“Hello,” he croaked. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You said traffic…”
“Yeah.” Think, man! Think! Say something that has some depth or meaning. Come on. “Nice dress.” Oh, yeah. That was deep. “Why did you buy new clothes when you had a dress like that—and that white one…”
“It’s new, silly. I made it after visiting Boho. It’s probably horribly out of fashion, but I decided that I don’t care. I don’t have time to keep up with what everyone else is wearing.”
“It looks like the kind of thing my trendy neighbor wears, so I can’t imagine it is too out of style! So you’re getting a whole new wardrobe?” Bill opened her door, shutting it gently after she pulled her skirt in and out of the way. Smart. Ask a question and then shut the door on her. What is wrong with me? Since when do I not know how to talk to a woman?
As he turned the car around, Bill listened as Willow explained her sudden interest in new clothes. “I just didn’t realize how worn my dresses and skirts are. I mean, I really don’t care about my jeans and cut-offs. They’re work clothes, but since we tend to wear things until they aren’t repairable or we hate the sight of them…” She shrugged. “In answer to your question, I guess it’s a partial yes.”
Once on the highway, Bill’s thoughts returned to the annual trips he’d made over the years. “You must have worn nicer things when I came. I can’t remember anything that was seedy.”
Willow shrugged and watched the trees and fences fly by until they drove into Fairbury. The silence choked him. Had he offended her? Probably. Frustrated, Bill turned off the town square almost immediately and then into a nearly full parking lot. “Here we are.” How original. Perhaps you should add something ingenious like, “See, we have arrived,” too. Just in case she didn’t catch that.
She pointed to the Fairbury Library sign over the doorway and said, “Are we devouring books for dinner?”
Finally, a topic he could speak on that was remotely interesting. “They outgrew this building and used it as a storage facility for the new library until about eight years ago.”
“And now it’s a restaurant?”
He nodded. “An investment group from Rockland turned it into a dinner theater. It’s been quite successful.”
As she stepped from the car, Willow glanced up at Bill, smiling. “You were one of those investors, weren’t you?”
“It was Kari’s suggestion, actually. She read about the plans while doing some sort of research at the new library.”
“Why didn’t Mother invest?”
While they waited for their table, Bill explained her mother’s conservative investment strategy and summarized it with, “She wasn’t willing to risk any part of your future. She wanted it as secure as we could make it while still providing growth opportunities.”
“Is that how you would have approached it?”
Though tempted, to plot out the kind of growth strategy he’d always wanted the chance to use on the Finley accounts, Bill resisted. Instead of launching into a full-blown presentation, he simply said,
“Well, we can start having quarterly meetings if you like. You could make small adjustments and branch out further as you become more comfortable.” As if to rescue him, the hostess arrived, leading them to their table. Bill added quietly as they were seated, “And besides, it’d give you an excuse to come to Rockland and see more of the city. I bought tickets to the Fall/Winter session of the symphony. I hoped you’d come at least once or twice.”
“Symphony? Really? I’d love it.” Her forehead wrinkled at a new thought. “What if it’s on a day when I can’t come? You shouldn’t have spent the money yet.”
“I’ll give them to Mari. She and her husband always enjoy my unused tickets.”
Before she could reply, a man in the chair closest to her slumped to the floor, while his dinner partner shrieked at the top of her lungs. Willow’s eyes grew wide as she saw a pool of blood forming around his head. She swallowed hard, and then screamed. Not a sound emanated from her throat, but all who saw her knew the silent terror that she tried to release.
Bill watched, frozen with amazement, as she flung herself onto the floor, listening for the man’s breathing. He jumped from the table and tried to pull her away, but her horror stricken face cut him as she demanded, “Call an ambulance! He’s not dead yet!”
Nearly home—should she let him know she wasn’t upset yet, or make him wait a bit longer? A sidelong glance told her he could stand just a little more “humiliation” before she confessed. There it was again; he was watching her out of the corner of his eyes. Her mother used to do that. With Mother, it usually meant she was growing suspicious.
“This drive is so much smoother than I remember,” Bill mused as if to himself.
“Chad brought something and tied it to the back of his truck. He dragged it up and down that thing for an hour the other day, but I have to agree, it does feel better. I should thank him.”
Bill parked the car and strolled to her side, opening the door with just a trace of nervousness—almost tangible. Willow glanced up at him, a sheepish grin on her face. “Can you believe I said that?”
“What?”
“‘He’s not dead yet!’ I think my reaction nearly finished him off, actor or no actor.”
Repressed chuckles escaped as Bill relived the moment. “I couldn’t believe it when you jumped up to try to revive him. Everyone thought you were part of the act.” He shut the door behind her and glanced around him. “It’s so quiet out here—so solitary.” The pup yapped her disapproval in the barn. “Well, mostly quiet.”
Her eyes followed his, trying to see her farm from his perspective. The moon, a sliver of an arc, hung in the sky. “I used to love to swing out back when the moon was like that.”
“Not full?”
She shook her head. “No. I always felt exposed—like there was a spotlight on me, or something, when the moon was full. I liked the crescents.” Willow thought for a moment. “Well, for swinging anyway.”
He took a step toward the barn. “Come on, show me.”
A smile lit her face as Willow grabbed Bill’s hand and led him around behind the barn to the old swing. Fireflies danced in the air, giving her special place a magical feeling as she slipped into the swing, expertly tucked her skirt under one leg, and took a few steps backward. She released, sailing into the air. On her return, Bill pushed the seat, sending her even higher.
“Is that board strong?”
“It’ll hold.”
Another question followed another push. “What about the rope? Is it sturdy?”
“It was the other day.” His concern—it touched her with its charm.
“What do I smell?”
Willow’s sensitive nose smelled a million things at once. As she whizzed through the air, she caught the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle, the pungent scent of Wilhelmina’s fertilizer, and, if she went high enough, she could even smell the alfalfa on the other side of the grove. “I don’t know. Does it smell good or bad?”
“It’s some kind of flower I think.”
“Honeysuckle. We’ve used it to make wine and sherbet. I like the nectar.” Willow flew through the air and landed several feet away.
“Hey!” Bill cried, rushing to ensure she wasn’t injured. “Don’t do that without warning me. I thought I pushed you out at first.”
Willow’s laughter brought the shadow of a smile to his face. He looked vulnerable in the faint light reflected by the moon. “Come on, let’s have a honeysuckle feast.”
A sense of rising panic crept into his heart as Bill followed her through moonlit trees and along the rustic fence to the other side of the house. Any beauty or romance that the occasion should have provided dissipated under the heavy footprint of unease and discomfort as they wandered through ankle to calf-high grasses—in the dark. Was this how she felt in the city? No wonder she couldn’t wait to get home—home was all he could think of. It took every ounce of self-control to hide the
hesitant steps he made until they reached the first blossoms.
“That is fragrant! I’ve never smelled anything like it—well, not when it wasn’t in a bottle.” At least his voice sounded normal. Bill couldn’t vouch for anything else.
“Here, try this,” Willow urged, dropping several delicate blossoms in his hand. “Just suck the nectar from the center.”
“Without washing them?”
It was too late. Willow had already plucked another blossom. “Come on, try it. They’re so good.”
Bill raised the tiny flower to his lips but lowered it quickly. “What if there’s a bug on it? In this light you couldn’t see—”
“There are no bugs on it.”
He had to admit, the nectar was delicious. “You really put this in sherbet?”
“Isn’t it wonderful? It makes me thirsty though. Would you like some water?”
As tasty as the honeysuckle was, Bill was eager for any excuse to avoid more blossoms. However, he tucked the others she’d given him in his shirt pocket as she turned to lead him back to the house. A few steps later, he caught her hand in his and laced their fingers together.
“How can you stand it? It’s so dark out here. You could step in a hole, get bitten by whatever lives in this grass—anything.”
“City boy.”
He gave her hand a slight squeeze and grinned. “And not ashamed of it either.”
Willow paused, mid-path, and looked for Bill’s eyes. She shifted in a semi-circle until she found whatever she sought. “Are you truly nervous out here like this, or is it just an excuse to hold my hand?”
Busted. “Both. Well, nervous is putting it lightly. I’m positively terrified, if you want the truth. I’d rather face the subway carrying a wad of cash in plain sight.”
“But…”
No use hiding it now. “But I’ll take any excuse to hold your hand.”
He saw her glance at their hands before she turned and continued toward the house. “Well, I appreciate your honesty anyway.”
They sat in the swing on the dark front porch, sipping ice water, and talking—what about, he couldn’t remember. His heart sank a little as she stood. She’d send him home, and he wasn’t ready to go.
Sure enough, Willow grabbed their glasses and said, “I have no idea what time it is, but it’s late. Chad needs help with something at church tomorrow, and you have a long drive ahead of you. Go home, Bill.”
Her tone and the light touch of her fingers on his arm softened the brusqueness of her dismissal. At the newel, Bill reached tentatively for her face, but Willow turned aside and walked to the screen door. “Don’t get silly on me. Goodnight.”
Darkness shrouded the house. Would she go straight to bed without lighting anything? How could she brush her teeth without a light? The moon wasn’t bright enough, what little of it existed. A flicker in the window told him she’d lit something. Bill turned, hands in his pockets, and strolled back to his car. Resting his forearms on the steering wheel, he wondered if her rebuff was due to exasperation or if she was simply amused. Time will tell, I suppose.
Bill started his car and backed around the corner of the house. The once-grassy yard now showed signs of dead grass where Chad’s truck and likely the one belonging to the vegetable woman had worn a parking area already. The grassy lane, sparse as it always was, was now nearly free of any grass at all—smoothed by whatever Chad had done to save their vehicles. Should thank him for that.
He followed the directions on his GPS until he pulled up in front of Chad’s house. The building was large—more like a Victorian row house than an apartment, but Chad should know what to call his home. Several yards up the street, Chad’s truck sat as a testament to the accuracy of his trusty GPS, so Bill climbed from his vehicle, grabbed his duffle bag, and crept quietly up the walk.
At the door, a brass plate showed the names of four tenants and their apartment letter. Apartment C conveniently listed Tesdall as the tenant. He followed the stairs to the second floor and knocked gently on Chad’s door. When no reply came, he knocked a little harder, jumping as the door across the hall opened.
“Are you here for Chad?” the pot-bellied man asked suspiciously.
“Yes. I’m Bill Franklin. I was supposed—”
“Oh, he gave me a key earlier for you. Ben Franklin. Your parents had a sense of humor didn’t they?”
“Well actually—” Bill finished as the man disappeared into his apartment, “The name is Bill. Like William.”
“What was that?” Mr. Pot-belly passed Bill Chad’s key and watched—was it with curiosity or suspicion—as Bill unlocked the door.
“I said thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Ben. Anytime.”
Inside Chad’s apartment, he flipped on the light and glanced around the room. Nothing. It was the sparsest place he’d ever seen. While his apartment was deliberately devoid of excess, Chad’s was devoid of existence. No clothes, dishes, not even a remote on the TV—nothing. It seemed as if Chad had either cleaned up for Bill’s visit or the officer was also a neat freak. A closet door at one end of the room tempted him. He shouldn’t—not really—it was wrong. Bill turned, determined not to poke into another man’s privacy, but couldn’t resist. His hand twisted the doorknob and jerked open the door. A jumble of unrelated items threatened to fall if he didn’t shut the door quickly. A box shifted, seemingly without provocation. He shoved the door shut and leaned against it. So much for a neat freak.
He found a sticky-note, clinging to the back of the couch. “Air mattress on my bed if you’d prefer. Sheets next to it. I’ll be in at two.”
Bill glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even midnight yet. A door to the left of the bedroom seemed to lead to a bathroom. He grabbed his duffel and carried it inside. Shorts, t-shirt, the comforts of a good night’s sleep. He pulled out his toothbrush and slid a streak of toothpaste across the bristles. Scrub each quadrant thoroughly—dry the brush, replace. All in a night’s routine.
He grabbed the pillow lying on the couch and tried to make himself comfortable but the lumps were too much. Dragging himself up again, he retrieved the mattress, jerked it from the never-opened packaging, and began the tedious task of stomping on the air pump. Did he have to get a queen-sized one? How big does he think I am?
The darkness of the room surprised him. He was in town—why no street lights? There had been one outside… he tried to remember how far down the street. Clearly, it was far enough not to leave him with any residual illumination. Relax. Breathe. Don’t think. Calm.
His tongue slid across the surface of his teeth. Bill jumped nearly upright in one swift movement; grabbing his toiletries bag from the duffel, he dashed for the bathroom again. A liberal amount of toothpaste barely hit the bristles before he shoved it in his mouth and scrubbed again. And again. Despite several minutes of vigorous scrubbing, he simply could not rid himself of the feeling that there were bug intestines streaked across his teeth.
Bill forced open his eyes, glancing around the dark, unfamiliar room. A glow of light hovered around what must be windows—Chad’s windows. Fairbury—Willow’s birthday.
A snore startled him, his head whipping around before he realized it must be Chad’s. The movement sent him sliding off the semi-deflated mattress and onto the floor. Somehow, he stifled a groan as his head connected with hardwood. Starving.
Bill shuffled across the living room and pulled Chad’s door shut. His mouth felt dry—nasty. Eyes wide, he made a mad dash for the bathroom, grabbing for his toothbrush and filling it with toothpaste. Three seconds into the scrub, he jerked it out of his mouth, gagging. Chad’s toothbrush—his was in his duffel with the rest of his toiletries.
It took longer to get ready than it had ever taken him. Bill brushed his teeth, got dressed, brushed his teeth, brushed his hair, brushed his teeth, packed his stuff, brushed his teeth, unpacked his toothbrush, and brushed his teeth. Twice. He still felt like gagging every time his tongue touched his teeth. His tongue refused
not to touch his teeth.
Though he considered shoving the mattress in the closet, visions of tumbling possessions crashing to the floor stopped him. Waking a man who wore a gun daily didn’t seem wise. Besides, if he stayed in the apartment much longer, he’d have to brush his teeth. Again.
He stuffed his wallet and keys in his pockets and locked the door behind him, before jogging down the steps. Breakfast. If he could put visions of bugs and Chad’s toothbrush out of his mind, he might be able to choke down food.
The trip to the center of town took little time, something he could learn to appreciate. On the other hand, Market Street was packed with vendor booths all along the town square. Several tents were scattered around the lawn by the gazebo, making Bill nervous. Would they be gone by the time Chad’s sister needed to decorate? Would Chad manage to get Willow there in the first place?
Chapter Twenty-One
Chad zipped along the highway, turning into Willow’s driveway exactly at two o’clock. The sight of her out on the porch—apparently waiting for him—surprised and dismayed him. It was too early! Then again, it looked like she was sanding—something. As he jogged up the steps, an involuntary sigh of relief escaped. Working—whew. She wasn’t ready. They still had time.
“Hey, whatcha doing?”
“Shredding zucchini. Why are you here so soon? You said four.”
“I just thought I’d come help with anything you’re doing. I feel bad about chopping up your day like this, but it’s all we could think of.”
“You need me to convince someone to go to the park. Why me?”
“If anyone else tries, Lily Allen will suspect, but she’d never suspect you.”
Willow protested that didn’t understand the nuances of carefully orchestrated surprise parties. “I agreed to help. So we call.”
Chad punched in Lily Allen’s phone number and handed the phone to Willow. She held up hands covered with grated zucchini and with panicked eyes, shook her head. Undaunted, Chad held the phone up to her ear and waited. He wasn’t disappointed.
Past Forward Volume 1 Page 20