Eddie was on his feet, his fists up, before he really thought about what he was doing. “Stay away from her,” her growled, closing the distance between him and his brother in three steps.
“Eddie! Stop!” Edith shrieked, throwing herself in front of Donny, who smirked at him over the top his mother’s head. Eddie turned and stormed out of the trailer.
Chapter 6
What a fool he was, stirring Donny’s curiosity like that. Why hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut and let him run off to win Sheena back? Now, not only did he have to deal with the creepy Shadowman, but he had his kid brother to worry about, too.
And when had he started calling Willow’s husband-ex-husband-or-something-like-it by his evil villain name, Shadowman? Eddie threw his cap on the sofa and clomped into the kitchen, his empty stomach mocking him.
“And I don’t prey on women, taken or otherwise,” he muttered. But the thought, like Willow’s words the day before, stuck in his craw, too. He’d known Leanne maybe a year before they started seeing each other, and she’d been in a serious relationship with a guy named Craig when they met. Before long, she was stopping by Eddie’s place to hang out, talking about how sweet he was, how calm and gentlemanly, what a big guy he was. My gentle giant, she called him.
He and Donny were opposites in every way, including the looks department. Eddie was built like a bear, solid, barrel-chested, and thick-limbed, while Donny pranced around like a gymnast, flashing his baby blues at anything in skirts. But Eddie had to admit that it did something for his ego when women drifted his way, especially when they drifted away from the likes of Donny, like Sheena had.
In fact, Leanne had done the same thing, having left her man just weeks before Eddie asked her out, offering to comfort her in his beefy embrace. She’d never really been his, not in the way a man and woman should belong together. He’d been her strong tower, her place of refuge, but once the storm of her broken heart had passed, she was ready to move on.
And now here he was, prepared to step in and protect Willow Goodhope from a man claiming to be her husband, a man who obviously still cared for her, and from Donny, should the need arise.
He pulled out one of the two chairs at his dinette set and dropped heavily into it. What a fool. What a fool he was.
“So why?” He spoke the words aloud. “Why do I always fall for unavailable women?” He wasn’t going to admit to intentionally stealing them. He never set out to do so, anyway.
All day long, the question plagued him, and until he could get it straight in his head, he didn’t dare go near Willow Goodhope. The smile, the tears, the sheer proximity of that girl would do him in today, with his messed up head.
Instead, he attacked an ancient eucalyptus tree at the back of the property, one that had blown over in the January winds. He’d been meaning to take a chainsaw to it for some time now, having waited long enough for some of the oily liquid in its branches to dry up. It was the perfect outlet for his frustrations, and by the time he’d finished clearing the area, he had a pile of chopped and neatly stacked eucalyptus logs he could sell for firewood and make a mint off of, as well as a few revelations about himself he’d come to grips with.
Filling an old metal wheelbarrow with some of the smaller, more manageable logs, he rolled it across the drive and down the way toward Willow’s place. She was just returning from the mailbox with a stack of letters in her hands, and her face lit up at the sight of him wheeling up at the edge of her patio. A mental image popped into his mind, of Al strategically positioned on a stool at his kitchen counter so he could keep the line of mailboxes in view.
“Hi, Eddie!” Willow called. “What do you have there?”
He nodded in greeting, then tipped his head toward the logs. “I’ve been clearing a fallen tree and thought you might want some of the logs for your fire pit. This stuff burns hot, but it smells good, if you like eucalyptus. You’ll just need to let it season until the fall, otherwise it’ll smoke you out.”
“How thoughtful of you!” She came right up to him, picked up one of the logs, and brought it to her nose. “I do love the smell of this stuff, Eddie. Thank you.” She smiled up at him, and over the top of the pungent odor of the sap on his hands, he could smell something else, that lingering woodsy scent that seemed to drift around Willow.
“Where do you want me to put it?” His tone was gruff, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She showed him where she already had a pile of fruitwood stacked at the back of the patio, but when she tried to help him, he shooed her off. “I got this.” She stepped back, and watched him work, chewing on her bottom lip. Eddie berated himself for noticing—he found himself taking note of her funny little habits and quirks.
When his wheelbarrow was empty, he turned to face her. “So, I need to talk to you. About your….”
“About Shadowman?” she offered, when his words faded away. “I hear he’s been named.”
“Yes.” In fact, it was easier to think of him that way. Kept him less personal, somehow. “He showed up here again last night.”
“Oh. Oh no.” Willow crossed to one of the plastic chairs in front of the fire pit and dropped into it. The gurgling of the little stream that ran alongside her patio drowned out her quiet words, but Eddie had no trouble understanding the look on her face.
He indicated another chair nearby. “Mind if I sit?”
“No, please. Sit.”
“He, um, said he was your husband. Actually, he said you were his wife.” He took a deep breath and held it, waiting for her to deny it. When she didn’t, he let it out in a long slow huff, and continued. “He said he just needed to know that you were okay. I assured him you were, and sent him on his way. He knows he’s not welcome here anymore.” He tried to keep his words gentle, but he had to speak a little loudly to be heard above the sound of the water directly behind them, and he wasn’t sure how his tone would come off.
He turned to look down the driveway to where he’d confronted Christian Goodhope the night before. Movement at Kathy’s window caught his eye, and he thought he saw the silhouettes of two people. Myra must be visiting; he could just imagine what kind of gossip was going on behind those curtains. When he looked back at Willow, her eyes glistened, but stayed dry, her hands still and laid flat over the letters stacked on her knees.
“Thank you, Eddie. I’m sure he’ll stay away now. I hope you’re not… not worried about me being here.” Her eyes scanned the little house and patio around them, finally landing on the elderberry tree growing all crooked and lush beside the stream, clusters of tiny white flowers covering its branches. “I don’t want to leave here. Not yet.”
Eddie shook his head. “Nah. I’m not worried. You’re fine.” He waited, hoping she’d expound a little on her relationship with Christian Goodhope, but she was chewing on her lip again. “Okay. I’ll be off. You let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.” He stood up quickly, nearly knocking over his chair.
Willow stood too, not paying any attention to his clumsiness. “Thank you, Eddie. For everything. You and the others here at The Coach House,” she spread her arms wide. “You’re exactly what I need right now. I can’t imagine where I’d be if I didn’t have Elderberry Croft and my wonderful neighbors.” Her words were simple, heartfelt, and Eddie felt his chest swell. It was good to be needed, especially for the right reasons.
He would be here for her. He would watch out for her. He would protect her. And he would do so without trying to win her heart. It was too late for him; he’d already fallen a little in love with her. But then, he didn’t think he was the only one. She seemed to work her magic on everyone she met, weaving her way into their hearts, stirring up feelings and emotions they’d all thought dormant. Well, he could handle the little thrill he got every time she smiled at him, because he was going to do right by her.
He took a deep breath, the corner of his mouth curving up into a smile as he caught the smell of wood chips. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, “a
nd we’re glad to have you here, too.” Then he turned to go, taking his wheelbarrow with him. One day, maybe he’d learn the truth about Willow Goodhope and her Shadowman, but for now, he was content with leaving things the way they were.
And one day, maybe, just maybe, someone would happen into his life who was free to love and be loved by him. Someone who would smile up at him without the shadow of anyone else lingering in her eyes. Someone who wouldn’t balk at the life-saving device hanging from the hole in his abdomen, who wasn’t afraid of death, but would face it by his side when—no, if—the time came a little early for him.
He walked down the driveway toward the other end of the park. He waved at the two women standing on Kathy’s front porch, made his way past the Davis’ trailer, past Joe’s place, then paused in front of Shelly’s driveway. He should let her know that all was well with the world, thanks to her neighborliness.
He looked down at his grubby hands, his sweat-stained shirt, a little too small, stretched over his slightly-protruding stomach. The knees of his jeans were smudged from kneeling in the dirt and debris, and he’d forgotten his belt, so his pants kept slipping down.
Maybe he’d go shower up first, then return the empty muffin basket to her, along with his thanks. Nodding in agreement with himself, he headed across the bridge for home, his shoulders back, chin up.
It was shaping up to be a fine day, after all.
JUNE MELODY
Chapter 1
The air conditioner began to rattle loudly in the window, and Myra Cordova crossed the room to thump on it with her scrawny fist. Once, twice, a third time, then it acquiesced, slipping back with a hiccup into a grumbling murmur. Eventually, if Myra lived much longer, the unit would have to be replaced.
“I bet I’m going to go before you do,” she grouched, as she made her way back to the stove where she’d been stirring up a batch of fudge. The boys were coming over this afternoon, as they often did, for a game of poker, and she expected Al would be bringing his sweet tooth with him, too. Usually, she opened a box of chocolates, or on a good day, made a batch of oatmeal cookies, or brownies out of a box, but today, she was trying a new butter pecan fudge recipe from Willow Goodhope.
At the beginning of June, Myra came down with a bug so bad, she’d been incapacitated for almost two weeks. Every-one in the park knew about it, she made sure of that, but besides Jack, who stopped by daily to check on her, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, til death parted them, only Kathy defied Myra’s self-inflicted quarantine to bring Myra’s favorite canned clam chowder, Hawaiian sweet rolls, and the latest gossip rag from the supermarket. Kathy scoffed at the sign hanging from the front door, the words written with a pitifully shaky hand: “I’m very ill. Please protect yourself and stay away.”
“You’re such a hypochondriac, silly. You just have the flu.”
“You’ll be more sympathetic when you end up sick like I am,” Myra moaned, repositioning herself on the sofa so her sad state could be more clearly evident by anyone who dared to check in on her. Having the flu on top of all her other ailments was tantamount to signing her death warrant, but if she had to die, she wanted to go with a clear conscience, knowing she’d done everything in her power to steer people clear of harm’s way.
“Just eat your soup, silly, drink your water, and get some rest. In fact, you really should go to bed where you can sleep without interruption.” Kathy nodded her head in the direction of the short hallway that led back to Myra’s pink bedroom.
“Oh no, Kathy-la. If I go back there to sleep, I won’t hear anyone come to the door. Then people will worry, and then they’ll think something bad happened to me, then they’ll knock down my door, thinking my time has come, then—”
“Myra! Stop! You’re getting all worked up over nothing.” Kathy made a face, and Myra scowled back. Kathy always rolled her eyes like that.
“You have a sign on the door that makes it pretty obvious you’re sick. You called everyone in the park to let them know, too, didn’t you?” Kathy paused, waiting for a response, but Myra just harrumphed and stared through the screened door, not wanting to be made fun of today. Especially not while she was sick.
Myra knew the general consensus around the park was that she was just a silly old lady, but without her, this place would fall into shambles. She cleaned for Eddie when either of the apartments in the main building of The Coach House Trailer Park came up for rent, when Space #12, Willow’s place now, was between renters, and she kept the laundry shed swept and lint free. She did laundry for Al, for Doc, even for Kathy when she wasn’t feeling up to snuff. She cooked big pots of soup or chili during the winter—usually canned, but no one complained—and made certain she had assorted treats for the boys who gathered on her front porch all summer long. She was the first one people called when they needed a listening ear, a cup of sugar, or an extra roll of toilet paper. She knew the names and numbers of every Coach House resident, she knew the names of their pets, and she made a point to keep track of the comings and goings of everyone in the park, not because she was nosey, but because she didn’t want anyone to be neglected.
Myra hated to gossip venomously, but keeping each other informed was a complete different story. That’s what family did, and she thought of the folks here, both those she knew well, and those she knew through fleeting conversations at the mailbox, as her extended family. When one was sick, or sad, or happy, Myra made it her job to show up with soup, chocolate, or boxed wine, whichever best suited the circumstances.
And because Myra really liked her Sangria, circumstances usually called for boxed wine.
She was finally feeling better, but between the suffocating June heat outside, and the cantankerous air conditioner sitting like a squat old lady in the window, she was thirsty. She opened the fridge, held her thrift store tumbler under the spout, and filled it only half full with the ruby red drink that looked like grape juice and reminded her of church.
Bringing it to her lips, the chilled liquid cooled the inside of her mouth, then soothed the scratchiness of her throat, still a little raw from weeks of coughing. She stood with her hand on the refrigerator door, waiting for the first sip to finish teasing her senses so she could take another, then another, and refill her glass—half full—before putting her feet up in front of her favorite morning soap opera.
She didn’t have a drinking problem, no matter what Kathy said. She only had half a glass now and then; half a glass! Doc knew. He teased her about her kiddie juice every chance he got, but that’s because he thought alcohol should only come in a square bottle with a black label.
“It’s like you’re telling war stories, but you’ve never been in a trench, Myra.” Ironically, Doc, who had been in a few trenches himself, never told war stories, and the thought of all his bottled up pain made Myra want another half a glass of Sangria.
Just a half a glass, though.
Chapter 2
The song was soft at first, just a hint of a melody drifting across the stillness. The summer night air hung heavy and oppressive, even this close to midnight, and Myra was doing laundry late, preferring to tackle the heavy loads after the sun went down. The walk to the laundry shed was well-lit as she flip-flopped along the gravel driveway, her basket in one hand, propped on her hip, sipping from a tumbler of chilled wine in her other hand. She passed in front of the main house, around the opposite end of the park, over the little wooden bridge that crossed the stream with its seasonally low water level, and passed between Kathy’s place and Willow’s.
She paused when she heard it, the sound of guitar strings being plucked by light fingers.
Turning her head this way and that, she frowned, unable to discern from where it came. Kathy often played her music until all hours of the night, but it was usually Hawaiian ukulele tunes, not classical guitar. And this sounded lonelier, a solitary instrument lifting its notes to the heavens. She glanced over at Willow’s little Elderberry Croft, but the lights were all out, even the twinkle lights on the
front porch. The cottage was still, as far as she could tell, tucked in for the night.
Then it stopped altogether, followed by a hushed silence. Soon a whirring of a cricket’s song picked up where the guitar left off. It was all a little unsettling to her.
Myra suddenly thought of Shadowman. Her heart started up a racket inside her chest that rattled her ribs together, and she made a mad dash the rest of the way to the laundry shed, pulling the chain that hung from the bulb on the ceiling, and closing the rickety door behind her. It didn’t matter that Eddie assured her the guy wouldn’t be back. He’d confronted him last month, and made it clear to the man that he was wandering around private property, and was not welcome. She dropped her basket of dirty clothes on the floor and leaned her back against the door, listening for the sound of stealthy footsteps. The glass in her hand shook, the remaining liquid sloshing around a little, and she quickly downed the rest of it and set the empty cup on the dryer. If Shadowman was out there, she might just be spending the night in here.
“I’m not going to make it out alive, am I, God?” She tried to keep her voice from trembling, but no one in the park was ever up this late, except for Kathy, and tonight, even her lights were already out. “I could scream ‘til I’m blue in the face, and no one will hear me.” Her eyes prickled with unshed tears as a lump of fear formed itself in the back of her throat. What was she going to do?
Eyeing the basket of clothes, she opted to stay busy. Maybe the mundane task of washing and folding laundry would help calm her down, help her come up with a solution to her dilemma. She opened the dryer and peered inside, the towels she’d thrown in an hour ago, dry and fluffy and soft to the touch. She pulled them out, piled them on top of the dryer, then replaced them with the jeans and shirts from the washer. Into the washer went the load of whites, detergent, and a half cup of bleach, and she set to work folding, the large towels stacked in the basket, the washcloths and hand towels in growing piles on the dryer.
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