I bring my hands up to my cheeks, barely able to contain the mixed emotions I’m feeling as Makani opens the back door of the car and lifts out his son, a boy so close in age to Julian that I can hardly breathe. In my self-imposed isolation, I haven’t been around children for nearly a year, avoiding them in the aisles at the grocery store, the do-it-yourself center I frequent, and anywhere else they might be lurking. Even though I knew Kani would be here tonight, my stomach clenches with grief.
Christian. I turn to find him—I need him desperately right now—but he’s already beside me. His arms surround me, pulling me close, and I press my ear to his chest, listening for the steady beat of his heart. It’s a sound that’s become a life line to me.
I worry again about Doc as the minutes tick by. I know this holiday is a difficult time for him, and I replay his Christmas tree story in my mind. Every time I think of a pine tree now, I think of Doc; a symbol of hope, of love, of peace, even in the middle of war.
I look around at all who are gathered here on my little patio, bundled up against the mild winter weather, faces glowing under the twinkle lights, and it strikes me anew how generous God has been to me this year, how He has filled what I believed was a bottomless void to overflowing with love for each person here.
And then I see him, crossing the bridge, one arm linked with that of a woman only a few years older than I am, and my heart sinks. Doc looks drunk, his nose shiny, his cheeks red, his eyes glazed over, even from here. I hold my breath as he escorts the woman beneath the honeysuckle arch and approaches me, the grin on his face making him look silly, foolish. I’m embarrassed for him, and I throw my arms around his burly shoulders, hugging him tightly to let him know that I love him anyway.
But he doesn’t smell of alcohol. In fact, he smells lovely; very manly. I straighten and turn to look more closely at the woman on his arm. She’s smiling as foolishly as Doc is, and I raise questioning eyes to him.
“Willow Goodhope, I’d like you to meet my youngest daughter, Janeen Durham. Janeen, Willow Goodhope.” His grin is not foolishness or drunkenness, but pride and joy, and his eyes are glazed over with sheer contentment.
I don’t hesitate, but reach out to embrace Janeen, too, welcoming her to this island of misfits, this sanctuary of the walking wounded, this family of oddballs. I don’t ask, but in my heart I pray that Janeen’s reunion with her father will be the first of many for Doc and his girls.
Chapter 6
An hour later, after we’ve eaten our fill of our Christmas smorgasbord—barbecued chicken, warm casseroles, and other assorted side dishes and desserts—Joe and Vivian say their goodbyes. Their Christmas gift to all of us here was the vast quantities of chicken, marinated and grilled to perfection on Joe’s finely-tuned grill. I requested that no one bring gifts, but I see there’s a pile of them on the end of the table anyway.
Christian is absorbed into the middle of a group of men gathered around Richard Dixon in his wheelchair; Al, Eddie, Donny, Ivan, Makani, Tom, and Scott, and their male voices rise and fall like distant thunder. Jack is sitting with Myra, Edith, and Kathy, and although he seems to be listening intently to what the women are discussing, I get the feeling he’s empathizing with little Kani who is asleep in his grandmother’s arms. Shelly and Patti have looped Andrea’s mother and aunt into a game of cards, and Andrea and Janeen, and even Makani’s shy wife, Sylvia, are giggling about something Pru has said to Carney. It doesn’t seem likely, but it looks to me like the big bear of a man is blushing.
I don’t see George or Doc anywhere, but I’m not worried. With only one bathroom here, people have been considerate and made use of the close proximity of the other trailers.
I slip inside for a moment to myself, smiling at the beauty of this whole night. How can one girl be so loved? I’m amazed and humbled.
“Thank you,” I whisper into the stillness of the room. I know Jesus is all ears. “For changing my heart, for following me here, for not waiting for me to figure things out. Thank you for loving me so much, that you would do this,” I sweep the room with my gaze, my eyes landing on the group of people on my patio, framed by the huge window. “All this for selfish little me. Thank you for remembering me this Christmas.”
“Ms. Goodhope?” I turn to find Doc taking up the whole doorway, one hand behind his back.
“Hey, Doc.”
“It’s James. James Durham.” His real name. It suits him.
I can feel my eyes filling with tears. I don’t want to cry, but I can’t help it. I’m so overwhelmed by my emotions right now, and seeing him with this new look in his eyes, knowing my goodbyes are just around the corner, I’m a fragile mess.
“Aw, please don’t do that, Willow.” He ducks his head and shifts from one foot to the other, the space between us somehow changed since that night beside my fire. “I want to return this to you. You haven’t asked for it, but I thought you might be ready to have it back.” In the rough palm of his outstretched hand is the small photograph of Christian and Julian I gave into his safe keeping only a month ago. I can hardly believe how close I came to throwing it away; to throwing all of this away. I reach for it, but Doc pulls back a little, not letting me take it. “There’s something else, but you need to come outside. We have something for you.”
George has returned, too, and he and Christian and a few others are busy stringing lights on a darling little living Christmas tree in a pretty pot. It’s no more than three feet tall, and they set it up on the table beside the gifts. When Christian sees me, his eyes light up and he crosses over to where I’m standing. Tears stream unchecked from my eyes.
He grabs my face and kisses me boldly, in front of all these people. Embarrassed, I try to push him away, but he just holds me tighter and kisses me again, setting my neighbors to whooping and clapping at our antics. Little Kani wakes up and adds his tired wails to the noise.
“Time for you to open your gifts,” Myra calls out, her funny chirrup rising above the teasing. I ask Kani if he’d like to help me, and with eyes wide with wonder, he nods, and tears into the first gift box I hand him. I watch with hungry fascination the clumsy movements of his chubby fingers, and I ache for Julian.
Inside the packages are ornaments from every resident of the park, and between Kani and me, we decorate the little tree in no time. “It’s lovely,” I croak, my throat tight.
Then Doc steps forward and places the picture of Julian and Christian in my hand. I tie the photo to the top branch of the little tree, and Myra quips, “It’s your own real tree angel.”
I catch Andrea’s teary gaze and smile tenderly—I know how different this Christmas was supposed to have been for her and George.
As the last of our guests make their way into the night, Christian and I move around the patio unplugging stringed lights, blowing out lanterns and candles, and gathering up the last of the dishes. I fill the sink with warm soapy water and begin to wash coffee cups, but Christian steps behind me, wraps his arms around me, and rests his chin on my head.
“Come outside with me. I want you to see something.” His voice is low, gentle, a caress, and I dry my hands and turn in his arms. It doesn’t matter where we are, my home is wherever this man is.
He draws me outside and we pass beneath the honey-suckle arch through which all our guests have walked tonight, out into the open driveway. “Look.” He pulls me back against him and points at the sky. Lifting my eyes, I gasp at the glorious display of stars scattered across the heavens.
I stand inside the circle of my husband’s embrace, beneath this Christmas canopy, in silent awe of all that God has restored to me. My son—our son—is in the forefront of my thoughts tonight, and it’s painful and sweet and everything feels slightly bruised, but I’m alive and aware in ways I haven’t been in far too long.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and all my gratitude toward my husband, toward the God who gave this man to me, for Julian, for this place, these people; is wrapped up in those insignificant words.
W
e turn to go back inside, but I stop Christian beneath the honeysuckle and look up suggestively. I have forgotten until now that I hung a sprig of mistletoe among the vines, and now I intend to get my money’s worth out of it.
He flashes a smile, his eyes twinkling in the dim glow coming from my kitchen window, and sweeps a few wayward curls from my face. “I love you, Wife.” In spite of the chill in the air, his lips are warm against mine.
I am like that honeysuckle that arches over us in the starlight, sending out grasping tendrils, nosing my way into the nooks and crannies of wherever I’m planted. I can’t help it; it’s in my very nature. In reaching out, I learn to stretch and bend and flex, and if I find my footing, if I find a sturdy trellis or frame to cling to, I blossom. Not wild, showy flowers like clematis or passionflower, but little clusters of pale yellow frills that offer sips of sweet nectar to any in need.
Christian isn’t a plant to me; he’s my trellis, the framework on which I grow and flourish and blossom at my finest.
God? Well, God is a bit like that elderberry tree planted by the water, pouring himself out for me. He lavishes this undeserving woman with gifts so generous and so kind, opening my eyes to see the wounds of others, and equipping me with just what I need to love those around me. He gives and gives and gives some more, willing to send his own son to earth as a helpless baby, a gift we’re celebrating even tonight. Hope.
A new season is just around the corner, bringing with it hope. Winter is going to end and the branches of that little elderberry tree will burst into leaf, then into bloom, and the tree will bear glorious clusters of fruit again.
I won’t be here to witness it, but the seeds of that same hope are planted in my heart and will go with me when I leave this place, bursting into leaf, into bloom, and bearing fruit wherever I am planted.
I ponder, momentarily, who will move in here after I’m gone; I send up a prayer that they will discover in this little cottage the same sanctuary I have found, the same whispers of hope.
I take the hand of the man I love and walk with him through the crooked door of Elderberry Croft.
Tomorrow is a new day dawning.
~ ~ ~THE END~ ~ ~
If you enjoyed getting to know Willow Goodhope and the residents of The Coach House Trailer Park, I would be so grateful if you would leave a review on Amazon.
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If you enjoyed Elderberry Croft…
Juliette and the Monday ManDates
The Gustafson Girls, Book One
Excerpt
Chapter 1
JULIETTE stared wide-eyed into the rear-view mirror at the red and blue lights flashing behind her. Her palms began to sweat as her heart rate sky-rocketed, and it took her several minutes to pull her little PT Cruiser out of the dinner-hour traffic.
She waited, both hands gripping the steering wheel, as the officer approached her window. Finding it still closed, he tapped on it, and she jumped, letting out a tiny squeal. “Sorry!” she called through the glass, turning the car back on so she could operate the power windows. She worked the knobs, accidentally sending the backseat window up and down twice before she finally managed to get hers open. “Sorry,” she repeated, peering up at the very tall officer whose eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses.
“Please turn off your engine, ma’am.” His voice was firm, and Juliette scrambled to comply.
“Sorry,” she muttered a third time, afraid now to look up at him. She toyed with the keys in her lap, sensing his eyes boring into the top of her head. She was sure she’d smell burning hair at any moment.
“May I see your license and registration, please?”
After wrestling with the latch on the glove compartment, she withdrew the paperwork for her car, then reached into the back seat to grab her purse from off the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him take a step back and put a hand on his holster.
The thought that she might be pulling out a weapon struck her as funny, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Her hands trembled, making it difficult to slide her license from its plastic casing in her wallet.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?”
“Yes, Officer.” The late afternoon sun setting in the sky behind him made her squint. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or not, but she caught a glimpse of her warped reflection in his sunglasses. “I’m just really nervous, I guess.”
“Why are you so nervous?”
“I—I don’t know,” she stuttered as she handed over her license. “I’ve never been pulled over before, and I’m trying not to freak out.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Oh. Good. Thanks.” She grimaced. It sounded as though she’d been afraid of just that. “I mean, I know you’re not going to hurt me. At least I think I do. I meant thanks for trying to reassure me. I can’t help it, though; I get nervous easily.” She should just close her mouth. She wasn’t making things better by talking.
“Do you know how fast you were driving?”
“Um, I think so.” She wrapped her damp fingers around the steering wheel again. “Actually, I’m not sure.”
“Ten miles over the speed limit.” His voice remained calm, patient, rattling her even more. “Do you know what the speed limit is here?”
“Um, I think so,” she said again, a hot flush creeping up her chest and neck. “Actually, I—I’m not exactly sure about that either.” Her voice cracked into a whisper.
The officer cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I’m a little concerned. You don’t seem to know some pretty important pieces of information that someone who gets behind the wheel of a car should know.” His patronizing tone irritated her. “The speed limit here is 35 miles per hour. You were driving 45.” He paused, just long enough to make her squirm, before continuing. “Were you in a hurry to get somewhere?”
“No, not really.” She shook her head and forgot about keeping her mouth shut. “I was just hungry, and I wasn’t paying attention to how fast I was driving.”
The officer chuckled, and Juliette’s stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably. “You were speeding because you were hungry? That’s a first.” Her grip on the steering wheel tightened; he was mocking her.
Jerk, she thought to herself. “Well, it’s the truth.” She tried to glare at him, but the sun made it difficult, and she had to turn away again.
He leaned down to look around the inside of the car while she fumed in her seat. As if satisfied there was nothing suspicious about her, he straightened again, tore off a page from his ticket pad, and handed it to her along with her license.
“Look, Ms. Gustafson. Believe it or not, I appreciate your honesty. But being distracted is a dangerous way to drive, much more so than driving too fast because you choose to ignore the speed limit. Did you know that most accidents happen when a driver is distracted? Let this be a wake-up call for you. It’s why we give tickets; not necessarily to punish drivers for bad behavior, but to encourage them to drive better.” He pointed at the pink form she was holding. “Just follow the instructions on the ticket, okay?”
She couldn’t believe it. He was actually lecturing her! First he mocked her, then he lectured her. No longer nervous, she was offended. She nodded, her lips clamped shut, afraid of what she might say if she let any words slip out.
He patted the roof of her car. “Drive safely now, Ms. Gustafson.”
“Thank you, Officer,” she managed to squeeze out, her upbringing forcing her to be polite. “Not for the ticket, of course. Or the lecture.” Why, oh why couldn’t she just stop talking? “I mean, thank you for wishing me safe driving. Thank you for saying ‘Drive safely now.’” Her voice trailed off. She stuck her keys in the ignition, turned on the car, and rolled up the window without looking at him again. “Imbecile,” she muttered, not sure if she was referring to him or herself.
~ ~
~
A TICKET. Her first ever. She didn’t know whether to cry or celebrate. And today, of all days.
Today marked six months of life without Mike.
Juliette tucked her feet up underneath her as she nestled into the corner of her over-stuffed beige couch. This was her spot. It had always been her spot, and at this rate, it probably always would be. She maneuvered the TV tray over her knees until it was positioned just the way she liked it.
“Another wonderful meal with me, myself, and I. I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want, wherever I want. No one can tell me otherwise, and I like it this way.” She raised her plastic fork in a defiant salute, then stabbed it into the middle of The Green Dragon food on her tray. She spun the utensil until it was loaded with noodles and shoved the whole bundle into her mouth. She couldn’t close her lips around the bite, but she didn’t care; she just chewed with her mouth open.
“Delicious!” She exclaimed when she could speak again. “It’s you that I love, Mr. Yu. Only you.” She pointed the remote at the television and pressed play. A terribly-acted romance-novel-come-to-life started up again where she’d left it to go pick up her take-out. The heroine was overly-made up and vacuous. The male lead looked like he’d been shellacked from head to toe, not a hair or muscle out of place. Even his jeans were pressed. She actually wanted the woman to leave him. The storyline was not making her cry, nor giving her anything else to relate to, and it was sucking all the joy out of her favorite food.
Just as she was debating whether or not she could stand another second of the sappy dialogue, her phone rang.
At first, she tried to ignore it. Then she thought it might be Mike and contemplated throwing the thing out the window. She let it ring instead, and the call eventually went to voice-mail, beeping rudely at her. Sighing dramatically, she turned up the movie, preferring to see it through to the bitter end than to be stuck with her thoughts of Mike.
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