Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 3

by Chautona Havig

  So here I sit. I am guilty of so much. I am not guilty of his wrongs, though. I can’t let myself take on that weight. My own sin crushes me. God why didn’t you stop me?

  The entry ended abruptly. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She sniffled despite her best intentions. Chad’s head whipped up and he frowned. “Wha—”

  “I don’t understand this entry. Her pain always hurts, but I don’t remember this one and it’s so bizarre—ambiguous.”

  He patted the couch beside him. “C’mere. Lemme see.”

  The slight slur to his words stirred something in her. He sounded like Mother when she first awoke from an afternoon nap—the rare times she ever took one. She moved to his side, passing him the journal.

  Her hands played with the tails of her shirt while he read. Emotions swirled within her as she tried to reconcile her fear of how their relationship had changed—would change—with the comfort she felt being close. How could she be so panicked one second and tranquil the next?

  “I remember this one,” he said at last. “I never understood it.”

  “I just don’t understand why she sounds so wracked with guilt. What guilt could she possibly have?”

  “You know, she was probably dealing with some PPD.”

  She blinked—frowned. “What?”

  “Postpartum depression. A woman has a baby, her hormones go crazy, and it affects how she thinks and responds to things until everything levels out again.”

  After a moment of thought, she took the journal from him and flipped from page to page. “Almost all the entries around it are kind of out of character…”

  “What brought you to these? There isn’t much in here about winter or spring prep.”

  She flushed and didn’t answer. Shifting awkwardly, Willow turned the page, hoping he’d assume she didn’t hear. A nudge told her he didn’t buy it. “What?”

  “Come on, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ok then, what’s on your mind?”

  He knew her too well. “I was just trying to see how—” She couldn’t answer. “I can’t.”

  His other arm wrapped around her. “I don’t understand, but I want to.” He bent closer and whispered in her ear, “You need to try to learn to trust me. We have to be able to talk about things.” Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Listen to me. The girl is supposed to be telling the guy to talk.”

  “Really?”

  “Guys have a reputation for allergies to discussions—particularly if feelings are involved.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because the only thing you aren’t comfortable with has to do with feelings… and usually in conjunction with me.”

  Her breath caught. “You scare me.”

  “Can I take a guess?”

  “No?”

  Chad shifted her so he could meet her gaze. “I’m going to anyway. In fact, I’m not going to guess. I’m just going to give you my thoughts. Trust. Consider everyone you’ve met in the past year. The fear you feel—you learned it from your mother.”

  “With reason—”

  “Yeah, but Willow…”

  “Yes?” She barely choked out the word.

  “You aren’t her. You haven’t had the same experience. I am not Steve.”

  Groundhog Day arrived overcast and occasionally drizzly. Chad worked from six until two and then again at six again. She had tried to sound sympathetic to the long hours he had to work, but all she could think of was a full Groundhog Day—alone. She could do all the fun things she and Mother used to do and without him hovering.

  Oatmeal—and canned cherries. A smile grew as she threw back the covers; the stove was warm. He’d stopped by to fill the wood box—probably what woke her up. Jeans, thermals, flannel shirt, wool socks, and a sweater—the perfect outfit for a cold day.

  She hurried downstairs, braiding her hair as she went to check the stoves. The clock said six o’clock sharp. He couldn’t have been gone for longer than ten minutes. A quick jog to the summer kitchen and she had her phone. “Chad?”

  “Mornin’.”

  “You busy?”

  “Nope. Just trying for frostbite along the beat.”

  Despite his words, she heard a difference in his tone. He didn’t have the same disdain for the dreaded “beat.” “I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “I didn’t have time for Ditto. Sorry.”

  “No worries. I’ll get her and the others.”

  She heard him wave at someone, calling good morning, before he said, “I got all but Ditto and the chickens. On a morning like this, you could use a horse.”

  “Not hardly. I like walking.”

  “Miss you.”

  “Do you? You were just here.” She couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice.

  “Hey, I like being around you. Sue me.”

  “Pretty soon it’d be no different than suing me, so I’ll pass.”

  “I like the way that sounds.”

  Ditto bleated, causing her to cut the call short. “You’re working and Ditto demands I get to work too.”

  “Well, have fun. Wish I could go woodchucking with you.”

  “See you for dinner?”

  Even over the phone, she could feel that she’d said the right thing. “Be there around four. Have some errands and have to do a load of laundry, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “If you don’t find me, just call. I’ll come right back.”

  The rhythmic motion of milking set the tone for her morning. The norm, familiarity, it all flooded her heart. A twinge of guilt twisted in her heart, but she fought back. She stopped by the cat’s pans and poured a little milk into them, before moving through her routine.

  Back in the house, the morning work passed and in no time, she banked the fires and pulled on her coat. Time for the walk. Three steps outside the door, the rain drizzled again. She dashed back inside for their oversized umbrella.

  As she grabbed it, the chokehold of grief strangled her. Mother would never stroll beneath it again as they walked through the trees, along the creek, or out to scatter feed to the chickens on a cold, spring morning. Her eyes slid toward the barn.

  She sloshed through the mud once more and jerked open the barn door. Instead of closing it, she tossed the umbrella aside and snapped on the light. The barrel beckoned her, drawing her in almost magnetically. She grabbed a plate from the box with both hands and raised it over her head. With all the force she could muster, she slammed it into the bottom of the barrel. With eyes closed, she let the sound of breaking glass against metal echo through the barn until all was silent again. Ditto bleated in protest. Then, as if she hadn’t paused at all, she grabbed the umbrella and stepped back out into the rain, dragging the door closed behind her.

  As expected, the rain stopped before she reached the creek. With her umbrella closed, she strolled along the banks of the creek, waiting for that beautiful feeling of familiarity. It didn’t come. A sense of betrayal slowly filled her heart. Where was the magical feeling that came with raindrops falling from pine needles onto the pond? Why hadn’t she seen the birds following, waiting for seeds and breadcrumbs?

  Her first instinct of prayer lodged itself in her heart and refused to budge. Every attempt failed, leaving her more discouraged than ever. At last a single thought formed into a full-fledged, if unusual, prayer. It’s not the same without him anymore. “It’s just not the same, Lord,” she whispered.

  Mud splashed over the sides of his truck as he drove up the drive. Where was the snow? It was too early for rain and mud. Chad couldn’t remember a February free of snow, yet here it was, rain drenched and windswept, only occasional patches of snow remained across the bleak landscape. He’d never realized what a difference the layer of white made as it covered the fields and tree branches.

  The blue glow of the radio clock told him it was three-thirty. She couldn’t be back so soon. As he pulled up to the house, Chad started to call but decided to check the fires first.
There was no reason not to have a warm house when they returned.

  He burst through the back door, an armload of damp wood in his arms. He dropped them beside the stove in the living room and turned to go upstairs for dry wood when he saw Willow lying on the couch. A braid lay over one cheek, and her hands were tucked beneath the other. Closer inspection showed what seemed to be evidence of tears.

  Stoves forgotten, he lowered himself to the floor beside her and moved the braid from her face. Willow stirred. “Wha—”

  “You ok? I thought you were off on a romp through the woods.”

  “I went.”

  “Too wet for you?”

  She struggled to sit up, rubbing her eyes with her fists. “No… it just wasn’t the same.”

  It never ceased to cut him when he had to watch as she struggled through yet another change—another part of her life ripped from her. “If I could give you just one more day with her, I’d do anything—”

  “It wasn’t that. A plate took care of that.”

  “Then…” He almost hated to ask. Hope welled in his heart as she finally met his gaze.

  “I thought I wanted this day to myself. I was so glad when you had to work so I could have the familiar again.” Her mouth twisted as she forced her eyes to meet his. “It wasn’t the same. It seemed weird without you.”

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Spiral rollers created a Medusa-like effect to her hair, while a peel-off mask coated her face. As she waited for permission to strip the green glop from her face, she slathered her body in the cream that Cheri insisted she needed. She stood, in just her undergarments, waiting for every ounce of the lotion to absorb without any hint of residue while Cheri and Marianne pressed and steamed her dress downstairs. Her fingernails held their first, and if she had any say in it, last coat of pale pink polish, and she held them awkwardly away from her, certain that they’d end up scratched or dented if she moved them.

  The clock chimed five o’clock. Willow heard threats of imminent demise if Chad dared to peek in Cheri’s bedroom. She no longer cared if the lotion fully absorbed; Willow just wanted to be sure he didn’t open that door and find her wearing nothing—or close enough to it! Cheri and Marianne arrived minutes later and the work on Willow’s face began.

  She tried to watch as Cheri worked moisturizer, mineral foundation, blush, eye shadows, powder, and then finally lip color that promised to stay fast until the next morning, but when mascara joined the party, Willow gave. It was impossible without feeling like a caterpillar danced in front of her eyes.

  Once complete, she stared in the mirror, transfixed. “That doesn’t look like me!”

  “That’s you times ten!” Cheri exulted. “You are smokin’!”

  “I don’t smoke and have no intention of taking it up, thank you very much.”

  Marianne laughed. “She means you look hot.”

  “I am. This robe is kind of warm.”

  Confused by the Tesdall women’s giggles, Willow stared at herself again. “What are you doing with my hair?”

  “We’re going to take it out of the rollers and then twist it in a French roll so you won’t be too hot.” With a wink to her mother, Cheri added, “But of course you are hot so you’ll be hot whether or not you’re hot.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that I just missed something big?”

  Christopher’s voice called from downstairs, “Twenty minute warning women. I’m driving out of here at five-thirty sharp.”

  “No problem,” Cheri assured him.

  When the curlers came out and Cheri picked out her hair, both women studied her carefully. “It looks really good Cheri.”

  “Yeah, but she’ll be hot!”

  “You said I already am!”

  Cheri rolled both sides of Willow’s hair into a coil that wrapped under her head with a few ‘escaped’ tendrils on each side. “We’ll compromise. We’ll do a tousled up-do. It’ll be perfect.”

  The first spray of hairspray brought Willow’s first objection. “Ok, I have had enough. I can’t stand the smell of that. It’s horrible. I’ve got the sausage casings, the face plaster and paint, and my hair looks like someone else’s, but I am not going to shellac it that way. If it starts to fall, I’ll take it down and let it hang free, but I am not putting any more stuff on it.”

  Cheri grabbed a few more pins to secure everything as best as she could and then held out the dress ready for Willow to step into it. The moment it was zipped, Cheri protested. “You can’t wear your bra with this dress! It shows!”

  “Oh, I forgot about that back. I wouldn’t have noticed!” Willow admitted, blushing as she unhooked the garment and slipped it off as discreetly as possible.

  The five-minute warning sounded from the base of the stairs sending Cheri and Marianne into rapid dress preparations of their own. “I’d say I wish you were coming with us; Dad doesn’t take us out to nice restaurants often, but…” Cheri teased.

  “I think I do too. With you, I wouldn’t have to be trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

  Hugs and well wishes filled Cheri’s bedroom before the Tesdall women left for their dinner. Willow sat alone on Cheri’s bed and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She hardly recognized herself. What if Chad didn’t like it? She looked again and sighed. He’d like it; she had never looked better.

  “Willow, are you ready? We need to leave.”

  Irrationally nervous, at least in her opinion, Willow stepped from the room and closed the door behind her. She took a deep breath and lifted her skirts a bit, as she moved toward the stairs. The sight of Chad staring up at her made her pause on the first step.

  “Wow.”

  “I get that a lot,” she joked, trying to feel normal but failing miserably.

  “Very funny. You look—”

  She sighed. “Like someone else entirely. I know.”

  “Hot.”

  “I’m not anymore, but I was in Cheri’s robe—”

  Chad shook his head as she reached the bottom stairs. “No Willow, hot. Smokin’. Gorgeous. Out of this world. Beautiful. Need I continue?”

  “Hot means nice?”

  “No, nice means nice. Hot means incredible.”

  “Can we go? I’m starting to feel hot, and it’s not my looks,” she complained grabbing her ruana and whirling it around her.

  “Willow,” Chad stopped her at the door, waiting for her to relax a little. “You look wonderful, and you should hear it. I’m going to be the most envied man there tonight.”

  “I just don’t feel like me.”

  “Remember when you said once that brushing Othello transformed him from a handsome dog to a beautiful one?”

  “Yes.”

  “In an incredibly unromantic way of speaking,” Chad said wryly, “Cheri just brushed you tonight. It’s still you. I see my Willow, but you’re just—more.”

  “Chad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stand over by the door.”

  Willow scrutinized every step and every angle of Chad until he squirmed. “I didn’t gawk Willow. I wanted to, I’ll grant you, but I didn’t.”

  Embarrassed, Willow tried to bury her face in Chad’s chest but he pushed her away gently. “Uh uh. You can do that later, but now you’ll leave half your face all over my crisp white shirt and I have to wear it all night.”

  “Nuh-uh. Cheri sprayed something all over my face for ‘smudge free dancing.’ I’m supposed to be able to cry and this stuff stays put.”

  “No crying. I’ll do anything, but no crying.” He smiled down at her. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Let’s knock ‘em dead.”

  Willow stiffened, her hand frozen in air mid-bite. Chad leaned closer and whispered, “What is it?”

  “Steven Solari just came in the door with his wife. What is he doing here?”

  “Just eat and ignore them,” Chad replied as calmly as possible. He pulled out his phone and sent a tex
t message to Joe at the station, requesting information on how many ball guest lists Solari had been on in the past ten years.

  To their relief, Steve and Lynne were seated across the room at a table near the orchestra. “That’s VIP area over there. I bet he made a donation, and that’s why he was invited, but—”

  “But what?” Willow sounded even more strained.

  “But why would he come?” Chad hadn’t originally finished the question because he thought he knew the answer. A man like Solari came because somehow he knew that Willow would be present.

  Before Willow could answer, the orchestra announced the first dance. As always, they played the “Darktown Strutter’s Ball” as the opening number. Chad rolled his eyes. Seriously, whoever thought the dumb song sounded like a cop on the beat was an idiot. Some traditions should be dropped sooner rather than later.

  “Let’s dance. If we sit here, we’ll feel compelled to watch them, and it’ll ruin our evening,” Willow suggested practically. “Besides, how can I make you the envy of everyone here if I’m sitting in a corner?”

  “You’re back! Hallelujah.” Chad stood and took her arm eagerly. “I’d begun to wonder if you were going to be stuck in self-conscious mode forever.”

  “Ouch. Am I that bad?”

  “Were. Not anymore. Let’s dance.”

  Steven Solari watched as Willow and Chad two-stepped around the room. Willow looked stunning. “Lynne, look. There’s Willow Finley. She looks amazing—actually, she looks a lot like you tonight.” She did. Steve hadn’t noticed a resemblance that day in his office, but this was unmistakable. A paternal pride washed over him as he realized his granddaughter was the best looking and the best-dressed woman at the ball.

  “She does look a little like me, doesn’t she?” Lynne marveled as she watched the dancers dance. “I didn’t realize she’d be here.”

  “I should have,” Steve admitted with a studied hint of sheepishness. “I mean, I knew she knew that cop, and it’s common knowledge that the Fairbury Chief makes the ball mandatory for his men.”