by Summer Wood
“Your aunt Meg?” Len’s voice was soft and low. “She was the loveliest woman I ever laid eyes on. She worked a parts counter down there in Watsonville and she sold me a replacement taillight when I busted mine taking a curve too fast. Laughed at me for it. I was only passing through, but I knew I wasn’t leaving unless I had Meg sitting on that bench seat next to me. And I managed it, too.” Len rubbed his hands together like they hurt. Then he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and drew out a scrap of paper and the sharpened stub of a pencil. From his wallet he retrieved a small, folded card. Len bent his head and painstakingly copied some numbers from the printed card onto the scrap of paper, and then he handed it to Wrecker.
“It’s your inheritance,” he said.
“My what?”
“I’ve been holding on to it for you since Meg’s parents died. Willow tried to give it to your mother but she wouldn’t take it. We figured to save it for you.” Len shrugged. “Wasn’t much then, but it grew a little.” He dipped his head toward the scrap. “The account has your name and mine both. I’ll call the bank and let them know to let you close it out.”
“I don’t want it,” Wrecker said, and thrust the scrap toward Len.
Len turned slightly so his elbow shielded him from Wrecker’s outstretched arm. He focused his attention on Meg.
Wrecker looked down at the unfamiliar numbers. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, his voice cracking. He struggled to collect himself. He didn’t know if he should tear it to pieces and fling it in the trash or tuck it in his pocket and leave for good. Forever. Or climb in next to Meg. Or—
“You’re good with the timber, boy.”
Wrecker’s head jerked up. It was the last thing he expected to hear, and he looked at Len like he was crazy.
“My father taught me,” Len said. “He had to.” His lips pursed slightly and he shook his head, remembering. “It took all of us. My father, my brother, and me. When the blight finally got to Tennessee it took out all our trees in a short couple of years. Every single chestnut, dead. And we had to cut them all or watch them go to waste.” Wrecker watched as Len laid his hand gently over Meg’s open palm. “I’m just saying.” Len looked up, held Wrecker’s gaze. “It wasn’t a mistake to marry Meg. And it wasn’t a mistake to go and get you and bring you home to Melody. Two best things I ever did.” He shrugged. “If it matters to you, go find out more. You’ll be eighteen in a few days. You’re your own man.”
Wrecker felt it like a wave of grief passing over him. He stood. He bent down to kiss Meg on the forehead. He was almost out the door when he heard Len call him sharply.
“You sure as hell do know who you are,” Len said, his voice flinty.
Wrecker looked at him and Len never dropped his gaze.
The boy drew himself tall. “Eat more, old man. You’re getting skinny.” He gestured with his chin to Meg. “And take care of her.” He slapped the doorjamb. “I’ll see you.”
“Course you will,” Len said, turning already to gaze at Meg’s tender face.
Before he left, Wrecker called Melody and delivered a terse message. He was headed for San Francisco for a few days. If it turned out to be longer than a week he’d call again. He couldn’t bring himself to say he was fine. He wasn’t fine. And then he caught ride after ride, and let the miles rush before his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The evening air was damp with a warm fog when Willow picked her way along the path that led from her yurt to the farmhouse. She’d stayed to herself, mostly, the past few days. The night Meg got sick Willow had caught a ride to the hospital, and she’d spent forty-eight anxious hours there, trying to comfort that inconsolable man. Meg’s system had been so thoroughly compromised by her illness, the doctors said, that even if she recovered from this bout of pneumonia she might not have enough strength to fight off the next bad bug that came her way. Len closed his ears to them. He focused his attention in a narrow beam at Meg, willing her back to health, and made Willow feel like an obstacle to his aim. She escaped as soon as she could.
Whatever Len did, though, seemed to have worked. They were home, now. The doctors released Meg a scant week after she’d entered through emergency, her breathing shallow and a fever raging through her system; she’d still need special care, they said, but they were amazed to see her recover so quickly. Willow shared in the relief, but she kept her distance. She turned her back to the meadow and to the strip of woods that separated her home from theirs, and counted on Ruth for updates. It wasn’t pride that made her stay away. It was grief. Len was the sole reason she’d stayed so long at Bow Farm, and she was leaving, now. Leaving Bow Farm, and leaving him.
A car door slammed shut on the knoll above the farmhouse, and Willow looked up to see Melody, her arms loaded with groceries, stumble down the path in her direction. Lugging the bags was Wrecker’s job. Willow shook her head. Everything had fallen apart at once. When Wrecker arrived at Meg’s bedside midway through the week, reeling from the news about his mother, Len had been as brusque and dismissive with him as he’d been with the rest of them. The boy had stormed off in anger, Ruth reported, and hitchhiked his way down to San Francisco. Good for him, Willow thought. She felt a pang of guilt as Melody drew closer. Ruth said Melody grew daily more frantic with worry. But what did she think, waiting so long to tell him? Willow figured there was a good chance Lisa Fay would soon be set free. Was that what Wrecker was doing, down there in the city? Looking for his mother?
The thought made her heart skip a beat.
The setting sun put an odd pink shine on the glossy leaves of Ruth’s kitchen garden. There was no place in the world like the Mattole Valley at the peak of summer, and Willow knew how sharply she’d miss it. Without speaking, she eased a bag from Melody’s arms. Together they entered the dooryard. Melody bumped open the front door with her hip, crossed to the counter, and set down the sacks. She handed Ruth a packet of the ginger candies she liked. “Heard anything from him?” she asked softly.
Ruth shook her head. She was simmering something on the stove and her shoulders hunched protectively over the pot. She caught Willow’s eye and then glanced back toward Melody. A look passed between them. “What,” Melody said, squinting suspiciously. Ruth gazed again at Willow, and looked away.
Melody turned to stare closely. Willow watched as her eyes widened. “Jesus, Willow,” she sputtered. “What’s the matter with you?”
Willow stiffened slightly and angled her body away from Melody. She had combed her hair, put herself together, but she knew her eyes were lined with red and the creases in her face cut deeper than they ever had. It had been a while since she’d slept through the night. She took off her jacket, hung it on the seat back, and rubbed her bony wrists. So she’d lost some weight. These weeks had been hard on them all. Willow set her jaw and tried to sound resolute. “We need to talk.”
Melody gave her hands a quick shake, and then smoothed them through her hair. “When people need to talk, they just talk. You mean there’s bad news.” She leaned forward, her face tense. “Tell me. What happened to him?”
“Wrecker’s fine,” Ruth said brusquely, tapping the spoon on the rim of the pot for emphasis.
Melody spun to face her. “Did he call here?”
“He’s traveling,” Ruth said, exasperated. “When he’s ready to come home, you’ll know it. He doesn’t need to report his every little move.” She lifted the spoon and wagged it toward Willow. “Stop thinking of yourself, for once. Willow has something to tell you.”
Melody’s eyes widened at Ruth’s tone. She sat reluctantly at the table.
Willow was annoyed to find that she couldn’t stop trembling. She crossed her arms in front of herself and tucked her hands against her sides. She could get her lips to move, but couldn’t count on her voice to power the words.
Ruth left her stove to scrape a chair out from the table and settle herself noisily in it. “Look,” she said bluntly. “Let’s not make this more than it is.�
�� She turned to Melody. “Meg’s sick, and Len won’t see Willow. She thinks it’s over between them. I think Len will come around once Meg gets better, but she won’t be persuaded.” She cast Willow an impatient glance.
A fleet look of surprise and hurt skated across Melody’s face. Willow swallowed and gazed away. It wasn’t anybody’s business but hers. Ruth was just nosy that way; she took wild guesses and then ferreted out some version of the truth. But Ruth was wrong about this. Willow knew it wasn’t over with Len. “That’s not—,” she started, but shook her head and tucked her chin.
“So Willow’s moving. Giving up on Bow Farm.” Ruth frowned. She lifted both pudgy hands and cracked the knuckles, and then she stretched forward to lay her swollen digits over Willow’s long, thin fingers. “I wish you wouldn’t, girl.”
Ruth had it all wrong. Willow’s eyes glistened with tears. She was leaving because it wasn’t over. Not for her, it wasn’t. The past week had shown Willow that she wasn’t willing to share Len with anyone. Not even with Meg, to whom he rightfully belonged, and who needed him, now. Needed him whole, not divided. Needed him—
Jesus. What kind of person had she become?
It had nothing to do with sex. Len’s desire belonged to her alone. Willow was sure of that. But his attentiveness, the direction of his thoughts and his care and his profound hope—Meg was his beloved, and her illness had not changed that. She was delicate, now, her body and her mind made weak, but Len was connected to her in a way that had nothing to do with choice or intention. He could no more leave Meg than escape the compulsion that sent him to the woods each day. He was a woodcutter and a husband. Meg’s husband.
To Willow he was—
It was not less. Willow felt a clot of emotion surge in her throat, and she shifted her gaze to stare out the window and force herself to calm. Len loved her. He knew her in a way that she had never felt known before. And when their bodies finally collided, it was explosive for her in a way she couldn’t have anticipated. The potential had always been there, the tension that stretched like high-voltage wires between them—but she hadn’t expected to fall in love. Willow looked from Ruth to Melody. There was no way to explain. “Please,” she said. “If you could help—”
“Wait.” Melody looked bewildered. Her hair had come loose from its bun and swirled around her face in disarray. “The farm payment?” She glanced anxiously at Ruth and then back. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. But you aren’t saying—”
Willow forced herself to meet Melody’s frightened gaze. “I’ll need some money to get started,” she said, and hated to hear her voice crack with the strain. “You’ll have to go to the bank, Melody. You’ll have to refinance. But I’ll turn over my share in the farm to you.”
“No, Willow. Please. I can’t lose the farm. Not now.”
“You won’t lose it, Melody. Go to the bank. They’ll write a new loan.”
“They’ll laugh me out the door!”
“You can manage without me, this time.” Willow paused. She braced herself, and made her voice clear and harsh. “You have to.”
Ruth huffed with dismay. “Len will come around.” Her voice was a rheumy murmur. “Give him a little time, Willow. Len loves—”
“Yes.” Willow stood abruptly. “That’s the problem. Len loves me.” She gathered her jacket from the chair back and thrust her arms into it. “He loves me, and he loves Meg, too. But he needs to take care of Meg, now. It will kill him to divide himself, and if I’m here, he’ll try to do it.” Willow struggled with the zipper and gave up, pulled the leaves of her jacket snug around her. “Ruth, please. I need your help.” Ruth raised her head, and the wattles shook under her chin. “I need you to keep an eye on him, see him through this. But tonight, go over and take care of Meg. Tell Len I need to see him.”
“Willow. Are you sure—”
“Please, Ruth. I’m begging you. Stay with Meg until Len gets back.”
Ruth crossed the floor and gripped Willow hard. “Don’t beg me,” she said, pulling her close. “I won’t know it’s you.”
Willow let herself huddle against Ruth’s warm bulk for a little while. She could hear her friend’s heart beat slow and steady, wrapped deep in that soft flesh. Then she pried herself away and escaped through the kitchen door, letting it slam behind her. Willow turned once to see Ruth’s troubled face shining in the window. She knew Melody was too furious to turn toward her. And terrified. Melody might never forgive her.
That stubborn woman. If she saw what she had—
Willow tucked her chin and sloped forward across the yard.
Her yurt was a mess. As disheveled as the inside of her mind, Willow thought, as she paced the single room, dropping books and papers into half-filled boxes and turning out cabinets and drawers. She was a neat person, a meticulous person, but she had crossed a line somewhere and now her thoughts and her things alike lay scattered about her like the aftermath of a disaster. She lowered herself to the side of her bed. It was no disaster. She’d been forced to see what had been there for a long time: she was in love with a man who was married to someone else, and her children were light-years from her, living a life from which she had excised herself. Neatly. Irrevocably, maybe. Willow pushed herself up and moved stiffly, forcing herself to clear her shelves of books, stacking them in random boxes and hastily sealing them up. She needed to have as much done as she could before Len arrived. That way there would be no question. He would understand she was leaving, and he would have to agree. It was the right thing. It was the only thing.
Willow paused with her hand around a clutch of books. It was possible that Len wouldn’t come. If Meg needed him—if he thought that she needed him—he’d stay and tend to her. He would send a message through Ruth that said, I’ll come later. Another day. When Meg is better.
Or send no message at all.
She shook her head. She couldn’t concern herself with that. She would fill boxes and protect furniture and pad the framed artwork that hung from her walls. She would disassemble the loom, stuff away the skeins of spun yarn, gather her weavings heedlessly into bags. She would ignore the vivid colors and novel patterns, her efforts to tame the wild into something that made sense. To tame herself, her own unruly heart.
Maybe he wouldn’t come. Her knees softened and she sank gently to the floor.
These things, what did they matter? The tools and materials of her trade, the spun yarn and pigments of her passion, the books, the memories and small keepsakes collected from her travels, least of all the lovely, utilitarian items of her daily life—
He would come.
The cedar box lay tucked in back of a locked drawer in her writing desk. Willow got up and searched for the key. She unlocked the drawer and felt behind the boxes of envelopes and stationery for its smooth polished shape. It took some effort to tug it out, and she placed in at the center of the desk and stood for some time with her hands on its lid.
He would come. He would come, and still she would go.
Willow heard a sound outside. It was dark, and the yurt would be glowing like a lantern at the edge of the meadow. It would guide whoever had come—Len or Ruth—along the worn trail from his cabin.
The door opened, and there he stood.
“Oh,” Len said.
She couldn’t take her eyes from him. She had planned to be crisp, expeditious, dispassionate. That would make it easier for them both, she thought. But the fact of him interfered with her intentions.
“Oh,” he said again, this time with neither surprise nor confusion.
“It’s the only way, Len.”
When she saw his face change, she wanted to call back the stupid words. She would recant. She would unpack the boxes and return the books to the shelves and replace the artwork on the walls and try to believe again in the patterns of the weavings.
But then his face changed once more. It darkened into an expression she’d never seen him wear before, and he stepped toward her.
Willow stepped back
.
“No,” he said, his voice a guttural snarl that rose from his belly.
Len caught himself, though. It took some time. Twice he turned to leave, but he didn’t follow through. He waited long enough for his face to change entirely and for them both to weary of standing there, such a distance between them. And then the only solution appeared to be to reduce that distance. Cautiously, deliberately, Len took one measured step forward. And against one part of her will but in accord with the rest of it she stepped forward to meet him there, in the middle, and together they sidestepped—it wasn’t a waltz, but it might have looked that way, to a stranger—to Willow’s bed.
At first they were overcome with a rank urgency, their clothes still on and their bodies exacting the penalty of their anger from each other.
And then they rested, not touching, not talking, not looking at each other.
The second time Willow let Len draw her clothes from her slowly, sliding her silk shirt through the thin gap between their bodies. She let him lay his face in the crease of her neck and against the swell of her belly, felt his desire rise with the scent of her skin. When he reached for her she climbed onto him and held his wrists against the sheets and dragged the sway of her breasts across his lips; and when he couldn’t—would not—wait any longer she let go of him so he could grasp her hips and slide himself inside her. He watched her move above him, watched his own work-hardened hands run up her sides to lay dark on her pale breasts, and then he turned and carried her beneath him, drawing out the sweetness for as long as he could last.
The third time, she took him in that other way and he came again so suddenly and violently she thought that he would shake apart.
The fourth time was no time at all. They had slept for hours. Len woke first when the faintest light glimmered through the east windows, and he gazed at Willow for a long time. She opened her eyes to find him like that. Willow reached a hand to stroke the stubbled line of his jaw. She felt him stir against her thigh. But her face changed, softer still, and she moved away from him and slowly eased herself from the bed.