Elderberry Croft: The Complete Collection

by Becky Doughty

  “I’m amazed at how much that woman can do in an hour,” Richard stated, openly staring.

  Patti came around to stand in front of him. “She’ll see you. Don’t embarrass yourself.” Bending forward, she slipped the blanket from his shoulders and folded it quickly, laying it over the back of the chair and out of the way. Drawing his walker up close, she stepped around to his left side where she was less likely to grab him in the wrong place, and slid her arm under his. She tugged a little more forcefully than usual. “Come inside and warm up.”

  “She’s already seen me, Patricia. You’re the one getting embarrassed; not me. I like watching her. She actually smiles when she works.”

  So do I, she thought. You’re just too busy staring at the earth girl down the way to notice. She wondered when the last time was that he’d watched her, his own wife, the way he watched Willow Goodhope.

  His legs wobbled beneath him as he found his balance, and she waited beside him, ready just in case—she couldn’t stop him if he went down, but she could do her best to ease his landing a little.

  She hated it when he fell, almost as much as he did. The scar tissue on his legs and torso was still sensitive, even after so many years, and any extra jarring of his back could send him to bed for days. Today, however, watching him watch Willow…. Well, she might just let him go down, if his legs decided to give out.

  The young woman down the way stood and stretched languidly, letting her head fall back, her eyes closed as she soaked up the sunlight. Then she straightened and turned to look right at them.

  Patti felt her husband stiffen and she instinctively pressed her hand more firmly against his shoulder. “I got you, Richie,” she said, dropping her gaze to his shuffling feet as he stepped into the security of his walker. She was acutely aware of the young woman catching them both at their most vulnerable; Patti in spirit, Richard in body.

  When she dared to look up again, Willow was gone. Her husband didn’t say anything; neither did Patti, and the two of them hobbled back inside the trailer together.

  “What’s for dinner?” The tone of his voice indicated that his good mood had deserted him for the day.

  “I’m making scalloped potatoes with some of the leftover ham from last night.” Kathy, the neighbor between them and the new girl, in Space #11, had dropped by yesterday afternoon. With her, she’d brought a portion of a spiral-cut ham, the glazed top crispy and blackened.

  “My son sent me a grocery store gift card. Hams were on sale, and I really wanted one, but there’s no way I can eat the whole thing myself, and ham isn’t good for the kids.” Kathy referred to her dogs that way; she had three of them, and all were fat and happy from too much stuff that ‘wasn’t good for them.’

  Patti couldn’t understand why Kathy had suddenly taken an interest in cooking for them. A few weeks ago, she showed up with a basket in her hands. Her explanation was awkward and stilted, and Patti was so surprised, she just stared mutely.

  “I’ve been messing around in my kitchen, and I made too much food for just me. I thought you might want a break from cooking tonight. Here.” She thrust the basket at Patti, then flipped back the currant-colored dishtowel to explain what was in it. “Mashed potatoes, a little gravy, green beans and bacon, and a few pieces of fried chicken. I used Joe Sanderson’s recipe for the chicken, so if you don’t like it, you can go bang on his door.” And with that, Kathy turned on her heels and scurried back to her own place.

  The ham was the third offering she’d brought in so many weeks. Each time Patti returned the basket and dish towel, Kathy brought it back with more food and another awkward speech. Maybe it was a New Year’s resolution. Maybe it was because Kathy had made peace with her estranged son; she told anyone who would listen about him, and she had new pictures of Makani, his wife, Sylvia, and their plump-cheeked little boy, Makani Jr., to show off.

  Patti had pictures of Ivan all over the walls in the little bedroom where she slept, apart from her husband because of his chronic pain issues. But there were none in Richard’s bedroom, and none in the living room where her husband spent most of his waking hours.

  Although Ivan was about the same age as Makani, he didn’t have a wife and a beautiful grandchild for them to dote on. Ivan had a boyfriend.

  No response from Richard about the scalloped potatoes meant that he either approved, or he was saving up his complaints for after he’d eaten his fill.

  Later that evening, sitting across from each other over their empty plates and after-dinner coffee, Richard squinted contemplatively at her. Patti steeled herself for whatever might come out of his mouth.

  “So I’m wondering why you haven’t said hide nor hair about the Goodhope woman.” He spoke nonchalantly, his bland tone in sharp contrast to the volatile words.

  Patti began to clear the dishes to buy some time. What did he expect her to say in response to that? I haven’t talked about her because I don’t like her? I think she’s one of those goddess type people who believe they’re in tune with the vibrations of the earth? She bugs me? She’s too pretty for her own good? She’s too pretty for my own good because my husband won’t stop staring at her?

  “Well? I can’t believe you have no opinion whatsoever about her. You’re a woman.”

  “I don’t know anything about her, except that she’s got red hair and likes to garden. We obviously don’t have much in common, do we?” She carried the stack of plates and the casserole dish to the sink, not wanting to look at him.

  “So you’ve already tried and measured her without even getting to know her.” His tone, so deceptively calm before, cut at her now with the familiar sharp edge he wielded when he wanted her to feel some of his pain. She pressed her lips together and didn’t let out what she wished she had the courage to say to him.

  Most nights, neither of them went to sleep very early, but they usually began preparing for bed almost as soon as the evening meal was over. In Richard’s room, Patti gathered up his collection of skin creams and pain medicines, and the back brace he wore to bed, while her husband peeled off his loose-fitting clothes.

  The scars on his abdomen and ribcage still tore at her heart, but the twisted skin covering his spindly legs was the worst. It had taken her years to not wince at the sight of them. The flames had licked away at him while he lay trapped in his crumpled car, his legs clamped between the steering column and his seat. By the mercy of God, he’d been unconscious when they dragged him out of the wreckage.

  Patti unscrewed the cap from the jar of the over-the-counter cream she used on the worst of the pink and silvery strands of tissue, wishing for the thousandth time they could afford something more effective. Richard stretched out on his bed, his head on his pillow, his mouth set in a grim line. He closed his eyes as usual, still proud, still hating his deficiencies, unable to look her in the eye while she nursed his damaged body.

  She had grown to love the routine of the evening. Sitting on the bed beside him, she could feel his tension begin to wane as she smoothed cream over his taut skin, gently at first, then with more pressure as he relaxed, methodically working out the bunched muscles of his legs. This was as intimate as they ever were anymore, and it was bittersweet, this aching for someone who no longer ached for her. She loved the man beneath the burns, and she yearned for the smile she knew was trapped behind the bars of bitterness.

  She closed her eyes, letting her shoulders drop, her fingers having memorized the pattern of her ministrations, and imagined him touching her the way he used to, with eagerness, and passion, love.

  There was a slight stirring, then his hand came to rest on her knee. She stared in surprise at his broad fingers spread over the black fabric of her pants. Holding her breath, she lifted her gaze…but he lay still, eyes closed, his features relaxed.

  Be happy for the little things, she heard her head whisper to her heart.

  Chapter 2

  Patti awoke to the sound of rain drumming against the metal roof of the porch overhang outside her wind
ow. A cold, blustery day, the weather channel had predicted last night. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to put up with Richard sitting outside making googly eyes at Willow Goodhope.

  She lay in bed listening, letting the pitter-pattering soothe her. He must not be awake yet. Mornings like this, when she came to life slowly, instead of being jarred out of bed by her husband’s needs, were a small blessing. She rolled onto her side and pulled the chain of the pretty Victorian lamp on her bedside table. A soft glow shown down on the framed picture beside it, taken back when they were young, hopeful; and Ivan still felt like the most important boy in the whole wide world. She smiled at the three of them. “Group hug,” she murmured, tracing a circle around their happiness with her fingertip.

  A light knock on the front door interrupted her reminiscing, and Patti’s eyes darted to the blue numbers on the clock beside the picture. Eight o’clock on the button. Who could it be at this time of the morning? She slipped her legs out from under the blankets and reached for the heavy bathrobe she always kept handy, in case Richard had need of her in the middle of the night. She tied it around her waist, smoothed her frizzy, fine hair back behind her ears, as though that would help, and slipped her feet into the house shoes she’d stepped out of the night before.

  The knock came again, a little quieter this time, and Patti hurried to answer it. Peeking through the window beside the door, she jerked her head back in surprise, her hand going to her mouth.

  Willow Goodhope! What did she want at this unsociable hour of the morning? Patti sighed, straightened her robe a little, and pulled the door open just enough to be polite. “Hello?”

  “Good morning,” the woman whispered, her eyes shining out from under the fur trim of the hood that kept trying to slip forward over her face. What on earth was she wearing? A cape? Wool the color of a damp forest floor enveloped her in soft folds, falling to an uneven hemline just above her knees. On her feet were shiny black rubber boots imprinted with iridescent peacock feathers, and on the porch behind her, was a matching umbrella with a plastic peacock head for a handle. “I have something for you. By the way, I’m Willow.” She spoke in hushed tones, as though she knew Richard was sleeping.

  “Nice to meet you.” Patti paused, swallowed her rudeness, and continued. “I’m Patti. I’m not dressed yet, but would you…would you like to come in?” Please say no.

  “Oh goodness, no. I’m way too early to be visiting. I was just going to leave this on your doorstep, but I saw a light come on and thought you might be awake.” From beneath the folds of her cape, she withdrew a rectangular basket, almost identical to the one Kathy kept refilling with food for them, its contents hidden beneath a cream-colored tea towel. “I brought you something for breakfast on this cold, wet morning.”

  She held it out to Patti and pushed back her hood when her hands were free. Her long hair, loose and unchecked, curled riotously around her bold features, her cheeks and nose pink from the cold, her lashes spiky and naturally frost-tipped. She looked like a wild woman of the woods, all reds and creams, camouflaged in her moss-hued, fur-trimmed coat, and she smelled of pine and wood fires. Smoky. Spicy. Enticing.

  Patti looked away, unsettled by how instantly drawn she was to this creature at her door. She suddenly understood why Richard couldn’t stop staring, but it didn’t make her feel any better.

  “Thank you, Willow.” At a loss, she didn’t know whether she should explore the contents of the basket while the girl waited or not.

  “Go inside where it’s warm, Patti. I’m sorry to have bothered you so early.” Willow seemed to read her mind. “It’s Saturday,” she whispered. “You should be sleeping in!” She turned, scooped up her umbrella, slipped her hood back up over her head so that just the tip of her nose and some errant curls could be seen from where Patti stood watching her. Then she dashed out into the rain, her boots splashing in the small puddles forming along the gravel driveway. She waved one last time from under the umbrella, then turned her hand upward, catching the heavy raindrops in her cupped palm.

  Patti closed the door slowly, hoping Richard still slept, not wanting to have to explain her strange encounter with Willow. She carried the basket to the kitchen, turned on the low light over the sink, and lifted the cloth to peer inside the basket.

  On a pretty paper plate were six large muffins, the tops of them sugary and crumbly. They were carefully wrapped in wax paper so thin it was nearly transparent, and they were still warm. Two small jars, banded together with raffia ribbon, nestled in the folds of the towel, as well. One was an amber-colored glass with a black screw-on lid, and a label that read Healing Salve. The other was identical except that it was a deep blue glass, and it was labeled For Healing Hands. A card was slipped in behind the bow, a short poem inscribed on either side.

  Healing Salve

  Elderberry flowers, calendula, and comfrey,

  Shea butter, olive oil, and a dab of vitamin e.

  For scrapes and bruises, for where there are scars,

  A gentle touch can smooth away the years.

  She flipped the card over and read the second set of lines.

  For Healing Hands

  Shea butter, beeswax, elderberry flowers,

  Coconut and almond oil, balm for your labors.

  The hands that help, the hands that heal,

  Are the hands in which true love is revealed.

  Patti stared at the words in the fanciful script. How did she know? Who told her? Was someone in the park gossiping about them? Who did this Willow Goodhope think she was? She felt a flush creep up her neck. Richard must not see this; he’d be so embarrassed.

  He’d be livid.

  She tucked everything back inside the basket and hurried to her room, the one place in their tiny home where he never set foot. But what was she going to do with the muffins? One thing her husband still had intact was his sense of smell. The rich aroma of baked bread, tart berries, and cinnamon wafted down the hall with her. He would notice.

  She shoved the basket into her tiny closet, making room for it on a top shelf. Tossing aside her robe, she quickly dressed in a pair of comfortable jeans and a pale blue turtleneck. Richard used to tell her the color made her look soft and pretty.

  Scurrying back to the kitchen, she didn’t take the time to check on him. She’d make pancakes. And she’d add cinnamon and extra vanilla to the batter. She could whip them up quickly, and they would easily mask the smell of Willow’s muffins. She thought there might even be some left-over blackberry syrup, an item she’d splurged on over the holidays, knowing how much Richard loved it on his ice cream.

  She’d just started the coffee when his voice, gravelly from sleep, filtered down the hall. She blew out a long breath; she hadn’t realized how tense she was in her frantic rush to hide the evidence of the Goodhope girl’s unexpected visit.

  Richard was lying on his side in bed, facing the doorway. He looked tired today, as though he hadn’t slept well, but his eyes were alert, studying her as she crossed the room to him. Feeling unsure of herself—was it guilt?—she looked away.

  “You’re a sight for sore old eyes, Patricia, with your pink cheeks and pretty blue top.”

  Patti’s heart leapt as his tender words washed over her. Almost afraid she’d imagined it, she kept her face averted as she gathered up his robe, the daytime back-brace, and his hairbrush. He liked to shower first thing out of bed.

  By the time she stood before him, bracing the wheels of his walker with her feet, her arms laden with his things, Richard was sitting, pulling his brown terrycloth robe around his shoulders. He stood slowly, finding his balance, but didn’t immediately propel the walker forward as he usually did. He was watching her, waiting for her to look at him. She flushed when she saw something in his eyes, something deep and familiar to her.

  “I was dreaming about you just now.” He held her gaze in a way that wouldn’t let her look away. “I didn’t want to wake up.”

  “Oh.” Her answer came out breathy and insignif
icant.

  He reached up and brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

  When he was situated on the seat in the shower, she left him alone, pulling the bathroom door closed behind her. In the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee and slipped into one of the chairs around their little table. What a morning, she thought, wrapping her trembling fingers around the warm mug. Her stomach was still doing butterflies over the way Richard had looked at her. And Willow Goodhope? What the devil was she going to do with those muffins hiding in her closet? There was no way she was going to bring up the girl and her gifts now. She wasn’t about to share her husband’s thoughts and attention with the red-headed goddess.

  Chapter 3

  The phone on the wall behind her rang, startling her, and her coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup. She brought the receiver to her ear while she dabbed at the wet spots on the table with a paper napkin.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Good morning, Ivan. What’s got you up so early on a Saturday?” It was barely after nine.

  “I’m hungry. Did you already eat breakfast?” He sounded sullen, like a pouty child, and she knew she did not want him invading the tenderness of this morning with his abrasive spirit.

  “I’m getting Dad out of the shower in a few minutes. We haven’t eaten yet, but I—”

  “Good.” He cut her off. “I’m coming over.”

  “Wait!” She spoke too slowly; he’d hung up. Patti sighed deeply, dropping back into the chair. She folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head, her eyes closed in prayer.

  “Oh God. Help me.”

  “Patricia!”

  The shower had washed away some of Richard’s gentleness, and when he found out Ivan would be joining them for breakfast, he scowled. “Did you invite him?”

  “No. But he’s our son. He doesn’t need an invitation.”