Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 2

by Chautona Havig

  “Am not.”

  He was almost close enough. One more step. Without a word, she crossed her arms to match his and took the largest step she could without looking too obvious. She nodded. “Mmm hmm.”

  As though choreographed perfectly, he stepped to the swing and placed his arms on the ropes, shaking his head. Willow pounced. She twisted the seat of the swing, making an ‘x’ in the rope and shoved it over his head. Chad shouted in protest. “Are too!”

  She ran. Without a glance to see how successful she’d been, she thundered across the grassy field, nearly vaulted the fence, and raced across the front yard. Once in the house, she locked the door, but seeing Chad racing for the back door, she hurried through the room, knocking over a chair in the kitchen. The lock turned in place just as Chad’s hand touched the knob.

  “That’s not fair! You have my jacket.”

  “Mother always said that life isn’t fair.”

  “I’m freezing out here,” he protested.

  “You were fine at the tree,” she countered.

  “That’s what you think,” he muttered under his breath. How she heard it, Willow didn’t know. “It’s called dying to self. It’s what I do.”

  “Admit you’re bossy and you get your jacket back.”

  “Admit you’re obnoxious and I’ll consider it.”

  She unlatched the door and strode into the living room. With his jacket hung from one finger, she turned and asked “You admit you’re bossy?”

  “I will concede that when provoked, I can be, um—confidently protective.”

  “That’s the new term for bossy. Got it.”

  He glared and took another step closer. “And you are…”

  “You think that I am obnoxious.”

  “You are.” He snatched his jacket from her. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “See. You prove my point beautifully.”

  Chad opened the door and stepped onto the porch as he pulled the jacket over his arms. “That’s what you think.” At the bottom of the steps, he waved. “Goodnight.”

  “Chad?”

  He paused. “Hmm?”

  “Thanks for coming. I feel better.”

  “That was the goal. Night.” He opened the door to his truck and slid onto the seat, watching for a light to come on somewhere in the house. Come on. I’m watching for her to light something somewhere and we both know it.

  As he started his truck, he groaned, slamming the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. I can’t get rid of her! Even when I can, I can’t. Why did I come back? She told me to stay away! Why. Can’t. I. Just. Stay. Away? He started the engine, muttering, “and I am not bossy!”

  As Chad drove toward the highway, he rubbed an itchy jaw against his collar. The slightest whiff of lavender teased his senses. Great. Now his favorite jacket smelled like her. A grin split his face. Yeah. Smelled like her. She smelled. Good smells counted as smelly, right? His life wasn’t one of those sappy books with phrases like, “The fragrance of her permeated his thoughts, his dreams, his heart.”

  “Oh, puke.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Lee’s voice rose to an excited pitch. “So I went in and I told them—I said, ‘Look, she’s a fabulous designer, and she made those samples in no time, by hand, from her sick bed no less. You know you want them. ’”

  “And that impressed them?” Willow filled the freezer with packages of beef, organized from front to back.

  “Well no, not that. Suki said that without someone to run the store, they didn’t have a use for the designs. Oh, and that their first designer and she were ‘professionally incompatible,’ so they decided they wanted an all-in-one kind of person if they were going to expand.”

  “That makes sense—can you hand me that roast?”

  “Why are you mixing up the meat?” she asked as she passed the lump of beef.

  “It’s just how we do it.”

  Lee shrugged and eagerly returned to her topic of choice. “Anyway. I told them that I’d love the job of managing the store and collaborating with you. They’ll consider it in a meeting with us.”

  “Really? I thought it was all or nothing?”

  Practically jumping and squealing, Lee grabbed Willow’s hands. “I know! Isn’t it great!”

  The loading of the freezer went quicker than ever. With half a cow stored for the winter and the previously frozen vegetables moved to the veggie freezer, Willow grabbed a slab of brisket and followed Lee into the house, chattering about the possibilities.

  “So I wouldn’t have to leave the farm?”

  “Nope. I’d bring out the fabric swatch books as often as I could, and if we had to meet with a sales rep, you could just come in for the day.”

  Willow glanced around her, smiling. “You were right. I belong here, but this is so exciting! I can do both. I can live my life, and I can play with clothes!” After a moment, her brow furrowed. “Why do they want me? Why isn’t the designer for the women’s store doing the children’s wear?”

  Lee shrugged as she accepted a glass from Willow. “He doesn’t want to. He’s working on a collection of his own as well as Boho, so…”

  They discussed their plans for hours. Lee had to press Willow to make some of the designs a little less practical for an upscale shop, but once she caught the vision, Willow managed to create ideas that kept the illusion of custom design with couture detailing but requiring simple construction. Sundresses, tops, shorts, capris, and skirts appeared on her sketchpad.

  “Wait. What about your salon?”

  Lee shook her head. “I have two great stylists. If I get a manager, I can just check the books and inventory on Sunday nights and be fine.

  Their eyes met. Lee reached across the table to shake Willow’s hand. “I’m excited. I’ll have Suki’s bosses draw up the papers.”

  February 1997-

  Town drives me crazy. There is so much busyness—so much stress and haste. I sense it in myself sometimes. There’s always this drive to be going and doing, and to some extent, it is necessary. Sometimes, when I see how many more new conveniences there are, I wonder why people don’t have more time. Why do people work so hard with “labor and time saving devices” and yet have less time than ever?

  And the quest for stuff seems insatiable. First people rented those huge laser disks that were the size of record albums and three times thicker. Then came not only the VCR but also the Beta. Some people had both at once. Now it seems like everyone is moving to these new DVDs. With every new “upgrade.” I hear and read more about how people can have more because they take up less space. There’s nothing wrong with it, but where does it end?

  Willow, on the other hand, is untouched by it all. I smugly thought it was my brilliant discourses on the subject over the years, but I wonder now if it isn’t just that she’s naturally content. At her age, I was so bored unless I was going, going, going. I was too old for the things most little girls enjoy and too young for teenaged pursuits. I was stuck in a limbo created by our modern lifestyle. I didn’t want that for Willow.

  She, on the other hand, is stuck in both worlds. That child keeps us in fish. She can butcher a chicken twice as fast as I can, and she tills the soil like there’s no tomorrow. The books she reads would have been far beyond my comprehension, and I certainly wouldn’t have found them interesting. However, she swings for hours. She makes daisy chains, roams the property with Bumpkin, and spends hours creating alternate realities for her little dolls in their house. Oh and of course, Triple Chinese Checkers. It bothered her that four of the triangles weren’t used so she created yet another way to fry my neurotransmitters. We play three colors and try to wipe out our opponent without killing off our players. Her strategy is brilliant I’m sure. I just wish I knew what it was so I could beat her.

  Valentine’s Day, 1997-

  Continuing my goal of infusing the holidays into her consciousness this year, I mailed Willow a store-bought Valentine. She was so excited when she brought up the
mail (ok, she always is. It’s not like we get much). I thought she’d find it a little silly, but the novelty factor helped.

  Oh my! She’s been holed up in her room for the past two hours and just brought me her Valentine for me. She copied every aspect of it perfectly. She made an envelope, a stamp—complete with curfed edges, a “seal,” made from melting candle wax no less, and then the card. She was obviously influenced by the one I gave her, but like everything she does, she took it to another level. The embossed tussie-mussie on the front of the purchased card morphed into a 3-D basket when I opened this card. All those hours of making snowflakes paid off. It is truly a work of art. Her poem, on the other hand, while charming and therefore in my mothering eyes perfect, was less than inspiring.

  I think that I shall never see

  A Mother loved as much as thee.

  Without you I would be bereft

  Oh Lord, don’t take her from me yet.

  I didn’t know I was so near to the grave. Somehow, I didn’t laugh. Well, not until I heard her titter from the other room. Then we had the biggest tickle-fest and pillow fight in the history of the Finley family. I confess, I won. What can I say?

  Chad read the journals from his couch. Sprawled comfortably with one leg over the back and the other barely resting on the floor, his favorite Keith Urban CD playing softly in his MP3 player, he’d spent the majority of his afternoon lost in Kari’s world. Willow had thoughtfully dropped them off with a jar of homemade—could it be any other kind?—chicken soup on her way to Rockland for a business meeting with Renee, Bill, and Lee.

  He grabbed another tissue and sneezed, dropping the journal as he did. His head exploded. After two days of sick leave, he was ready to go crazy. His stomach rumbled, but the effort required to drag himself from the couch and reheat the soup was more than he thought he wanted to expend. His stomach growled again. He reached for another tissue and found the box empty.

  “Well, if I have to get up,” he mumbled to himself, “at least I can kill a chicken with my tissue.” His head shook, confused. “Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Whatever. I’ll eat.”

  He found a quart-canning jar in the fridge with the richest smelling broth he’d ever imagined. Homemade noodles floated in the mixture. Carrots, celery, onions, and what smelled like hearty dose of garlic, mingled in the simmering pot sending his stomach rumbles to new levels of discontent. He stepped away and his stuffed nose smelled nothing. A step closer—mmm. There it was. He’d eaten better in the past six months, excluding about six weeks of culinary and personal misery, than he had since he left home for the police academy.

  He rifled through his sparsely populated cupboards for crackers, but Cheese Nips didn’t sound appetizing with chicken soup. Her loaf of bread tempted him, but instead, he filled a glass of water and carried it to the floor by the couch. A last glance at the fridge sent him back for a bottle of Sprite. Colds were cured by Sprite and chicken soup. It was a Jewish proverb or something. He’d read it somewhere. Well, the chicken soup part, but he knew that if that proverbial Jewish mama had ever had Sprite, it would have been added to the prescription.

  He inhaled the soup and glanced toward the stove. So far away and yet so tempting. A wave of sleepiness washed over him. He’d better at least put it away or he’d wake up to spoiled and wasted soup and that would be criminal. As local law enforcement, it was his duty to prevent crime, not commit it. Yes, he must eat the soup. Oh, drat. How sad.

  Hours later, he awoke and found Willow sitting on the floor, across the room, covered in his comforter, and reading one of her mother’s journals. “Hey, whatcha up to?”

  “I’m cold.”

  “I can see that. Are you sick?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I will be if I walk home.” She reached down and pulled the comforter over her leg. It looked funny, that leg.

  “What happened to your jeans?”

  “I don’t know,” she said irritably. “I’ve lost my tote bag with my jeans, warmer jacket, hat, water bottles—”

  Chad sat up concerned. “What about your purse?”

  “I had it out to pay for the bus ticket. That’s actually when I found my bag missing. I think it was stolen.”

  “I’ll take you home.”

  Shaking her head, she motioned for him to stay seated. “I don’t want that. You’re sick. I just thought maybe you knew who might be able to drive me home and if someone might have a jacket that I can borrow until I can order a new one. I need that jacket.”

  Phone in hand, Chad did a quick Google search and dialed the feed store. When no one answered, he dialed the chief’s house and asked for Terry’s last name. Within minutes, he’d arranged a jacket to be delivered, to his door, and as fast as Terry Boucher could get it there. “Chief sounds worse than me, so I didn’t ask if Darla could go. I’ll take you.”

  “That’s ok, with a better jacket, I’ll be ok. Do you have a pair of sweat pants I could put on over my skirt. I’d be shaped funny but warmer.”

  Chuckling, Chad stood, wobbled, and then shuffled to his bedroom. “As much as I’d love to see that, forget it. Besides, maybe…” he wheedled, “if I take you home… you’ll be merciful and share some more of your soup.”

  Before she could protest, he shut the door behind him. A sigh of exhaustion escaped the moment he hid behind the door. He didn’t want to drive. He actually didn’t really want more soup right then. All he wanted was to close his curtains, crawl into bed, and sleep—for a very long time. However, he knew how hard it was for Willow to ask for help. If she asked, she needed it. Period. By the time he found someone available, he could have driven her there himself.

  Terry’s knock came swifter than he expected. Chad gulped at the price, but Willow didn’t hesitate. She wrote her check, albeit painfully slowly, and thanked the older man profusely. “I don’t think Mother knew you sold Carhartt. I know we bought her last one from a catalog.”

  “That’s when I started selling them. The jacket didn’t arrive, so she asked if I’d be able to find a reputable dealer. Your financial guy took care of it I think. Everyone wanted your mom’s jacket, so I started carrying them.”

  “Well, I appreciate it. Mother caught her sleeve on fire last time she wore it, so she was going to get a new one.” Her voice caught before she added, “I bet she would have bought it from you.”

  As the door shut behind Terry, Willow turned back to Chad. “Are you sure? I can walk now, or maybe one of the other officers—”

  “Let’s go.”

  Almost from the moment they climbed into his truck, it was too quiet. Chad nudged her and said, “Talk to me. I need to stay awake. Tell me about your meeting.”

  “Well, I signed the contract. Renee and Bill both agreed it was a sound deal for all of us. I produce twenty-four pieces ready for display by December first. I guess they’ll provide all the materials, have someone pick them up for me, and the store opens January seventh.”

  “And they’re paying you enough?”

  “I think it’s more than generous. They offered me a flat price per item for my labor and designing time, and then I get a commission on every piece sold plus a bonus at different levels.” She smiled excitedly. “They even took my advice and are pre-making eight of the styles. I said that parents would probably want to be able to buy something last minute too, so they’re going to keep a limited stock.”

  “This store interests you.” He was intrigued by her insights and enthusiasm in the planning process. Chad wanted to question her about whether she’d made the right decision about staying in Fairbury, but exhaustion barely allowed him to drive. This was a bad idea. He was two blinks from an accident.

  Willow, apparently unaware of Chad’s fuzzy thinking, chattered about the logo they had designed and the plan for a play corner for the children. “Oh and they liked my name suggestion.”

  He felt groggy… the blur of the road blending into the blur in his mind. He heard something—something familiar. “Chad?”
r />   “Huh?” He swerved slightly and turned into her driveway.

  “Chad! You almost hit the corner of that fence!”

  His eyes flew open wider. “Did I? I didn’t notice that.”

  At her door, Willow begged Chad to come in and stay but he refused. She rushed in, filled another jar with soup, and hurried back out to his truck, shivering in the cold night air. “Now you call me when you get home so I know you’re not dead on the side of the road somewhere.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “That’s not funny. Call me.”

  Willow prayed earnestly as she milked Willie, fed and bedded down the chickens, and filled “Belinda-the-new-cow’s” water trough. She checked her phone twice as she strained the milk and sterilized the bucket. No call.

  By the time she’d eaten a bowl of soup, washed her dishes, and cleaned out the sink, she was nervous. Thirty minutes later, she called. No answer. She tried repeatedly for the next half hour but with no better results. An hour and a half was too long to drive five and a half miles.

  She could call the police and ask them to check his house or the highway, but would he get in trouble? Could it hurt his job if they knew he drove while sleepy? What could she say that was truthful without giving it away? Chuck and Bill were too far away. She could walk there before—

  Without a second thought, she changed clothes, put on her warmest jeans and her new jacket, grabbed gloves, hat, flashlight, and at the last second, stuffed them in a tote bag with their first aid kit. It was bulky, but if he’d hurt himself… She tried his number again. Nothing. Perhaps she should call Pastor Allen. Would he feel obliged to report Chad though? If only she knew the protocol on those kinds of things. Nope. She was walking. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  Willow was furious, both with herself and with Chad. This was unnecessary. A gust of wind howled against her kitchen window. “Great. Now wind too. I thought I smelled that northern gale coming,” she muttered to an empty room as she banked the fire in the stove.