Falling for You

by Becky Wade

  Love, Alan

  Chapter

  Five

  Willow had a slight compulsion.

  Regarding the purchasing of housewares.

  She told herself it was harmless enough. But it might even be considered a mini . . . addiction? Just a small one.

  It was 3:02 p.m. She’d attended church with Grandma, then taken her to lunch at Flemings before returning to Bradfordwood to change into yoga pants and a sweat shirt. She’d spent time catching up with some of her modeling friends over the phone and had plans to see a movie with Nora, John, Britt, and Britt’s boyfriend, Tristan, in a few hours. But for now, she was sitting at Bradfordwood’s kitchen table, hair in a topknot, her computer open before her, clicking through page after page of Williams-Sonoma.com.

  As she surveyed the site’s autumn offerings, her stress level began to subside.

  She added a set of dishes to her cart, as well as one package of pumpkin bread and one package of harvest soup. Might as well throw in six dish towels stitched with pumpkins. And two fall wreaths—one for Bradfordwood’s door and one for the inn’s door.

  She’d stewed with frustration yesterday afternoon and evening after lunch at Melinda’s. Last night she’d read her Bible and prayed and tried to listen to God’s guidance. Even so, she’d slept poorly because she’d been unable to rid her mind of Corbin.

  Today? No different. All day she’d been doing her best to shove Corbin from her consciousness to a place so deep and dark that he’d never resurface. Which is pretty much how she’d been dealing with thoughts of him for the past four years.

  But like the pea in the Princess and the Pea fairy tale, Corbin continued to bother her. He wouldn’t go away. He wouldn’t let her relax. The mattresses upon mattresses she’d stacked between her heart and his memory weren’t doing the trick.

  Look, a Thanksgiving platter painted with leaves and berries! Her emotions softened like caramel at the sight. One more item for her cart.

  Chewing on her bottom lip, she considered her purchases thus far. They seemed incomplete. Not quite satisfying enough.

  She rose and made her way into the pantry. As she swept a bag of chocolate-covered açaí berries from the shelf, she experienced a moment of déjà vu. How many times had she foraged in this pantry for snacks when she was growing up? Thousands? On the days when Mom fixed them lunch, she’d always been the one sent to the pantry to retrieve a bag of chips, more napkins, or an apple.

  This was the thing about returning to live in the home of your childhood. Everywhere Willow looked, she saw sweet ghost-memories of herself, her sisters, her parents. If she listened hard enough, she could almost hear the squeals of their little-girl laughter echoing down Bradfordwood’s hallways.

  Willow carried the açaí berries from the pantry and leaned against the sink as she funneled a few into her mouth.

  She could easily picture herself and her sisters when they’d all been small, sitting in a row at the old kitchen island. They’d sipped out of yellow Tupperware cups. They’d eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, carrot sticks, and Cheetos off of plastic plates, which had probably been loaded with BPA.

  Nora, with her brown eyes and big words, always insisted Mom cut the crust off her sandwich. Britt, with her petite face and daring spirit, often placed her carrots and Cheetos inside her sandwich.

  As for Willow? Willow had eaten the crust. She’d kept her Cheetos and carrots carefully separate from her sandwich. She’d also said thank you, put her dish in the sink, and thrown her trash in the can.

  Willow could confidently say that she’d been the best behaved and most dutiful Bradford daughter. After all, from the moment she’d comprehended that she was the product of a very brief, very passionate, and very much regretted love affair, she’d been cognizant of the fact that she had a lot to make up for.

  Motherhood, the kind of motherhood that required day-to-day effort and sacrifice, hadn’t suited Willow’s biological mother, Sylvie Rolland. Sylvie was a tempestuous French artist given to traveling and parties and painting. What she wasn’t given to? Changing diapers. She’d left Willow behind without a backward glance when Willow was four weeks old. Sylvie had never had another child. Nor had she married.

  Sylvie’s involvement in Willow’s life had been like that of a benevolent, quirky, and surprisingly colorful international friend. Sylvie showed up out of the blue on rare occasions. She texted Willow pictures of her fabulous life. She sent outlandish presents.

  Sylvie was astonishingly beautiful and interesting in the way that an exotic animal is interesting. But she wasn’t someone Willow could trust.

  Willow’s dad had raised her. Nora’s mom, Robin, had raised her for a while, too, after marrying her dad. But then Robin had died. Thus, Willow had gained and lost two mothers before her third birthday. Years later, when a few of the kids at school who’d been lucky enough to come from normal, nuclear families, had teased her because her father hadn’t been married to her mother, Willow had understood herself to be twice abandoned and illegitimate, too.

  She’d responded by flattening the more carefree aspects of herself beneath an overriding desire to be good. To be lovable. To be the sort of daughter her father would never want to leave. The responsible aspects of her personality magnified and became well-armed soldiers.

  Her dad had never given her a reason to doubt his love.

  Her dad’s second wife, Kathleen—Britt’s biological mom—had been a mother to all three of them for well over two decades now. She’d never given Willow a reason to doubt her love.

  Willow had become a Christian at the age of nine. God had never given her a reason to doubt His love.

  Even so, her internal drive to be good—be good, Willow—had never relented.

  Only once in her life, when she’d dated Corbin, had she shrugged out of her coat of goodness and set it aside. The lack of additional weight had at first felt exhilarating.

  Then Corbin had given her a reason to doubt his love. At which time, the lack of her coat had made her feel vulnerable and unforgivably dumb.

  Corbin Stewart was her biggest mistake.

  She chewed chocolate-covered berries as she lowered back into her chair at the kitchen table. Focus on housewares, Willow.

  She shopped when far away from home and lonely. As a way to fulfill her longing for family. When sad. To settle her mind and calm her nerves.

  She absolutely needed to settle her mind and calm her nerves this afternoon, thanks to the fact that she’d committed herself to investigating Josephine Blake’s disappearance alongside her biggest mistake.

  Agitation tightened her shoulder muscles.

  Don’t think about him! Don’t. Focus on housewares.

  Willow contemplated her online cart. Already, she could anticipate how, where, and when she’d rotate her new purchases into use.

  Bradfordwood and the inn didn’t technically need any new items. And at this point, her house in LA was as charming as a house could possibly be . . . and had been for a long time.

  Yet, over the past year and a half, she’d been shopping even more often than usual because she’d been battling a nagging case of modeling burnout.

  There’s no telling how much Corbin’s reentry into her life was going to add to her credit card bills when all was said and done.

  Don’t think about him!

  With a deft click, she hit the purchase button.

  “Jungkook just released a new photo today,” Charlotte told Willow and Corbin on Tuesday afternoon. “Look how cute he is.” She held up her phone to Corbin so he could see the photograph filling her screen.

  “Cute as can be,” Corbin said dryly.

  “Uncle Corbin!” Charlotte reprimanded.

  “As you already know, I’m the wrong person to talk to when you’re in the mood to go on and on about the cuteness of boys.” He arched an eyebrow.

  “Willow?” Charlotte asked hopefully, turning the phone’s screen her direction.

  “Cute
,” Willow said, though Jungkook looked young enough to be Willow’s son and appeared to weigh ninety pounds. Ten of those pounds were courtesy of the product in his fashionably styled hair.

  “Willow agrees!” Charlotte crowed to Corbin.

  “I agreed,” Corbin growled.

  It had been decided that they’d meet on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons at the inn. Tuesdays, because Corbin could bring Charlotte over right after his PT session, which explained why he was dressed so casually today, in a white Mustangs T-shirt and track pants. Thursdays, because Charlotte didn’t have orchestra practice or science club that day. The inn because Willow had to be at the inn almost every weekday to check in guests.

  When Charlotte and Corbin had arrived at the inn five minutes ago for their first team meeting, Willow had led them to the antique French farm table that dominated the inn’s kitchen. Here, they were sheltered from the star-struck attention her guests were likely to shovel in Corbin’s direction.

  She’d let Corbin and Charlotte pick their seats first, then chosen a chair that placed Charlotte between herself and Corbin.

  “Cookies, anyone?” Willow asked. “Lattes?”

  Corbin and Charlotte both helped themselves to the platter of almond shortbread cookies and the insulated pitcher she’d placed on the table. Corbin took a sip from his mug and screwed up his face. “What did you say this was?”

  “It’s a pumpkin spice latte. Have you never had one?”

  “I’m from Detroit.”

  “And proud of it,” Charlotte mumbled, while scrolling through images on her phone and chewing her cookie.

  “Very proud. Detroit is where boys become men. I didn’t go to sissy schools like you two.”

  Charlotte’s head snapped up. “I go to public schools!”

  “So did I,” Willow said.

  He remained unimpressed. “Yeah, but in Detroit, we didn’t sip pumpkin spice lattes during recess.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Charlotte said to Willow.

  “I’m trying not to.” Which was the absolute truth.

  “I think your pumpkin spice lattes are delicious, Willow.”

  “Thank you, Charlotte. I’m glad to see that one of you has good taste.” Hopefully Jill wouldn’t be too angry with her for pumping Charlotte full of afternoon caffeine. And hopefully Corbin would remain mostly silent during this meeting. That would enable her to look at him and interact with him as little as possible, which was her best shot of hanging on to her sanity between now and Thanksgiving.

  Corbin’s phone rang. When he checked his screen, seriousness settled over his features. “Excuse me. I need to take this.” He exited through the back door.

  He’d always had a streak of secretiveness running through him. Willow had never had the sense, back when they’d been dating, that he’d opened up to her fully.

  He returned a few minutes later, and Charlotte flipped open the notebook she’d had with her at Saturday’s lunch. “DNA test. That’s the first thing I have written down on our to-do list.”

  “I did some checking,” Willow said. “Melinda will need to contact the local police and set it up through them. After she has her cheek swabbed, her genetic information will be added to a nationwide database.”

  “Oh, cool! That sounds easy.”

  “The caveat is that there are a large number of Jane Does. . . . Are you familiar with that term?” she asked Charlotte.

  Charlotte shook her head.

  “Unidentified female remains are called Jane Doe,” Corbin said.

  “A large number of Jane Does have yet to be tested and included in the DNA database,” Willow said. “So even if Josephine is a Jane Doe somewhere, if she hasn’t been added to the database, then we won’t get a hit when Melinda submits her DNA.” Willow very much hoped that the young and pretty Josephine hadn’t ended up as a Jane Doe, a skeleton without a name or funeral or headstone.

  “I’ll talk to Grandma and make sure she gives her DNA.” Leaning over her notebook, Charlotte read, “‘Bones found near hiking trail in 1981.’ That’s the only other thing on my list.” She lifted her face to Willow for direction, as if Willow was the lead investigator.

  It struck Willow anew, the absurdity of herself as the lead investigator of a cold-case team comprised of a renowned NFL quarterback and a seventh grader. “I have no idea how we can find out what happened to bones discovered in 1981.”

  “Uncle Corbin?” Charlotte asked.

  “I can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the 4–3 defense, but I’m fresh out of knowledge about human remains.”

  “We could, like, call the police to ask about the remains,” Charlotte suggested.

  “When Melinda goes to the station to get her cheek swabbed, maybe she can tell the officers that they have her permission to talk with us about Josephine’s case,” Willow said. “I’m guessing they’ll be hesitant to chat with us unless they’re aware that Melinda has given us her blessing.”

  “Good point.” Charlotte tapped her pen against the table’s edge. “Once Grandma’s talked with the police, then I think Corbin should be the one to call them about the bones found near the hiking trail.”

  “Why me?”

  Charlotte turned to Willow. “A lot of people think he’s awesome. Especially police-type guys.”

  “How come you said that like you’re surprised people think I’m awesome?” Corbin stretched one arm languidly across the top of the empty chair next to him. He wasn’t staying as silent as Willow had hoped.

  “Because I am surprised,” Charlotte said. “I don’t get why people are so excited about football. I think it’s lame.”

  “Should people get excited about Korean pop stars and whales instead?” Corbin asked.

  “Well, duh.”

  “America is the greatest country on earth, football is its greatest game, and I am its greatest player,” Corbin told Charlotte. “They should be teaching you this in school.”

  “They teach us stuff like history and math and English.”

  “That’s a shame.” He hadn’t shaved this morning, and auburn stubble covered his lean cheeks.

  Willow remembered exactly how that stubble used to feel against her lips. Often, she’d cuddled with him when he was dressed in soft clothes like those he had on now. She’d lay her head on his shoulder. Then he’d tuck her in against his side and—

  “Willow?” Charlotte asked.

  “Sorry. Did you ask me something?”

  “I asked whether you wanted to look through everything in the box now,” Charlotte said. “Since we already talked about the stuff on the to-do list.” Charlotte had brought the wooden box full of Josephine memorabilia to the inn. It sat in the center of the table like a small casket at a funeral service.

  “Sure.”

  “How come Willow is the boss of this group?” Corbin asked. “I’m older than she is. I’m stronger. I’m richer. I’m better looking. And I’m more famous.”

  “Don’t forget more humble,” Willow said.

  Corbin smiled wolfishly. His cheeks furrowed in a warm, roguish way.

  Hastily, she looked away.

  Charlotte reverently lifted the box’s lid and separated the contents into three piles, one in front of each of them. “Once you finish going through your pile, tell me. And we’ll switch.”

  “Should we switch to the right or the left?” Corbin asked Charlotte gravely.

  A laugh slipped past Willow’s guard.

  “Did you just laugh at something I said?” he asked immediately.

  “No.”

  “I’ve missed the sound of your laugh.”

  She pretended not to have heard those last words—wished she hadn’t—and carefully went through her pile of Josephine artifacts. She read two newspaper articles, then examined a portrait of Josephine with her mother and father. Baby Josephine had a cap of dark hair and round cheeks. At some point in the 1950s, she’d sat for another portrait with her two younger sisters. In this image, Jose
phine wore short bangs, curls, and a starched dress with a wide skirt.

  Inside a manila envelope, Willow discovered a silver bracelet with charms the size of Monopoly pieces. A sand dollar, a cross, the Liberty Bell, a heart lock, the Eiffel Tower, and many more. Thirteen in all. Not the luckiest of numbers.

  Each charm likely represented something that had been important to Josephine. The bracelet testified that Josephine had traveled, pursued hobbies, collected accomplishments, cherished the people she loved, harbored dreams. She’d had a full life. She’d been a living and breathing daughter, wife, co-worker, friend.

  Ask Melinda about the significance of the charms on the bracelet, Willow typed into the Notes app on her phone, then snapped a photo of the bracelet and set it aside.

  Next, she studied a group of four Polaroid photos. Each shot captured a different interior view of the same car.

  “Grandma told me that Josephine’s husband, Alan, took those,” Charlotte whispered to Willow, as if not wanting to disturb Corbin. “You know. When he found Josephine’s car. After Josephine didn’t come home.”

  In one picture a white sweater draped casually across the passenger seat. One showed a pair of sunglasses. One showed a tube of lipstick with a beige circle on its end. One showed a ring of keys partially tucked underneath a floor mat.

  Ask Melinda why Alan would have brought a camera with him when he set out to look for Josephine. Ask if Josephine often left her keys under the floor mat.

  Eeriness settled over Willow as she studied the pictures. They were retro, but still very crisp. It looked to her as if Josephine had stepped from her car with the intention of coming right back.

  Then stayed gone for decades.

  What in the world had happened to Josephine Blake?

  Text message from Britt to Willow and Nora:

  Britt

  Zander sold his manuscript! He’s been offered a big contract from one of the long-established New York publishers. I’m feeling very smug about this because I always knew he was a genius. Now the whole world is going to know what I know. Are you free Thursday night? I’m planning on cooking a celebratory family dinner for him.