Wildwood Creek

by Wingate, Lisa

  Through the wall, I heard someone breathing, someone moving, the light squeak of sneaker soles brushing against one another. The sound seemed startlingly loud. Too loud to be in the room next door.

  I tried to open my eyes, but after a week and a half of sleeping in bits and pieces, waking to the sounds of Blake’s comings and goings next door, suddenly tonight my eyelids felt impossibly leaden, my brain sluggish, unwilling to wake. I couldn’t rise from the fog, couldn’t see. There was only darkness and then the vague feel of weight against the feather mattress, a slight groaning of the ropes, the sound seeming far away.

  Was someone here? Was I only dreaming?

  A hand settled over my forehead, stroked my hair. I heard myself murmur, “Who . . .”

  “Shhh . . .” The voice was just a whisper, and then the weight was gone. The ropes adjusted with soft moans, rising again.

  Everything drifted farther away. The fog thickened, pulled me into blackness until there was nothing more. . . .

  In the morning, when Wren burst into the room, bringing in both light and noise as she drew back the curtains, my head felt like it’d been the ball at a peewee league soccer practice.

  “You and loverboy have a big time last night? You’re not even up! We go live in less than ten minutes. And you better do something about that hair. You look rough this morning.” The window protested loudly as she popped out the screen, then rescued a tin coffee cup waiting outside. “Looks like sweetie pie left you some coffee. It’s cold, now, though. Smells nasty.” She set down the cup, then leaned farther out the window, her stomach balancing on the sill. “Ohhhh, and look! Someone hid flowers behind the woodbox. And there’s a tag too. How romantic.”

  I sat up, the room swirling around me. “I think I’m sick . . . or something.” The memory of the night drifted through my consciousness, thick and strange. Misty. Had there been someone in here?

  The idea brought a rash of chills, and my teeth clattered despite the gathering heat of the day. “I must’ve dreamed it. . . .” Bracing my arms on my knees, I let my head fall between them. Why was my brain in such a fog? The last thing I remembered clearly was sitting on the porch steps with Blake before I went to bed. There had been complaints the past week from some of the show participants camping on their new claim sites in the woods. They’d seen someone sneaking around after dark. Blake was working quite a bit at night now, trying to figure out whether the interloper was a member of the cast or an outsider, trespassing.

  “Ohhhh . . .” Wren cooed, setting a jar of yellow wildflowers on the table and reading the scrap of paper tied on with twine. “For the lovely Bonnie Rose. Ewww . . . special.”

  I tried to focus on the flowers, but my vision was swimming. I never slept this late. Usually I was up and dressed early in anticipation of Blake showing up with morning coffee. We’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm—early coffee chat at the window every day for a week now, occasionally a few minutes on the porch in the evening, if he wasn’t busy working. Once in a while, I caught a glimpse of him beyond the blue line with Rav Singh or other members of the security team.

  At this point, we were neighbors and friends. We flirted a little. But the flowers seemed a strange departure—last time and this time. Despite our almost-kiss at the fireside the first night we’d shared dinner, we’d both been content to just let things amble along. It was easier than wondering whether it made any sense to get involved with someone under such strange circumstances as Wildwood Creek.

  And now . . . flowers for the lovely Bonnie Rose?

  That just didn’t seem like Blake’s style.

  Wren opened the breakfast bundle, releasing the scent of food into the room. “Looks like corn cakes and jelly this morning. And beans. Who eats beans for breakfast? I told you that’s the problem with having everybody else do your cooking. They give us the junk they don’t like. Can I at least open a can of peaches? We have two left and you can buy us more at Unger’s when you get your salary.”

  “Yes . . . okay. Don’t cut yourself.”

  “I’m not stupid.” Her high-pitched voice grated on my brain. She stopped moving, and I knew she was watching me. “You look like my mama with a hangover. You better get out of that position before the cameras go live.” When I didn’t respond, she came close, so that I was staring at the hem of her skirt. “Are you really sick? I mean, like sick sick? Want me to go get the set medic?” Her voice took on a note of tender concern. Something had changed between us since our afternoon at the creek. We had more in common than either one of us had ever thought.

  The room stopped its carousel ride. “No, I think I just need to . . . eat . . . something. I had the weirdest dream last night, that’s all.”

  “Was loverboy in it?”

  “Take it easy on me this morning, okay?”

  “Okay.” She stepped in beside me, slipping underneath my arm as I wobbled to my feet. “Here. Sheesh, come sit down and drink your cold coffee.” Moving me to a chair, she deposited me in front of the window, where I closed my eyes and let the sun and fresh air seep into me, clearing the fog from the night.

  Wrapping my hands around the cup, absorbing the last bit of warmth from the metal, I looked at the jarful of wildflowers and thought of Blake. Was this his way of trying to . . . take a leap beyond just being neighbor-friends?

  “Here, let me do something with your hair,” Wren said with the exasperated tone of a mother dealing with an errant child. “You do not want to be on TV someday looking like that.” She snatched up the snood and comb, then proceeded to rake my hair into submission. It would’ve been painful if my body hadn’t been so numb.

  When the camera went live, we were having breakfast, just like any other morning, except for the addition of the peaches. The conversation felt strangely remote, and I couldn’t focus on it. I didn’t even realize our go-live was finished until Wren’s tone of voice changed, and she pointed out the window.

  “Looks like someone is trying to find you.” I followed her line of sight, and Kim was on the spring path, a small pile of laundry in her hands. She motioned for me to come out.

  “Hope she brought your things back finally.” Wren added a conspiratorial smile as I stood up, the wobbling in my head finally settling to a vague dizziness.

  I grabbed a blanket from the wardrobe and wrapped it around myself to cover my chemise, then hurried around the schoolhouse and down the path. If Kim had taken the risk of coming first thing in the morning when she was supposed to be getting bathhouse business underway, something was probably wrong . . . either that, or she planned to beg for more days with the iPhone. I’d told her yesterday was it. Period. As soon as I got the thing back today, I was giving it to Wren to take up the hill.

  But when we met in the cedars, Kim looked happy rather than distressed. I figured that wasn’t a good sign. She was going to make excuses again. “Did you bring my phone back?”

  “I need it another day.” Her lips parted into a wide grin, and she had what I liked to call the here-comes-trouble twinkle in her eye.

  “No. Just no. The phone goes back up the hill today. Did you email Stewart for me and tell him I never did get the package he sent? Make sure he knows it’s no big deal. I don’t want him worrying about it all summer.”

  Kim raised an eyebrow, and I had a feeling we were about to jump tracks. “Yeah, about Stewart, you know, I’ve been keeping up with your texts from him. I figured I might as well, as long as I was hanging on to the phone for a while . . . you know, in case he came up with the big Bonnie Rose reveal you’ve been looking for. Anyway, he started sounding a little . . . friendly, if you know what I mean, so I—well, I mean you, because I’ve been being you—let it slip that you were dating somebody here. I thought it was a good idea, just in case he had the wrong idea about this little research arrangement.”

  “You told Stewart I was dating someone?” The last, last person in the world who’d be interested in my personal life was Stewart. Kim had probably embarrassed him to
death.

  “It seemed like a good idea. You know how you’re always telling me not to give a guy the wrong idea if I’m not interested? And besides, it’s not a total lie. There is Mr. Hotstuff next door. So, did he kiss you yet? Did you kiss him?”

  “Kim . . .”

  “Okay, never mind. So, just listen—because I have to get back to work before Annie catches me AWOL.” Stiffening her arms, she pulled a breath, clearly trying to keep from going hoppy-jumpy about something. “We have a plan.”

  Oh, man . . . A little elf started hammering thumbtacks just behind my eye again. “Who’s we?”

  “Netta, Genie, and me . . . well, and the kitchen ladies. We couldn’t do it without them, because they’re at the big house too. And you, of course.”

  “I don’t even want to know.”

  “Wait, listen. It’ll work.” She was talking rapid-fire now. A sure sign of approaching insanity. Mine. “So, as soon as you let school out this afternoon, Netta and Genie are gonna re-create one of the Delevan sisters’ famous afternoon teas. They read about those in their bio pack. They’ve already been baking and planning and all that stuff. You’re on the guest list, of course. Just think, you’ll get to put on your Sunday-best outfit, eat tea cakes, and sip tea. It’ll be fun. I’m on the guest list too. Only, I won’t be there, because . . .” Her voice was bouncing now, and so was her body. Liftoff would occur any moment. “I’m going to meet Jake. There’s a county road bridge not far downriver from here, and he texted me exactly how to get to it, and I just texted him back and told him when I’d be there. I’m actually gonna get to see him, Allie. I know it’s just for a little while, but I’m so excited I can’t stand it. And it’s so romantic.”

  “It’s not romantic, it’s crazy.” I’d hoped the phone would make things better, not worse. Now she’d not only hatched a plan, she’d brought everyone in the Delevan house in on it.

  She took my hands, squeezed them between hers. “Love is crazy, Allie. It’s crazy and it’s wild, and it makes no sense at all, but I am so in love. He’s the one. This is it, I’m telling you. Sometimes you meet someone and you just know. Everything is just . . . right. When you’re together, it’s perfect. And when you’re not together all you can think about is being together again.”

  When you’re together, it’s perfect. . . .

  When you’re not together, all you can think about is being together again. . . .

  Why did Blake instantly come to mind? Why did her words make me think of the way I looked forward to his smile outside my window in the mornings, about the multitude of times I glanced toward the blue line hoping to see him there, even when I was trying not to think about him?

  I understood the kind of infatuation that Kim was describing. I also understood that decisions based on runaway feelings rather than careful analysis could be the first big step toward disaster.

  There wasn’t any talking Kim out of this. I could see that. “Okay . . . But you realize, you’re not going to be able to keep doing this. Aren’t you afraid that seeing him now will just make it that much harder? Have you thought of that?”

  “You know that I can only think of one thing at a time.” She was literally glowing with excitement. “And you think too much. Let loose and have a little fun with Mr. Handsome. We can both be in love at once. Come on, Allie. You can’t go your whole life not getting attached to anybody because you might get hurt. I’ve watched you all these years, and every time a guy is interested, you close yourself off. Blake Fulton isn’t your daddy. Love doesn’t always end with someone being ripped away from you in the worst possible way. Your daddy didn’t mean to leave you—he died. He couldn’t help it.”

  “Don’t psychologize me, okay?” I wasn’t ready for this first thing in the morning. “We were talking about you.”

  “Just think about what I said, okay? I love you, Allie. You’re my best friend. I want you to be as happy as I am.”

  “Go back to the bathhouse.” Suddenly, I was exhausted and trying to change her mind was futile, anyway. “Please be careful this afternoon. Don’t take any chances. Promise me.”

  “Promise! Pinky swear.” She held hers up, and we hooked little fingers, and then she was off. Hiking up her skirt, she jumped a tiny yucca plant and dashed away.

  The crazy cloud of enthusiasm left with her, and I did what I usually did when Kim came up with one of her wild plans: I started worrying enough for both of us. All through the school day and various go-lives, Kim’s harebrained scheme was the only thing I could think about. When I saw Blake strolling by as I left the school to walk to the tea party, I almost spilled the beans and told him what Kim had in mind. Maybe it was the strange night I’d had, but something felt off today, and even the normal rhythms of Wildwood couldn’t smooth the ruffle into place again.

  “Well, don’t you look just as pretty as a speckled pup?” He flashed a smile as he came my way. It temporarily burned off my lingering sense of doom, and I forgot about everything else. He did have the most incredible smile.

  I performed a silly twirl on the schoolhouse porch. I was wearing my Sunday best—a green and cream madras plaid dress with piped seams and pagoda sleeves. The knife-pleated skirt was full and pretty—though incredibly hot—and even someone as un-girly as me couldn’t help feeling special in it. The dress had been rented premade from a costumer at the last minute, but it fit perfectly. “Why, thank ye-ew, kind sir.” My lousy Scarlett made Blake laugh.

  He tipped his hat in response. “I do declare, ma’am, it would be my pleasure to escort you wherever you are headed.”

  “I was just about to stroll up to the Delevan house for tea.” I realized I’d missed hearing his laugh this morning even more than I’d missed having hot coffee. The sound was deep, warm, and sweet. I really liked the way he laughed.

  He offered his arm, I hooked mine into it, and we strolled up the street chatting about the school day. In the back of my mind, guilt niggled as we said hello to Andy outside the blacksmith shop, then started up the path to the Delevan house. The reality of what I was doing closed in on me. I was aiding and abetting Kim in sneaking off the set, a security breach of monumental proportions. Meanwhile, Blake was working night and day, trying to control security issues. If Kim was found out, it would look bad for Blake and the security team. How would he feel when he discovered that I was in on it? That I’d walked up the hill with him, chatting about school, when I knew what Kim was doing?

  I wasn’t a liar. How would I ever prove that to him, if the whole thing came to light?

  At the big house, Netta and Genie were sitting on the porch in their rocking chairs, along with Lynne Everly and two other cast members living the lives of the kitchen women. Apparently I was the first guest to arrive, since there seem to be no one else around.

  “Well, look who it is,” Netta clucked, smiling at Blake. “You makin’ sure the young ladies of Wildwood are safe on the streets today?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.” He tipped his hat. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”

  “Doesn’t look like yer sufferin’ so much,” Genie drawled, and the two women giggled at the joke. “Y’all come on up and have a bite. It looks like we fixed tea and cakes for nothin’. That little production assistant just came in and told us the power’s gone down all over the place, and they don’t know what’s wrong or when it’ll get fixed. Now don’t that just put the socks on the rooster?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it does.” Blake’s brows knotted, and he looked toward crew camp, suddenly all business.

  Lynne Everly, the aging history professor who was now Old Asmae, lifted a platter off the table. “Try these tea cakes. It took us all morning to get these things right, and now they won’t even be on camera. Hoo-ee, reminds me of baking for funerals in my mama’s kitchen, that’s for sure. Every recipe we made started with a pound a’ butter.”

  Blake helped me up the stairs, then quickly made excuses to leave, grabbed a tea cake at the ladies’ insistence, and h
eaded off toward the crew camp.

  I lowered myself carefully into a porch chair, muscling the hoops into place before accepting a teacup and cake. The sweet treat tasted like heaven, even though by modern standards it was somewhere between a cracker and a cookie. Not all that sugary.

  “Pretty good, huh?” Lynne prodded. “That recipe is authentic 1860. Got it from an old journal.”

  “It’s delicious.” Oddly, after weeks of classes about the uncomfortable social structure of Civil War–era race relations, I felt like we’d be reprimanded any minute for enjoying cakes together and laughing on the porch. At times like this, I wondered how the African-American participants felt about life in the village. I’d asked Andy when I’d taken the school kids up to the blacksmith’s shop for a science lesson. He’d simply shrugged and said, “How do you feel about being an Irish schoolteacher? It’s history. It is what it is.”

  Nearby, Lynne’s granddaughter, Alexis, was enjoying a break from the life of Essie Jane. She and Bella, one of my older students, had settled in on a rope hammock, giggling and using it as a swing.

  Wren appeared from the general direction of crew camp and invited herself in for goodies. Since the chairs were full, she settled on the porch steps, her daisy-print cotton skirt spilling around her.

  “They look like they’re enjoying the break. I think I need one of those hammocks,” I commented. The afternoon was warm and breezy. A perfect time to kick back and watch the clouds drift overhead—as if there were ever time for that on a normal day in Wildwood. There was always something to do in the work of daily life.

  “You should ask your neighbor for one,” Genie offered. “He made us that neat little thang—just brought it by the other day and hung it up there in by the tree line. I do declare, that boy is handy as a pocket on a shirt. Some gal is gonna be lucky to snag that young fella.” She gave me a pointed look, and I felt sweat dripping under my Sunday-best dress. Was it hot up here, or was it just me?

  Netta continued the Blake Fulton brag fest. “Blake said he learned about making something out of nothin’ while he was in Iraq. Why, he’s a bona fide war hero—did you know that? He probably wouldn’t tell unless someone asked, of course. He’s so modest.”