Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 6

by Chautona Havig

  A full moon sent light spilling across the room as Chad dragged himself to bed. Kari slept in her little basket—one she’d almost outgrown. As he slipped between the covers, Willow rolled over and murmured, “You’re late. Rough night?”

  “Three transports. Couldn’t leave until Joe got back with the last one.”

  “Ryder called today—wanted to make sure we were safe. I guess Jason Rosser made the news somewhere.”

  It was hard not to laugh at her naïve words. Must have made the news somewhere? Something like that. “Yeah.”

  “You okay?”

  “I don’t know.” As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t okay, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.”

  She pushed herself up on her elbow and tried to stare at him in the darkness. “What’s wrong?”

  “This Myner guy.”

  “We don’t have to—”

  “I know. He came into the station today. Brought his license, offered references—everything.”

  “Just to take a tour? Isn’t that a bit excessive?” Her hand touched his face before she rolled over and scooted closer to him.

  Chad wrapped his arm around her and laid his cheek on her hair, curling himself against her. “That’s what I thought, but the chief thinks I’m being paranoid—said the guy just keeps hearing about us and is intrigued. Myner even said he’d fly back out if we don’t decide to do it before he goes.”

  “To tour a farm. You’re kidding me!” Kari whimpered in her basket before settling back down again. Willow giggled. “Oops.”

  Once he was certain the baby would sleep, Chad continued. “The chief checked him out. The guy has no criminal record. Varney even called references. Everyone says the same thing. Myner isn’t a saint, but he’s well-respected and an upright citizen.”

  “So call him. Bring him out. He doesn’t even live here. He’s from California. What could he possibly do?”

  “I just don’t get the fascination.”

  To his astonishment, Willow snorted. “You don’t get the fascination with the life you were fascinated with? Really? This life that children should have? I know how people talk about us. They think I can’t hear them or something, but the people in this town offer us to the tourists as a main attraction. Of course he’s intrigued. Who wouldn’t be intrigued by the granddaughter of the head of an organized crime syndicate who doesn’t use electricity and never used a phone until she was twenty-two? I mean, come on…” She shifted, her head turning to try to meet his eyes. “Even I can see the morbid kind of fascination that would prompt.”

  “If we’re just going to be a sideshow at the Fairbury circus, I’m not interested.”

  “So, why is this bothering you? Just ignore him. He’ll either understand or he’ll be a twit about it, and prove to us why we didn’t invite him.”

  “The chief—” Chad sighed. “The chief thinks we should do it because we’re letting one semi-bad apple spoil the pie or one of those stupid southern sayings he uses when he gets worked up.” Another sigh escaped. “Lass, I think he was disappointed in me for not calling the guy right then.”

  “Or maybe,” Willow said, rolling back to face him again, “Mr. Varney just had his pride pricked when his opinion didn’t automatically supersede yours.”

  She had a point—one he would never have allowed himself to consider, had he even thought of it. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder. “I just wish I knew for sure. I don’t want to be stupid and stubborn over nothing.”

  “Would you have agreed to it before the Rosser thing?”

  “Lass, before the Rosser thing, you would have had him all over the place and out of here before I got home. I wouldn’t have had a choice even if I would have thought of it. And I wouldn’t have, if you’re curious.”

  “Wouldn’t have what?”

  For an intelligent woman, sometimes Willow could be a little dense. “Thought anything of you showing him around. You’ve done it enough.” He yawned.

  “Well, how about we do this. I’ll ask Becca if she’s comfortable having someone tour the place. If she is, we’ll do it. If she isn’t, well, we don’t want to make our employee’s uncomfortable.”

  “My name isn’t Gideon…”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Chad kissed her. “It means that I don’t tell God, ‘Do this and I’ll know it’s Your will.’”

  “Who said anything about ordering God about? I just thought that since Becca should have a bit of a say, we could let her be the deciding vote.”

  “So you’re for and I’m against?” It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.

  “No, frankly, I’m more ambivalent. I could care less either way. You want to want to do it, so let Becca decide since you’re pro and against.”

  He didn’t answer, but the decision seemed settled. It made sense, despite his lingering reservations. Just as he started to relax, he remembered something. “Did you say Ryder called to see if we were all right?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s good… maybe he’ll come see her now.”

  “Maybe. He’s made it as far as the back step before turning around. I hardly see him anymore,” she murmured, her disappointment clinging to each word. “I kind of miss him.”

  “I’ll keep praying. Maybe something good came out of this mess with Rosser.”

  “A lot of good came out of it. He’ll get help, Chad. Years of pain can start healing now.”

  The familiar quiet sounds of the night blanketed him as Chad fell asleep, praying for wisdom. His wife’s occasional soft snore, the rattle of the craft room window—something he needed to fix—even the shifting of a crumbling log in the woodstove. Each one added a layer of comfort as he drifted into semi-consciousness.

  Kari’s wail woke him up minutes later.

  Chapter 190

  The drive felt smoother on his second trek up the lane to the farm, though the moment Ralph noticed, he became distracted by sheep in the pasture. Trees shed leaves everywhere, turning a gold and russet horizon into a carpet beneath his wheels. Those closest to the house were already bare as if cleaned up in preparation for winter.

  He parked behind a minivan. The front door opened, and Willow stepped onto the porch. Taking a deep breath, Ralph stepped from his rental car and reached in for the enormous bunch of daisies he’d purchased. That guy at the flower shop better be right, he mused. “Mornin’, Mrs. Tesdall.”

  Willow accepted the flowers with simple appreciation—not a flicker of unease about her. That had to be good. “Welcome. Come on in. I’m just putting a pot of stew onto the stove. Then I’ll show you around.”

  Ralph didn’t know what to expect, but the farmhouse wasn’t it. A woodstove with a sort of a fence around it heated a good-sized living room. Two couches, each different in style but both sporting the same tailored slipcover, created an L shape. Book cases filled one corner, and each window in the room sported a shelf over it. But the area rugs, the wallpaper, and the art on the walls drew him in first. “Beautiful room.”

  “Thank you. The wood trim is Mother’s handiwork. The rug is mine.”

  “You made this rug?”

  She flashed him an indulgent smile. “Yes. I painted the flowers on the wall as well. Mother carved that figurine and made the curtains. Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  “Anything, thank you.” Ralph stepped into the kitchen and disappointment washed over him. In comparison to the living and dining rooms, the kitchen looked like a project begging to happen. “Large room.”

  “Which,” Willow said, her voice filled with amusement, “I think is a polite way of saying that it doesn’t look as appealing as the others.”

  “Well, it’s not what I expected, no, but then I realized that this is a working farm. It isn’t going to look like a magazine picture.”

  “Don’t say that to Chad. He’ll tell you to leave.”

  The flat tone of her voice implied she didn’t mean to jest, but Ralph couldn’t imagine so
mething so innocuous being so offensive. “Chad likes or doesn’t like the kitchen?”

  “He wants to remodel it—put in more cabinets and who knows what else. I don’t see what’s wrong with this as it is.”

  “I think,” Ralph began as he searched for the right words, “he is probably accustomed to the modern consumerist ‘updated’ philosophy. We’re not accustomed to seeing things that are out of date, so to us it looks worn out.”

  She ran her hand over hard Formica countertops. “It’s so sturdy—in good condition. Why remove it?”

  Ralph glanced up at her and back to the counter. “May I be blunt?”

  “I’d prefer it. I don’t like wondering if I’ve missed the meaning behind something someone said.”

  “You see sturdy and good condition. I see cheap materials that are aesthetically displeasing. In this room I’d expect to see butcher block counters and an island so you could work without your back to the room.”

  “That would be nice…” Willow set a kettle on a woodstove before stepping out of the kitchen, listening. “Sorry, I thought I heard the boys.”

  “Where is your husband?”

  “He had to make a run to Brunswick for a transport. He’ll be here any minute. I’m not sure when.”

  Her words amused Ralph. Just days earlier the man had been adamantly opposed to having a stranger on his property, and now he wasn’t home when that stranger arrived. “Would he prefer I wait in my car until he arrives?” As ridiculous as the question seemed, Ralph found himself asking anyway.

  “No, but thank you. It’s been a trying time, but I don’t think we were in any real danger. The son of a man my mother killed became a little fixated on this house—”

  “And on you?”

  Willow nodded. “Yes, and on me. Chad was a bit unnerved by it, but he’s had time to let it settle.”

  “So tell me about your home, will you? I understand you don’t use electricity.”

  “I don’t. Chad uses a bit now and then, but I rarely turn it on in the house. I do use it in the barn, though—for the washing machine and things.”

  Ralph pointed to the ceiling where lavender hung drying. “And does this stay all year?”

  “Just until it’s dried—almost ready now. We have more than ever this year. We planted lavender all along the drive and this year they bloomed bountifully. Becca—our employee—spent hours cutting, tying, and hanging those.”

  “And what do you do with them?”

  Smiling, Willow excused herself for a moment, returning with her arms full of various things. “This is what I do with them,” she explained. “Soap…”

  Ralph picked it up and sniffed. “It smells clean—and slightly spicy.”

  “Yes.” She set down a sugar shaker jar. “This is my deodorant. Baking soda, corn starch, and ground lavender florets.”

  “And it works?”

  “Do I revolt you with my stench?” His dismay must have shown on his face because she laughed. “I couldn’t resist.”

  Eager to change the subject before he inserted his other foot into his mouth, Ralph pointed to a mason jar. “And what is in there?”

  “Lavender Oil Soap. It’s used to clean the floors, the woodwork—everything.”

  “Oil soap—like Murphy’s?”

  Willow nodded and set down a few sachets. “For the drawers and closets.” She smiled at him. “And, now and then, I make lemon lavender cupcakes.”

  “I’d heard that lavender is edible, but I’ve never eaten it.”

  “I wish I had known. I could have made you some.” A baby cried nearby. “Excuse me. I’ve been expecting Kari to wake. Her schedule—such as it is—has been off since we had to leave and return.”

  A glance back at the vegetables waiting to be cut for stew told him he’d interrupted her long enough. “May I? I know how to cut a potato.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

  She didn’t return. As he chopped the potatoes, carrots, celery, and turnip, he wondered at her acceptance of his offer. In his experience, women didn’t accept help—at least not from a man. Was it latent Victorian ideas of women’s versus men’s work or was it due to some feminist thing? And what made Willow so different?

  By the time he had the Dutch oven filled with the laid out vegetables, Willow returned carrying her daughter. “You are an excellent ‘chopper,’ Mr. Myner.”

  “Ralph will suffice. I can chop. I’m not much for knowing the right seasonings without a recipe, but being single all these years has taught me a few skills in the kitchen.”

  Willow nodded at the baby in her arms. “Do you like children? I could brown the venison if you would hold her for a couple of minutes.”

  He hadn’t imagined she’d offer, but Ralph couldn’t resist the chance to play with a baby again. It had been years since his nieces and nephew had been little. “If you’re sure…”

  “I saw Chad coming up the drive. You wouldn’t get far if you tried to take her from me.”

  The idea of such a thing appalled him, but in light of their recent trials, it seemed a reasonable thought. The baby distracted him from his thoughts, chubby fingers batting at his jacket. Ralph fingered the hem of the long dress the baby wore. “What is her name?”

  “Kari—after my mother.” Willow set a cast iron frying pan on the stove and tossed a pat of lard in it.

  Chad burst into the kitchen, shivering. “It’s getting colder each minute. It almost feels like snow.”

  “Becca said the weather is calling for freezing rain.”

  Holding out his hand, Chad shook Ralph’s before caressing his baby’s head. “She looks like she’s happy with you.”

  “I rarely care about my singleness; in fact, I prefer it, I think. However, when I hold a child like this, there is a bit of regret. Still,” he continued with a thoughtful smile. “My nieces and nephews are now old enough to marry—Jennie did last year. I’ll have the equivalent of grandchildren in the near future.”

  The father reached for his daughter. “Do you mind?”

  The scent of sautéing onions and venison filled the room. Willow opened a door of the stove and settled another log among the coals. Ralph turned to it, curious. “So you cook on a wood stove. Is there a reason aside from the electricity? Couldn’t you have used propane?”

  “Mother wanted to try it before going that route. She liked it, so we used it.” Willow scraped the contents of the pan into the Dutch oven and wiped it out with a grease rag from beneath the sink. “Biscuits, Chad?”

  “I don’t know—maybe. What have you shown our guest?”

  “Just the kitchen. He agrees with you on renovations. If I could think of a way to make it work, I’d consider his idea of an island. I like it.”

  “Why wouldn’t it work, Lass?” Chad glanced from wife to Ralph and back again.

  “Where would we open the table for cutting and drying and other work? It would take up the room I need for the table.”

  Ralph didn’t know what table she spoke of, but he could see that she needed it to do whatever she did on it. “I think a contractor would know how to provide what you need.”

  “Or Luke could. Luke could build anything.” Chad beamed. “You know how much you love Aggie’s cabinets.” To Ralph he added, “That you’ve even got her talking about it shows you speak her language.”

  Laptop open as the plane soared at nearly thirty-thousand feet, Ralph began typing his notes from his tour of Walden farm. He jotted down each bit of information he could remember. Everything from the animals and produce raised to the handicrafts and essential skills necessary to keep the farm running filled the screen. Each thought spurred another and then another.

  Willow uses everything to its fullest potential—even if just as fuel for their fires if its paper or fabric waste. She showed me paper she’d made from scraps of fabric and paper, beautiful sheets that she’d watercolored to cover journals. Chad described her using scraps from a clothing project to make more clothing and
then creating more fabric in order to use up those scraps.

  Ralph stared at the screen before opening another document and typing a question. Question after question flowed as ideas flooded his thoughts. He consulted his calendar, chose two weekends that could work for a return trip, and opened a third document, typing out a letter that might change his life.

  Brown paper bags covered Willow’s kitchen table. While Becca cut the tops into an arc, Willow painted spray of lavender across the front of each one, setting it aside to dry before moving onto the next one. Occasionally, a pair of little feet would burst into the room and little arms would fling themselves at one or the other of the women, but Chad, usually three steps behind, would scoop the boy up and cart him off again, giggles filling the room as they went.

  “I hope we have boys,” Becca murmured.

  “Josh is going to want a girl or two.”

  Becca’s eyes slid sideways. “I know. He’ll need someone to make beautiful clothing for—even if Kari gets stuck with fairy costumes and princess dresses.”

  Groaning, Willow picked up another bag and painted several lavender stems before reaching for the purple paint. “Did you ever decide what to put in these?”

  “We’re still debating between lavender lemonade mix and just lavender florets as sachets.”

  “The lemonade is your idea?”

  “How’d you guess?” Becca dropped the scissors and shook out her hand, flexing her fingers to pump the blood back into it.

  “You’re not a sachet kind of girl. Point out that men like Chad will be there—men who will just throw away your hard work.” A smile crept over Willow’s face. “You know he’ll hate the idea of all that work going to waste.”

  “Maybe we could do some of both. It might be nice to have variety.”

  As much as she hated to do it, Willow spoke her opinion. “You shouldn’t do the sachets.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re the girl who bends over backwards to please everyone. You didn’t just agree to the sachets, so you really don’t like the idea.”

  Becca stared at her hands. “Half of our guests are homeless or dirt poor. What would they do with a sachet?” Scissors in hand again, Becca grabbed another bag. “Josh is just having so much fun with the décor and stuff, he’s not thinking beyond the beauty of it.”