Past Forward Volume 1

by Chautona Havig

  “It’s so much—too much. I’m almost a stranger, and look at this!” She sighed again, dropping her head onto her arms. “I didn’t say thank you.”

  “You did,” he protested ineffectively.

  “Not really. Saying thanks here and there isn’t the same. Mother would be so ashamed— Moth—”

  She choked back tears once more. Chad thought she’d been stuffing down her grief again, but this was further proof. “You really don’t have to hold it in, Willow. It’s natural—”

  Brushing aside her pain, Willow glanced at the pile of gifts. “Ok, you said one of these was from you; which one is yours?”

  Feeling like he was contributing to the delinquency of a mourner, Chad pulled a small flat envelope from the middle of the pile. He’d wrapped it in aluminum foil without decoration of a bow or even card. “This isn’t a real gift. Not yet anyway. It’s a ‘if you want it, I’ll get it, but I wasn’t burdening you with it until I knew you wanted it’ gift.”

  She carefully unfolded the aluminum foil, making a special effort not to tear it, folded it, and set it aside. Somehow, he knew that it would eventually take up residence in her freezer. The envelope announced “photos: do not bend.”

  From inside the envelope, Willow pulled out a picture of a pair of lambs. Her silence screamed at him until Chad couldn’t take it anymore. “Well, that’s why I didn’t buy one. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I’ll figure out something else.”

  “Which one is mine?” she whispered.

  “They’re both available so take your pick.”

  Her head snapped up and she met his eyes. “You mean these are the real sheep? I mean, these two are the actual two sheep that are available?”

  Chad explained that he’d gone to New Cheltenham and taken pictures of the lambs. “They’re waiting for my call, and then they’ll deliver her whenever you say.”

  “Are both for sale?”

  He was afraid of this. Something in her tone told him she’d try to buy both since she’d always wanted a pair and then he couldn’t spend the money. If he could have afforded both, he’d have offered both just to escape this issue. “No. One is already sold, but if you want to buy the other they can deliver both of them.”

  “But you said you hadn’t bought one yet…”

  “You know what I mean.” A sheepish expression crossed her face. He couldn’t resist teasing her. “How appropriate.”

  “What?”

  “You look sheepish.”

  Willow’s laughter was genuine again. “I had to try. It’s the best present I’ve ever received. Thank you. Can you tell Bill to call them and pay for the other one? I already fixed the fences, so they can come anytime. I’ll need more alfalfa though. I didn’t plant enough for Wilhelmina and sheep this winter…” A stream of rambling thoughts about where to put them, how to find catalogs for spinning supplies and books on sheep ranching flowed from her as she lost herself in a new world—one he suspected Bill might never tear her from.

  He stood. She’d accepted his gift. It was time to go. She was probably anxious to call one of the guys anyway. “I’ve got to get going. I’m glad you had a good time, and I’m really glad you aren’t mad at me for using you to get you to your own party.”

  “It was pretty ingenious. I’ve read about all kinds of surprise parties, but none of the stories used the guest of honor to get the guest of honor there.”

  “Willow, nothing about you is common. We needed an uncommon approach.”

  The clock chimed midnight. Willow wrote. Genuine gratitude for several lovely pieces of fabric flowed from her heart and onto a hand decorated notecard. Lee had been so thoughtful. She knew exactly what she’d make from each piece, and she had all winter to do it—if she could resist that long.

  A pile of notes with names but no addresses lay next to her. There was one to Alexa for the book of Galactic Fairytales, one to the Allens for a CD of southern gospel music, and one to First Church at large for the bicycle. “I’ll have to learn to ride it,” she murmured as she added the note to Lee onto the pile.

  Her fingers traced the beautiful patterns on the large, square pad of papers, compliments of the Varneys. She’d never imagined something so perfectly designed for scrapbooks. Chad always talked as if no one infused beauty into simple things like photo pages in an album or envelopes to hold documents. Now she understood what he meant. People bought the products to do it rather than made them. To save time, no doubt, she thought to herself, a smile forming on her lips. He must have told the Varneys about their scrapbooks. Mother— Willow stuffed down the thought. She couldn’t think about Mother right then.

  Two gifts remained. She picked up the nearest one to her—a tiny box with an even smaller card. She opened it, recognizing the writing. It was from Bill. For memories past and future. Happy Birthday, Bill.

  Willow’s fingers closed around the ivory handle of her letter opener. She ran her finger along the blade, remembering the day they found it in a box of miscellaneous things in the attic—things left by the former owner. It seemed so silly to have a tool simply for opening mail—until she received her first paper cut. The antique letter opener had held a place of honor on the bookshelf ever since.

  She carefully sliced open the paper with the tool and peeled the paper from the little white box. The small piece of yellow paper looked like the center of the daisies Bill had brought her. She smoothed it, stacking it on top of the pile of wrapping paper she’d accumulated. Her fingers wriggled the lid off the small gift box, revealing a jeweler’s box. Her fingers stroked the velvet gently. She’d never seen one, but she recognized it from descriptions she’d read.

  “Wow. I see why people get excited about little ring boxes. This is beautiful,” she whispered to herself, prying open the lid.

  Nestled against the white satin lining, lay a locket. Marcasite combined with mother of pearl—a perfect choice for her. “And I thought the box was lovely!” she exclaimed.

  Once she wrote her note of thanks to Bill, she pulled the final box to her. Wrapped in comic paper, a twine bow, and no card, the box gave no indication of the giver. With as much caution as she’d shown with the other gifts, she sliced the tape from the box letting the papers fall aside. She’d read those later. Mother sometimes had brought home the comics section of newspapers, and she’d saved them over the years. They were treats for the rare occasions when she was sick.

  The outside of the box advertised frozen waffles. She opened the flaps and laughed. From within, she pulled a six-pack of Dr. Pepper and a Frisbee.

  Taking up her last note card, Willow wrote her salutation. “Mr. Charles Majors…”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Monday morning began badly and snowballed into a nightmare. By ten-thirty, Willow turned off her phone. Bill had called first at eight o’clock—the minute he entered his office. Darla Varney was next at nine, followed by Chuck at ten sixteen on the dot. If one more person called, she thought she’d go crazy.

  Green beans screamed to be canned. She’d foolishly given Jill the first fruits of the crop to give her time between batches, but now she had to decide whether she would can them at all. “What a way to spend a birthday,” she muttered, enjoying her moment of self-pity. If anyone deserved a good pity party, Willow was sure she did.

  However, a winter without green beans seemed intolerable. Peas weren’t exactly her favorite vegetable. She should have thought of that before she canned them simply because they always had. That hadn’t been very smart. Next year she’d skip the peas—plant just enough for salads and that’s it—unless Jill wanted them. She also needed those rows if she was going to have enough carrots, onions, and turnips for winter. So much to consider… She’d can. Maybe it would take her mind off the second worst day of her life.

  The clothes needed to go on the line first. If she wanted crisp sheets for her bed tonight, they had to dry and preferably, before they turned sour in the washer. Laundry first, then canning.

  How
did mother ever manage to keep it all straight? Had she known about the informal fraternal order of new wives who thought the same thing after a few weeks or months of homemaking, Willow might have felt a lot better. As it was, her mantra for the morning became, I can do this. I can do this.

  Twenty-four quarts of green beans later, Willow cleaned her canning mess and felt a sense of satisfaction, knowing her food for winter was over half secured. She glanced at her watch and smiled. She had time to put her steak on the grill before she had to milk Wilhelmina.

  However, as she reached the grill, the wind snapped her sheets behind her. “Ugh,” she groaned to herself. She left the steaks on the grill and hurried inside for her laundry basket. Smokey sheets weren’t her idea of a refreshing night’s sleep.

  Chad whizzed down the highway, pealed onto her driveway, and sent a cloud of dust around his truck as he ground to a stop. His truck door slammed behind him, and he jogged around the corner of the house calling her name. She whirled at the clothesline as his voice reached her.

  “Chad! What’s wrong?”

  “Your phone. That’s what’s wrong. I’ve been calling all day! I was worried sick, but we’ve had trouble at the lake. Three drunk and disorderlies, and that Kallikak kid did another thorough TP job on the—” He stopped midstream. “Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the clothespins holding a pair of jeans from the line and looked around for where to put them. When he saw her stuff pins in a large pocket on the front of her apron, he clipped them back to the clothesline. There was no way he was stuffing his hands in her pocket like that.

  “I got half a dozen calls before ten-thirty this morning; it hurt, so I turned the phone off.”

  “It hurt?” He finished the row, one pair of jeans at a time, while Willow worked the next row of tops and skirts.

  At the end of her row, Willow went back collecting the clothespins he’d left behind, and Chad started on the next row—socks. “People who have never called before had to call because it was my birthday and Mother died.”

  Chad considered the statement, took note of the edge of bitterness, and continued rolling sock pairs, dropping them in the basket. Before he could respond to her, he reached an oblong padded bandage of sorts and wondered if it was some kind of freezer wrap for headaches. His mother had made microwave rice things for Christmas gifts one year. A long row of them spread out on the line. That’d be an awful lot of headaches. “What are these?”

  Willow glanced up from folding kitchen towels. “Oh, those are pads.” Noticing he waited for clarification, she shrugged. “You know, for my monthly.”

  Red stole up his neck as he dropped pad and clothespins both in the basket, mumbling something about getting a drink. She finished taking in the laundry and followed him into the kitchen. “You ok?”

  Chad choked on his water wondering how his concern for her had become her concern for him. “Fine. Fine.”

  “Can you go put this up on my bed for me? I’ll go out and fire up the grill. I have two steaks—Tessie was supposed to get one, but I can give her left over chicken pie.”

  At the top of the stairs, Chad heard her wail and then speak sharply to the pup. “Wrong Truffle! Wrong.”

  He took the stairs three at a time. In the yard, he saw the puppy delightedly gnawing on steaks that were now covered with a lovely layer of dirt, grass, and canine saliva. It took all of his self-control not to snicker. “Um—plan B for dinner?”

  “There isn’t enough left over chicken pie—I guess I’ll make sandwiches.”

  “How about pizza,” Chad suggested kicking himself. “I could call Antonio’s.”

  “I’ve never had pizza—”

  Chad’s fingers flew over his phone screen before she finished. There was something seriously wrong with an American who had never eaten pizza. She listened for a moment as he haggled for a pizza delivered to the end of her driveway and then carried the basket upstairs herself.

  “You said something earlier that I don’t understand.”

  Willow wiped her lips and met Chad’s eyes. “What?”

  “You said all the calls on your birthday made the day even worse. I would have thought—”

  After a drink of her milk, Willow sighed, her fingers picking at the bits of crust that were left on her plate. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful. I do appreciate the thoughts and concern.”

  “But—”

  “But it makes life feel even emptier when everyone is trying to crowd out loss by their presence, when they wouldn’t be so ever-present if the loss wasn’t there.” She paused, her eyes beseeching him to understand. “You would have called—if we were friends before Mother died—you would have called to say happy birthday. Bill probably would have too… and maybe Chuck. I don’t know about Lee, Alexa, and Mrs. Varney. I checked my messages when I took the basket upstairs. Almost everyone from the Bible Study called. My lawyer called!”

  “It’s bad that people want you to know that they’re thinking about you, praying for you, and are sorry you don’t have the one person you want most on this day to celebrate it with you?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s real. The feelings are real. I’m the prayer need of the month. Next year, most of these people won’t remember it is my birthday much less bother to call.”

  “That’s not really fair, Willow. That makes it sound like it’s bad that they do what is right this year even though they might fail next.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “It isn’t bad. I do appreciate it. I really do. It just has an added pang to realize that I am in a position to need this kind of support. I don’t garner it because of love for me but because of pity for my situation. It may seem pathetic or selfish or wrong to you, but it’s how I feel.”

  She jumped to her feet, visibly fighting the tears that made him feel more like a heel than ever. “I want to swing. Come push me.”

  Chad didn’t know how to respond to her. She didn’t make sense, and yet somehow he understood at the same time. Her solution to hating feeling alone was to turn off the phone and be alone. Now she wanted to wipe away all traces of her pain by swinging. How could this possibly help?

  The swing, despite his doubts, did seem to reduce whatever frustration and grief that had gripped her and held her captive. With each pump of her legs, he could feel the tension dissolve, blowing away as if on the wind. How long she pushed herself higher into the air, he didn’t know. His heart did a quick flop as she flung herself from it, landing in the grass several feet away.

  “You’re good?”

  “Yes.” She stepped close, looking for something in his expression, but it seemed that she didn’t find it. “Bill wondered too—thought I had hurt myself.”

  “How else do you get out of a swing, right?”

  Willow sighed—the personification of contentedness. “Exactly.”

  As they strolled back to the house, she slipped her hand in his, talking about the work ahead of her. He stared down at it for a moment, trying not to let his discomfort show. As they walked, Willow seemed to observe him—to watch his movements. “Is something wrong?”

  “You aren’t bothered by no moon.”

  “Why should I be?”

  “Friday night, I brought Bill out here. He didn’t like it. He was nervous—even holding my hand.”

  Unease settled around Chad’s heart as she spoke. He remembered several times when he’d comforted her, held her hand, given her a hug, patted her back. The longer he thought of it, the more times he could recall seeing her hug Bill—and Chuck. Chuck would be a mistake. That man couldn’t see the difference between sisterly and flirty.

  This wasn’t good. Did she have any clue about the mixed signals the guys might get? He didn’t think she did. Willow wasn’t a flirt; she wasn’t careless with her behavior. The truth of it hit him. Willow Finley had no experience differentiating between male and female friendships. She had no
experience with any kind of friendship, and she’d been thrust into several almost overnight.

  Chad knew he had to say something, but how? He followed her back to the porch swing, leaning back in one corner, trying to sound nonchalant. “Willow?”

  “Hmm?” She sounded lazy and happy.

  “I don’t know how to say this, and I normally wouldn’t do it today, but I think it’s kind of important.”

  She sat up, alert, drew her knees to her chest, backed herself into the opposite corner of the porch swing, and nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, I just realized how warm you are with everyone…”

  “That sounds like a problem—” she began.

  “Well it isn’t a problem, exactly, but since the people you know best are men…” He wasn’t sure how to continue. The last thing he wanted to do was give her the impression that he misunderstood her.

  “I don’t understand. I don’t treat anyone any differently than I did Mother, except—”

  “Except what?” Chad hoped she’d begun to understand.

  “Well, I don’t think I’d kiss any of you guys. Actually, I got a little irked at Bill when he tried to kiss me the other day. Somehow it’s not the same kissing a man as it is kissing your mother.” She paused. “I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I’ve never kissed anyone but her, but somehow men—seems more intimate. Don’t you think?”

  Yes he did think. He didn’t want to think, but he did think. “Yes. I agree. But Willow—” Could it get any more difficult? Chad tried again. “Most guys would assume something a little more than just friendliness when holding hands with a woman. Any woman watching would assume the same thing.”

  She didn’t respond for some time. “Did you think I was—”

  “No! I understood you, and I’m a friend, but I know that Bill li—has started—well, he’s interested. He might misunderstand. I know Chuck would. Chuck misunderstands the meaning of thank you.”