dirty. They don’t get brushed and washed as often as pets.”

  In an attempt to redirect the conversation, Lee’s eyes scanned the room. “This is a really cool kitchen. It’s so big! Is that an actual wood stove—as in to cook on?”

  “Yes. It’s nice in winter.”

  “I bet it’s horrible while you’re cooking in summer though—so hot.” The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  Willow disappeared into a small room near the sink. At one end of it—a pantry it seemed—was a circuit breaker panel. To Lee’s astonishment, Willow flipped a breaker lever and then carried out an oscillating fan, plugging it into an outlet in the kitchen. In the living room, she uncovered another and plugged it in as well. “We have fans for when it gets overwarm. I’ll be right back. I really need to change shirts.”

  Lee wandered around the living room, taking in each detail of the carefully laid out room. It had a minimalistic flavor to it and yet with a deliberate eye to beauty. She knew little about Willow’s personal taste, but it was evident that each thing in the room held meaning or a specific use.

  The door to a room on her right stood wide open. She glanced inside on her way past and froze. Magnetized by the sheer volume of books in the room, Lee flipped on the light and stepped inside. Her fingertips slid along the spines as she skimmed the titles. From classics to children’s books and books on how to do almost everything, the shelves held a wealth of information and enjoyment.

  Hearing Willow step in behind her, Lee said, “Wow. I’ve never seen more books in one room in my life. I don’t know if Bookends has as many as you do.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you mentioned that place. Chad recommended that I buy one of Miss—I mean Alexa Hartfield’s novels. He thinks I’d like them. He also mentioned talking to her about my clothes.”

  This comment piqued Lee’s interest and tickled her ire. “What about your clothes?”

  Willow brought Lee a glass of ice water, unaware that the broken chips of ice in her drink fascinated her guest. “Well, I asked him about my dress on Sunday because I noticed my clothes are kind of different than—well, take yours. Our clothes are very different.”

  “But they suit you.”

  “That’s what Chad said. He said if I wasn’t happy with what I have that I should talk to Miss Hartfield, because she has a unique style. I think he was trying to make me feel confident in my choices.”

  “How very sensitively unlike him.”

  Willow snapped off the light as they left the room, lit the lamp beside the couch, and sank into the corner. “What do you mean?”

  “Chad’s a nice guy, but he can be a bit arrogant. From the sounds of it, he’s also meddling in your life. That kind of sensitivity doesn’t fit his persona.”

  “You don’t like Chad very much, do you?”

  A sigh escaped. “He’s young, but he’s ok. He just hasn’t fit into the group very well, and it makes things awkward sometimes.”

  “He told me he’s shy and uncomfortable around people he doesn’t know…” Willow began, remembering. “As for meddling, I don’t know. He understands a lot about my mother’s past, and as the officer who was on duty when I had to ask for help when I found Mother dead—”

  Lee threw up her hands in surrender. “Wow. Say no more. I was wrong about him. I get it.”

  “Now if he would just quit feeling obligated to save me from—well, whatever he’s trying to save me from—life would be perfect.”

  Confusion washed over Lee as she listened. Her assumption that Willow had come to Chad’s defense due to Willow’s own interest in him fizzled as the younger woman spoke. Just the tone of exasperation alone indicated that Willow was certainly not emotionally attached to Fairbury’s newest officer. The complicated twists and turns of Willow’s relationships fascinated Lee in a warped sort of way. Uncertain of how to respond, she returned the conversation to the topic of clothing. “So were you looking for a new look or what?”

  “Well, I think Chad was right. My clothes do look like me. I like them, but I also liked some of what I saw in Rockland. I do need a few new things, so I just wondered if I should consider a change of style for those. Sounds silly when I say it aloud, doesn’t it?”

  Lee took a sip of her water, praying for the right words. “I don’t think it sounds silly at all. Few people have Alexa Hartfield’s ability to be comfortable while standing out in a crowd. Even fewer people can do it and still be modest and humble. Alexa can.” Her fingers fidgeted as she worked to phrase her words carefully. “I just think that if you want something new, it should reflect you as a person and not just be a reflection of those around you, or you won’t be comfortable in it.”

  “Then I’d definitely stand out—in all the wrong ways. I knew you would understand. Chad didn’t.” Willow pulled Lee upstairs eagerly, and after lighting another lamp, she spread out her clothing. “See, I wear a lot of jeans and cut-offs. But I try to make my tops be pretty and comfortable.”

  “You have a lot of skirts too. Do you change often?”

  “Well, when the dirty work is done, sure. Not as much in winter, but in summer, skirts are cooler in the afternoons and evenings.”

  Lee asked about fabrics, her needs, and her usual clothing purchases. Willow answered by pulling a thick catalog of fabric swatches from a room full of craft supplies. “You make them, of course. I don’t know why I even asked.”

  “Chad would ask if I would buy everything now to save time.”

  She blinked, trying to make sense of Willow’s words. “I don’t get it.”

  A small smile rose on one corner of Willow’s lips. “He seems to think that you can save time like you do money—store it up for later. Everything I do he asks why not do it some other way to ‘save time.’”

  Once again, Lee found herself annoyed with the officer. “Looks like he needs to—hey! I’ve got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “Boho Chic in Rockland!” she squealed.

  “Bo what?”

  “It’s a store,” Lee explained. It’s perfect. Trust me. You see…”

  Willow’s name flashed on Chad’s screen. His mouth went dry at the thought of why she might call so late. “Are you alright? Did you get home ok?”

  “I’m fine. I just wondered…” Willow’s voice wavered.

  “Wondered what?”

  She cleared her throat. “Well, I was wondering what you were doing Saturday evening.” Willow waited expectantly for Chad’s answer.

  Great. She wants me to take her somewhere. I knew being friendly would bite me in the end. Honesty forced Chad to admit he got off work at ten in the morning and was free for twenty-four hours. “Why?”

  “Well, Saturday Bill is coming to take me to Rockland—” />
  Sheesh, she’s getting around a lot! he groused to himself.

  “—he wanted me to see some of the museums and the zoo and other things like that, so he’s taking me to the Pennsylvania Avenue Museum. He also wanted to take me out to dinner, but I told him I needed to be home early enough to milk Willie.”

  “And?” Chad knew what was coming. He went from near panic at the idea of turning Willow down for a date to annoyance that he was the sucker used to make her date with Bill happen.

  “Well Lee was just here, and she—”

  Oh no! Now she’s playing matchmaker… he groaned inwardly.

  “—that there is a store there that makes clothes to order with the fabrics you like, and she thought their prints and styles are perfect for me. She called it ‘Euro Boho.’ Whatever that is.”

  “Ok, I’m not following you. What does Lee and fabric have to do with going to Rockland?”

  Willow giggled—something he’d never expected to hear her do. “I want to talk Bill into taking me to that store, but if I do that, I think I should make sure we still get to have sushi, so I thought if you would let me pay you to milk Wilhelmina, it might not be so bad. If we don’t get to eat there for lunch, we could do dinner—”

  “I’ll milk the goat. You stay and have fun. But you’re not paying me for anything.”

  The protest he expected appeared on cue. “I can’t keep taking advantage of you.”

  “It’s what friends do, Willow. It’s what we do.” He slid his phone shut and glanced around the station as he took a swig of his coffee. Friends. Had he just insisted that he was a friend? Just suck it up and admit that you’re stuck, he growled to himself, gulping down the last bit of his coffee. The dregs of the instant grounds that hadn’t dissolved tickled his throat. Friends? Chad choked.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first rays of sunrise filtered through wispy curtains. Her arms stretched overhead as Willow emerged from sleep. Friday. Cleaning day. She tossed back the sheet and rolled out of bed. Rifling through her drawers, she grabbed cutoffs and socks. A cut-off halter-top, tied just below her chest—usual summer cleaning attire. Perfect.

  As she did once a month, Willow rolled each rug and dragged it down the stairs, through the house, and onto the back porch. Perspiration poured down her temples and the back of her neck, pooling in places that drove her crazy. Still, she managed to rid the upper floors of their coverings.

  From the hall closet, she grabbed her bucket and poured a little “mopping oil” into it. Mother always called it “Lavender Murphy Oil” after some cleaning product. It had taken them years to perfect the liquid soap recipe, but at last, Mother had deemed it perfect. She filled the bucket with water, grabbed clean rags from the basket on the shelf, and started in the craft room. With the windows flung open for fresh air, she wiped down each shelf and gently dusted each book jacket with a dry cloth—everything received a thorough cleaning. She swept the floor carefully, trying not to stir the dust again, and then retrieved the mop.

  Made from the bottoms of cutoff jeans, the mop head looked like any old rag mop—but blue. She wrung it well and wiped down the floor with it. As she worked, Willow sang—the songs from Chad’s CD filling her heart as she tackled room after room.

  She stripped the beds, put fresh sheets on them, picked flowers, and filled the vases by the bedsides and the little vase in the bathroom windowsill. The laundry, she tossed down the stairs to the landing. With the other rooms clean, she grabbed the sugar shaker full of cleanser and a fresh rag and tackled the bathroom. Tub, sink, toilet, floors—it gleamed by the time she was done.

  Willow frowned at the nearly empty shaker jar and went to refill it. Two buckets stood at the bottom of the closet. “One big scoop baking soda, one small scoop borax, one teaspoon lavender powder…” she dumped them in the jar and shook it vigorously. “There. All ready for next week.”

  Grabbing a mason jar of vinegar and a fresh rag, Willow went into the bathroom and wiped down the mirror and windows. She filled the sink with water and dumped a little vinegar in it. Back on the shelf, she replaced the jar, and went to wipe down the bathroom floor. Done for another week. Before she started downstairs, Willow surveyed her work with satisfaction. She had always been in charge of upstairs clean up on Fridays, and it felt good to return to a familiar rhythm.

  On the landing, she scooped up the dirty sheets, bath mats, and cleaning rags. The sense of familiarity ended as she stepped into the living room. Dust played in the stream of sunlight from the east window. Wilted and dead flowers crumbled at the bases of mason jars and the mosaic vase. The windows—dust marred the usual Friday morning shine. She glanced in the little library, expecting—rather hoping—to hear the strains of music on the Victrola. Mother hadn’t done her Friday morning chores—would never do those chores again.

  She dropped the laundry in the middle of the floor, her throat constricting and fighting for breath. For the first time in several days, Willow collapsed on the chaise and sobbed. Her natural inclination to choke back her tears almost overcame her. After several attempts to stamp it down, she allowed herself full vent of her grief. Work often kept her busy, crowding out the pain of her loss, but occasionally, the finality of it overwhelmed her.

  How long she cried, she didn’t know, but a bark at the back door jerked her out of the abyss she felt lost in and reminded her that Willie was probably ready for relief. A glance at the clock showed it was just after eight-thirty. “I’m going to start breakfast first Othello, go wait for me, boy.”

  The oatmeal canister was almost empty, sending Willow into the pantry for a refill. As she bent to fill it, she saw the last jar of canned cherries and developed an instant craving for cherry-vanilla ice cream. She carried the jar with her into the kitchen, humming as she poured boiling water over her oats. The notes choked in her throat. It wouldn’t work. It still hurt.

  While her breakfast cooked, Willow dragged herself to the barn with Othello at her heels. The puppy jumped and yapped, happy to see her as she opened the barn door and went into the kitchen for the milking pail. In minutes, a pan of water simmered on the stove, leaving Willow free to milk the goat and care for the other animals.

  After breakfast, Willow tackled the distasteful job of rug beating. Several attempts to carry the biggest rug failed until Willow covered the garden cart with an old sheet and flopped it in there. The smaller ones, she piled on top of it. She pushed the cart to the poles the Finley women had erected for dirt eradication purposes and fought to hang the first rug over it. Some of the rugs were heavy, bulky, and it required every ounce of Willow’s upper body strength to set them up for their monthly beating.

  Realizing she’d left her beater inside, Willow strode to the pantry and returned with a battered old broom. It was hot, sweaty work, but Willow’s cutoff jeans and cropped halter top, though they covered little, kept her cooler than anything else could have as she pummeled the dirt from the rugs.

  The first two rugs cleaned with relative ease. The dirt fell consistently as the broom whacked, until eventually the clouds of dust and dirt became unnoticeable. She swept them thoroughly on both sides of the rug and then rolled them up, allowing the last foot or two to drop onto her shoulders. Opening the kitchen door to carry them back in was harder than she remembered. Several times, they rolled to the ground, but she kept going, always fighting to finish the job.

  She dropped the large rug from her room twice, re-beat it twice, and rolled it up again, twice. At last, she managed to get it and keep it on her back. It slid off again on her way up the stairs but she dragged it into her room and unrolled it at the side of her bed where it had lain since she hooked it ten years earlier. Surveying it now, Willow realized it had grown faded and worn.

  “It’s probably time to make another one. I—oh Mother, how did you schedule projects like this? I need to read more. I know I don’t have time now, but maybe at night…”

  Her mother’s voice echoed through her thoughts, tugging a we
ak smile from her lips. Every day needs its Sabbath. She’d heard those words every time she tried to fill her evenings with anything that could be construed as work. Evenings were for anything but needs—a time to relax and rejuvenate before the next day.

  The final rug slipped easily over the bar. It belonged at the foot of her bed and was nearly new. The workmanship was better, and the pattern more suited to Willow’s current tastes. The folk-art sampler of her early years was pretty, but having designed her own floral and stylized pattern last winter, she knew exactly what she wanted the replacement to look like.

  Chad rounded the corner of the house and saw Willow beating a rug with an old broom. She brushed the surface with the bristles and then began rolling it off the bar from which it hung. He tried to reach her before the weight of the rug hit her shoulders, but was too late.

  “Hey, I’ll help you with that.”

  Willow, face, arms, and legs streaked with dirt and sweat, glanced at him gratefully. “Thanks. I’ve only had to do this alone once before, and it’s not easy.”

  “I’d love to ask why you don’t use a vacuum cleaner, but I have a feeling you’d tell me you wouldn’t know what to do with the time you’d save or something like that.”

  “Mother said vacuums were nasty things. She said that you could see how inefficient they are just by lifting an area rug after you vacuumed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Willow shrugged. “Well, I’ve never seen it, of course, but Mother said that under a freshly vacuumed rug there’d be a huge layer of dirt on top of wood flooring and that it destroyed the finish of the floor and the back of the rug. That,” she continued with half a smile, “and the little part about not having the electricity on to use one.”

  As Willow rolled out the rug at the foot of her bed, she pointed to the other one. “I’m going to make another one like this for there. That rug is getting worn and faded.”

  He watched as she passed the mirror, her eyes wide with alarm. “Sorry, Chad. I’m not used to people being around when I’m working.” Excusing herself, she grabbed a dress from the closet and dashed into the bathroom, muttering something about being covered in dirt. The shower burst on less than a minute later. Chad smiled to himself and glanced around the room. It smelled wonderful. Clean. The flowers on her nightstand sent a gentle whiff of lilac and roses across the room with every puff of wind through the window.