by Kacey Linden
“Then I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” she said simply.
Cale’s stomach lurched at the thought, and Mrs. Dillon’s hand flew up to cover her mouth.
“No, please.” Her voice began to wobble dangerously. “Please promise you won’t do that. If you left and something happened to you…”
“Willow.” Cale would beg if he needed to. He would do anything. At this point, if she left and ended up getting hurt, the guilt would crush him. “At least let me share some ideas. You wouldn’t have to stay for long. And whoever you’re afraid of, whoever is trying to find you… they have no way of knowing where to look. This is a small town. We have a lot of visitors for the ski season, but it’s nowhere near as well travelled as Bend, or Sisters. How would anyone even guess that you left the main highway?”
She shook her head with obvious reluctance. “They wouldn't. Not right away.”
“Then you have time. We have time. Please don’t run away so quickly that you do something you can’t take back.”
“I’ve already done things I can’t take back,” she told him, her chin high and her gaze steady. “But I don’t regret them. How long will it take to fix the car?”
“New Year’s,” he estimated.
Her eyes widened. “That’s five weeks.”
He nodded carefully. “It’s the holidays, so it’ll take longer to ship parts.”
Slowly, one grudging step at a time, Willow came back to the breakfast bar. “What did you have in mind?”
Cale felt like his heart started beating again. “A job,” he said quickly. “We’ll find you a job, just for long enough to pay Marty for his work and the parts. The Lodgepole Inn is looking for a front desk person to work nights, and the Old Town Cafe needs wait staff.”
“I don’t have any references,” Willow said cautiously, though she appeared to at least be considering the idea.
“Not usually a problem with seasonal work,” he told her promptly.
“Oh, but I have something better,” Mrs. Dillon announced. “At the last pinochle night, Aurora mentioned that one of her girls was leaving leaving town by… yesterday, actually. Suzette got engaged a few weeks ago and decided she couldn’t wait to move back home, so the coffee shop will be needing someone immediately. Rory was really worried about how she was going to handle this time of year without one of her full-timers.”
“You interested in giving it a try?” Cale asked Willow.
She was biting her lower lip, her gaze darting between him and Mrs. Dillon. “I’ve worked in a coffee shop before,” she admitted. “But only at the counter. I’ve never been a barista.”
“Not to worry.” Mrs. Dillon patted her hand soothingly. “It’s also a bakery, and they serve breakfast and lunch. Suzette was a waitress, and helped at the bakery counter, so I’m sure you won’t need to know how to make coffee.”
“And you think I could pay off my car by January.”
“I’ll call Rory today and see if she’s interested,” Mrs. Dillon assured her, “and ask what she pays. Since you have experience, I’m sure it’ll be more than minimum wage.”
Cale nodded in agreement. “And there are other options besides fixing your car,” he added. “We can check the classifieds and see if anyone in the area is selling a decent used car. Might be cheaper, and we'll make sure to find one that's had regular maintenance.”
He fought the urge to cross his fingers behind his back. She had to say yes. For Mrs. Dillon’s sake, if not his own. He could tell Marcia was already attached to her unlikely guest, and if Willow left now, the older woman would never stop wondering, never stop blaming herself. Willow would join Olivia in her memory, and Christmas would be even harder the next year.
“I’ll… consider it.” Willow’s expression was unreadable.
Cale left a few minutes later, kicking himself for the hare-brained idea that had gotten them to this point. He should have just told her the truth and filled up her gas tank, but between the bruises and her hopeless expression… he couldn’t just let her leave town, even if she'd been willing to accept his help with the gas, which was by no means certain.
He drove his truck over to Marty’s garage as the morning snow melted into ugly gray piles of slush. It splashed under his boots as he walked across the wrecker yard and into the bay where Marty had his head under the Corolla’s hood.
“Find anything we can use?” he asked, startling the older man into bumping his head as he jerked upright.
“Well, if you told her what we talked about, most of it wasn’t actually a lie.” Marty’s frown was not encouraging. “Even if you hadn’t faked it last night, the car might not have started. It’s a mess. I’ve yanked a wire or two though, just in case she wants proof.”
“How much will it take to make it roadworthy?”
The mechanic shrugged. “It won’t ever be something I’d let my kid drive farther away than the edge of town,” he cautioned. “But I can probably get her to Bend for five or six hundred.”
Cale rubbed a hand through his hair and wondered when he’d become such a terrible liar. When he’d seen Willow’s bruises and terrified hazel eyes? Or when Mrs. Dillon had wrapped an arm around her and thereby silently proclaimed her to be family?
“Well, check on the parts and give me your best estimate, but don't rush. I need a little time to figure out what’s going on, and whether there's a chance of pressing charges against whoever hit her…” He broke off. “Is that your phone?” A persistent buzz indicated a phone somewhere nearby set to vibrate.
“Not mine,” Marty said. “Mine is over there on the bench. I keep the ringtone real loud so I’ll be sure to hear it. It’s getting so bad, the wife says I need hearing aids.”
On a hunch, Cale pulled open the car door. Sure enough, the sound was louder, and he followed it to the glove box. When he popped it open, a phone fell out onto the floorboard of the car.
How could Willow not have taken her phone? Did she even remember it was there?
Cale picked it up. The incoming call was from Seattle, but there was no caller ID. Taking a deep breath, he answered. “Hello?”
“Who is this?” The voice was belligerent and male.
“Matthew,” he said, wincing at yet another lie.
“Are you the jerkwad who stole my phone?” the man snarled. “Or was it Willow? Is she there? She’d better be there, because I’m about to report her for stealing my damned car. Where are you?”
“Boise,” Cale said glibly. “Who is this?” So it wasn't Willow's phone. And if he believed this guy, it wasn't even her car. What had he gotten himself into?
“No way that helpless dim-wit got herself to Boise. You think I’m stupid? Did Willow put you up to this? She’s always been a damned fool, but even she should have known better than to run off with the first man who fed her a bunch of fancy lines.”
“I don’t know a Willow.” Cale’s jaw tightened with anger and dislike. “I found this phone at a gas station, but I can send it back to you if you give me your name and address." Lying was beginning to seem like a smart decision.
“I ain’t saying any more, but if you're with Willow, you’re a dead man when I catch up with you.”
“Seems like a lot of work,” Cale said dryly, “hunting down a guy who’s just trying to help. I’d much rather just mail you your phone, but if you insist that I’ve kidnapped your wife, there’s not much I can do.”
“She’s not my wife,” the man snapped. “She’s my worthless, whiny sister, and now she’s a damned thief.”
“Well, I guess that’s your problem, isn’t it?” Cale fought to keep his voice level. The woman he knew was neither a whiner nor dimwitted. Too bad there was no way to beat the man senseless over a cell connection. “Call back if you change your mind. Otherwise, I’m going to sell this phone on eBay.” He hung up and almost threw it across the garage.
So. Willow was running from her brother, in his beat-up wreck of a car. Chances were good that he was the one who’d hit her
, but for some reason, she’d risked running rather than reporting it.
And she was probably terrified Cale would find out the car was stolen.
This definitely made the situation a little tricky. But the man had said “about to report.” As long as he didn’t report the car stolen, Cale could feign ignorance. And if the brother was even slightly afraid that Willow would accuse him of assault, he might hesitate to make a fuss over a car that was barely worth five hundred bucks.
“Marty,” he said thoughtfully, “let me know whatever you find out about those parts. I want to know how much it will cost, but don’t order anything yet. I’m going to do a little research into the owner of this phone and see what pops up.”
“Sure thing.”
Cale dug back into the glovebox until he found what he was looking for—the vehicle registration. The car was registered to an Elliot Renner from Seattle. He took a picture of it and, with a wave at Marty, headed back to the station to do a little covert investigating.
Two thousand dollars. Willow couldn’t stop running the number over in her head, wondering whether she could earn that much before Elliot caught up with her. How long did she dare stay?
Cale had been right about one thing—her brother would have no idea where to look for her, and he would never willingly leave the city. His dealer was there, and all of his worthless friends, which was what had gotten him into so much trouble in the first place.
And yet, Elliot wasn’t going to just let this go. Without her, he wouldn’t have the money to pay for his habit. Wouldn’t be able to pay back what he owed, and he would have no choice but to come looking for her. If he could convince someone to loan him a car.
Taking all that into account, staying in Echo Creek might not be such a terrible idea. She could work for a few weeks and then leave without feeling indebted to anyone. She could even take Cale’s advice and pick up a used car that would get her farther than Elliot’s. As a bonus, the new car wouldn’t show up as stolen if anyone happened to run the plate.
And if she worked extra long hours, she might even have a few dollars left over for the road. Once she got far enough away—at least four or five states—she could rest for a while until she came up with a plan for an Elliot-free future.
Mrs. Dillon came back into the kitchen, hanging up her cell phone and looking extremely smug. “That was Aurora. She’d be delighted to meet you, and is willing to pay twelve dollars an hour if you have the right kind of experience.”
“Okay,” Willow said cautiously. “When can we meet?”
“Tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Dillon looked almost as excited as if she were the one hoping for a job. “I’ll take you down to the coffee shop around ten.”
“Sounds great.” Willow paused, winding the end of her ponytail around her fingers. “Is there… anything I can do for you until then?” She wasn’t sure she would survive an entire day of waiting. It left her too much time to think, second-guess, and eventually panic.
“Oh yes, there is!” Mrs. Dillon brightened and adjusted her glasses. “I was thinking it over last night and I’ve had a fantastic idea.”
Uh-oh. Willow just knew she wasn’t going to like what came next. It would be some form of unacceptable charity, wrapped up in the older woman’s warmth and enthusiasm and therefore impossible to simply turn down. “I can clean,” she offered hastily. “I’m not as good a cook as you, I’m sure, but I’m happy to shovel snow, or help with anything around the house.”
“Oh, pish,” Mrs. Dillon said. “My idea is much better.” Her smile lit up the entire kitchen. “You’re going to help me decorate for Christmas!”
Willow couldn’t quite process the request. “You want me to help you… decorate? Why?” she blurted out.
“I love Christmas,” the older woman said, a little wistfully. “I’ve always loved it. Everything about it. I used to think it was the cure for everything, but since my Livy’s been gone it hasn’t ever seemed to be worth the fuss for just me. But you’re going to be here over Christmas!” She beamed and clasped her hands. “You can help me with getting all the boxes out of the attic and hanging the garlands and putting up a tree. And the baking! I can make all of my favorite Christmas cookies because you'll be here to help me eat them!”
With a sinking heart, Willow realized it was already far too late to protest. “I… I guess I could do that. But I don’t really know much about celebrating Christmas,” she warned her hostess. “My mom used to talk about it when I was little, but she remarried when I was seven.”
“And stopped doing Christmas?” Mrs. Dillon sounded scandalized.
“No, she just didn’t do it with us anymore,” Willow explained. “She did it with her new family. She had stepkids, and her new husband didn't like us much."
"Didn't your father do anything for Christmas?"
Willow tried to imagine her father in the same room with Christmas spirit and failed. "My dad was too drunk to care whether it was Christmas or not, so El… my brother and I spent most of our Christmas breaks at the mall.” They’d been hiding from their father, but Elliot had taken the opportunity to learn how to shoplift. Willow had wandered from store to store, dazzled by the decorations, watching other kids’ parents shop for an endless parade of presents.
But she didn’t tell Mrs. Dillon how much she’d longed for a real Christmas every year, as she and Elliot made their way home through the rainy Seattle nights, passing house after house decked out in twinkling lights, with glowing, tinsel-draped trees beckoning from the front windows. Or how they had once made Christmas dinner out of tuna, graham crackers and lemonade mix, while they watched tv and tried to ignore the countless advertisements depicting picture-perfect Christmases in the cozy, fire-lit living rooms of beautifully decorated houses in picturesque, snow-covered towns.
“I don’t know how to decorate,” she said instead, “but I’m happy to help, if that’s what you want me to do.”
A few hours later, Willow decided that Mrs. Dillon didn't just love Christmas—she lived and breathed Christmas. They traipsed up to the attic together and Willow, concerned about the older woman attempting the narrow stairs while carrying stacks of boxes, proceeded to haul down an entire town’s worth of decorations. At least, that’s what it felt like. She stacked them in the elegant front sitting room, but eventually they covered the floor, so she was forced to start putting them in the cozier living area at the back of the house. Just when she was wondering whether they would have to spill over into the kitchen, Mrs. Dillon announced that she thought they’d found everything.
“There might be a few bins up there I’m not remembering, but we can look later. First we’ll need to sort through everything and decide which decorations we want to use.”
“I was wondering where all of it was going to go,” Willow remarked, collapsing on the blue couch and breathing hard. “It looks like enough for three houses.”
“Oh, but there are the garlands, and the wreaths for the porch, and the lights, and the centerpieces for the dining room, and the pillows for the couch…” she wandered off into the front room, listing various decorations as she went, and Willow brushed her hair away from her forehead with a groan. She had no idea Christmas was so much work.
“Oh, come look at this!” Mrs. Dillon called enthusiastically.
Willow huffed out a tired breath, but got to her feet and followed the sound of the older woman’s voice. Her curly white hair was nearly out of sight in one of the boxes, but when Willow came in she stood and whirled around triumphantly, holding a pair of shapeless, knitted…
“Stockings?” Willow guessed.
Mrs. Dillon nodded, her eyes shining, her smile wistful. “The very first ones I ever made. Stan and I were just married, and we didn’t have much, so I used some yarn my mother gave me and taught myself how to knit.”
“They’re…” Willow tried to think of a word.
“Awful?” Mrs. Dillon laughed at her expression. “You don’t need to tell me. Stanley was so k
ind about it, but I could tell he wanted to laugh at my efforts.”
The stockings were long, and red, and generally tube shaped, but that was where their resemblance to a typical Christmas stocking ended. Something white was affixed to the top of each one—a knitted blob with a few holes in it.
“Snowflakes,” Mrs. Dillon explained. “I wanted to make them prettier, but I think it just made them look even sadder, don’t you?”
“They’re perfect,” Willow said softly. She remembered the one stocking she’d ever had, a traditional fuzzy red one, with a white top. Her father had yanked it off the mantle, along with Elliot’s, and thrown them into the fire early one Christmas morning. He’d been furious that her mother had bought them presents with the money he’d been hoarding for a Christmas bender.
“Yes, in their way, I suppose they are,” Mrs. Dillon said, unaware of Willow’s dark memories. “We used them for three years, until I learned to sew. They didn’t hold very many gifts, but the ones they did hold came with a lot of love.”
“What did you get?” Willow asked impulsively. “What did Stanley give you for Christmas?”
“Oh, well. Let me think.” Mrs. Dillon tapped her lips. “That first year, I got him cologne. The store clerk said it was what all the men wanted, so I bought it and it smelled so terrible, Stanley ‘accidentally’ broke the bottle two weeks later.” She burst out laughing, clutching the front of her long white sweater. “I felt so bad, I saved my own money and bought him another bottle, at which point he confessed and we promised never to hide things from each other again.”
Willow smiled in spite of herself, warmed by even the memory of that much love.
“He got me a pair of shoes.” The widow’s gaze grew distant. “They were completely impractical, but I was young and loved pretty, impractical things. He’d seen me admire them in the store window so he worked extra jobs until he could pay for them. They ended up being the most uncomfortable shoes I ever owned, but I wore them because he loved me enough to buy them for me.”