Willow's Way

by Sharon Struth

  The flap had been opened already. Willow removed the multipaged correspondence.

  On top was a letter, dated October 15, 2006, indicating that due to the recent passing of her mother’s parents, the attached will was being executed. 2006? Mom had always said her parents died before she’d left England. The postmark and date made no sense. She flipped to the will, read the details, Bitton Property willed to Chloe Armstrong Van Dassel by Derrick and Sarah Armstrong. They’d left her mother their house? Why hadn’t she claimed it?

  A voice inside her head shouted, “You had grandparents,” but she couldn’t quite grasp the reality.

  Her mother had lied?

  Was there other family Mom had hidden? Willow would have given anything to learn there was family out there besides her mother. She’d even asked her mother a few times over the years, but was told there wasn’t.

  She continued reading and, almost at the end of the will, Willow blinked at a single line, not sure she’d read it correctly. She read it again.

  In the event of Chloe Armstrong’s death, Willow Armstrong will be bequeathed the property.

  Willow put down the will and went to the other envelopes. Each contained a follow-up letter, asking her mother to confirm receipt of the will. The final letter, dated almost a year after the first, said the property would be held in trust if she didn’t respond soon. Based on the postmark, her mother had passed away one month later. So a month before she died, she hadn’t claimed the house…

  Which meant Willow owned property in Bitton, South Gloucestershire?

  Excitement she hadn’t felt in ages bubbled inside her. A house in England must be worth something. The passbook might be small potatoes compared to the money she could get from selling a house.

  She gathered the passbook, will, and photos, then scurried down the hallway to the kitchen, flying on the wings of hope. A search on the internet for this address should provide more details on the location.

  The passbook money could get her to England, where she could see about selling the house. With any luck, while there, she could start to piece together the empty spaces of her life.

  Chapter 2

  “Unreserved seats found in cars one and two only!” The Paddington Station conductor waved his arms toward the opposite end of the track from where Willow stood to board a car.

  Passengers standing in the same line as Willow groaned and half of them abandoned their spots to rush to the other end of the track.

  Willow didn’t have a seat number or car number that she could see so she went up to the conductor. “Excuse me. Am I in the right line?” She showed him the ticket.

  He leaned over to look, squinting as he scanned it. “No. Car one. Best you hurry, Miss. Those unreserved seats fill fast on a bank holiday. Next time it’s worth a little more money to pay to ensure you get a seat.”

  “Thank you.” That explained why she’d gotten such a bargain when she’d booked online.

  She ran toward the others who’d left her line, a yawn slipping out as she dragged luggage that got heavier with each step. Sleep was all she wanted after the overnight flight to Heathrow, where she’d been too wound up to get a second of shuteye.

  Since her arrival in England at eight a.m., she’d taken the express train into London to a branch of the law firm handling her grandparent’s estate. There, they’d given her a key to the house, located near Bath. Now she navigated Paddington Station. Stunning with its high, curved ceiling, modern in style, and open-air tracks, it was also jam-packed with people.

  At the first car, she squeezed into the thick of the crowd, gripping her luggage and inching toward the door. She’d always heard that forming a queue was as British as scones and tea, but perhaps it wasn’t true on a bank holiday.

  By the time she hauled her luggage up the steep steps and swung the bag onto the top of a luggage rack near the entrance, sweat beaded her forehead. She ambled down the aisle glancing both ways for a free seat, squeezing past passengers who stood talking to other passengers. Two-thirds of the way back, she blew out a sigh of relief when she spotted a few empty seats.

  She plunked into one, shimmied off her light jacket, and took a moment to pat some of the sweat off her forehead. Tipping her head back on the headrest and closing her eyes, she clasped the rose charm on her mother’s necklace.

  Since slipping it on three days ago, she hadn’t taken it off and now wore it as a symbolic way to have her mother with her on this trip. She couldn’t imagine why her mother had lied about what she’d left behind in England, but there must’ve been a good reason.

  Someone took the seat beside her. She dropped her hand, opened her eyes, and glanced over. A tall, slender man sat down and stretched his long legs out in front of him, giving her a nod as he did. She did the same and turned to the platform as last-minute passengers ran for the train.

  The necklace pressed a spot just beneath her collarbone. Mom, we’re here. We’re really here. A bittersweet mix of joy diluted with sadness washed over her as she wished they’d taken this journey together.

  The man to her side shifted in his seat and Willow heard a few beeps. Looking through her purse, she glanced at him out the corner of her eye. He held a cell phone to his ear. Great. A talker.

  She double-checked her wallet pocket, where she’d stored the house key from the estate solicitor. According to Mr. King, her grandmother had died in 1998, leaving her grandfather in the house alone for eight years. A neighbor found him dead when she’d noticed he wasn’t picking up his mail.

  “Hi, baby. I’m on my way back from London.”

  Willow stared out the window, trying not to listen.

  The man laughed softly. “Okay. What are you wearing?” He paused. “Perfect. Exactly what we talked about.”

  Pain squeezed her chest and jerked her back to the moment she’d found Richard on his cell phone in their bedroom whispering, “Will you wear the teddy I bought you?” At least that’s what she swore she heard, a fact he denied when confronted. The truth came out two weeks later at a press conference, when he told the world he planned on leaving Willow. Had he hated her so much he couldn’t do it in private? Or had public disgrace been the only way to get her attention?

  “See you soon.” Her seatmate undid the tray in front him and dropped the phone there.

  The train doors shut. Finally. A muffled announcement came over the speakers about their arrival time in Bath, and the train smoothly pulled from the station.

  Willow watched out the window, trying to ignore the pressing ache in her chest over Richard. After two years, his leaving shouldn’t bother her, yet it niggled at the insecurity owning her since childhood.

  She wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t skinny enough.

  As they flew past the outskirts of London, she removed a bag of crackers and a book from her purse. Eating the snack, she watched fields and the occasional house passing outside the train window.

  “Tickets, please.”

  She handed it over to the conductor, and could feel the stare of the man to her side. Like a good New Yorker, she ignored him.

  The portly conductor clicked the ticket and gave her a quick smile. “Enjoy your day.”

  “Thanks.” She inhaled and sat back, anxious to see the house.

  The day after the will discovery, she’d called Abe, thinking legal advice would be prudent before she got too excited about what she’d found on the internet. Right now, her lawyer was about the only one she trusted.

  One website had described Bitton as located in a well-traveled area of England, where tourism dollars might yield a big price for the right house. Abe had worked his magic and by noon he’d talked to someone in the UK and told her they estimated the property to be worth a million pounds—a greater sum in US dollars.

  She tipped her head against the window and closed her eyes, the rose necklace shifting on her throat, like
a gentle tap from her mother. How many times had her mother ridden a train like this from London to Bath, where once at the station a family member would give her a lift home to Bitton? An unexpected tear slid down her cheek, knowing she’d go there too, but to an empty house.

  “You okay there, Rosebud?”

  She opened her eyes and glanced to her side to the man seated there, surprised to find him staring at her. “Are you talking to me?”

  He nodded and lowered his folded newspaper while watching her over reading glasses that slid halfway down his nose.

  “My name isn’t Rosebud.”

  He offered a closed lip smile. “Your necklace. It’s a rosebud.”

  “Oh, yes it is.” She reached up and touched it. “Thanks. I’m fine.” She shifted to face out the window again, but stopped when he kept talking.

  “You’re American, are you?” He placed the paper on his lap. His British accent sounded crisp and friendly, so much classier than American men.

  “Did my accent give it away?” She grinned.

  He smiled. “First trip here?”

  “It is.”

  “Right then.” He shifted in his seat, facing her and appearing ready to settle in for a long conversation. “Are you staying in Bath or headed somewhere nearby?”

  “Bath.” The stranger didn’t need to know everything about her.

  “You’ll love it. The place was founded by the Romans as a thermal spa.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a candy bar. A Cadbury Double Decker. Chocolate. A word that transcended continents. He tore away the paper. “Bath became an important center of the wool industry in the Middle Ages. A lot of history there. Want some?” He tipped the chocolate bar her way.

  She pulled her gaze from it. “No. I’m sorry for staring. Just a bit jet-lagged.”

  He took a bite, chewed and swallowed. “Bath also has wonderful architecture. Georgian-style designs built with Bath stone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s local limestone found in most of the buildings around town. You’ll also find neoclassical design at the Roman baths. An amazing site. The Romans…”

  He talked. And talked. Willow studied his long face, the slope of his nose, the rugged crags of his profile and dark eyes, the same color as his unkempt black hair and thick brows. He wore a light leather jacket over a white dress shirt and black jeans. Though tall and even a bit lanky, he seemed confident in his skin. He also liked to talk. Pleasant compared to most American men she knew, who weren’t very chatty. The soothing quality of his accent relaxed her.

  “…and they remain intact to this day. Any special thing you might try to see?”

  “I saw Stonehenge was nearby and would love to get there if I have time. But everything you mentioned sounds very interesting.”

  A man hurrying down the aisle slowed at their row. “Hey there, mate!” He stuck out his hand right in front the man seated next to her. “It’s been a long time.”

  He glanced away from her and a grin spread. “Well, Roger Barton. How the hell are you?”

  “Never been better. What are you doing back in England? Last I heard you were all over Europe.”

  The ready grin left her neighbor’s face, replaced by a shadow of sadness. “I came back a year ago. Time to come home.” His solemn tone shifted, more upbeat. “Where are you these days?”

  Willow gave them privacy and watched out the window, shocked by what she’d been missing. Farms. Sheep. Fields that stretched for miles. Excitement vibrated inside her chest. This was how she pictured England.

  Fitting some travel into her life over the years should’ve been easy. Richard used to remind her they had no money issues or children and could go anywhere in the world. Her answer? Always no.

  Work. Work. Work.

  Success meant everything. Couldn’t he see that work also made her forget the two miscarriages? Forget the doctor’s news she could never have a child?

  Her seatmate’s deep voice rumbled beside her. “That’s one of my mates from growing up. A real blinkered fella, but he seems to have changed.”

  Blinkered? She turned to him, about to ask what it meant, but he held out a bag of almonds. “Have a few.”

  “Sure.” She reached in and motioned to the small bag of crackers near her book. “Want some?”

  He shook his head. “It’s salt and chocolate for me today.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a card. “Listen, I run a tour company if you’re in the market for one. Can I interest you in a card?”

  “Sure. I don’t know what I’ll be doing each day, but a tour sounds fun.” And she meant it, but only after she got the house on the market.

  Rolling up the top of the almond bag, he stretched his long legs into the aisle and tossed the snack on the tray. “Great. Well, cheers then.” He smiled and shut his eyes. “Enjoy the rest of the ride.”

  “You, too.”

  She smiled. Men could sleep anywhere.

  When she’d first landed in England, she’d been exhausted. But the excitement of getting closer to the house worked like a jolt of caffeine. With any luck, this journey would not only bring her much-needed cash, but a family history she sorely desired.

  Chapter 3

  A muffled voice over the train’s loudspeaker announced, “Next stop, Bath Spa.”

  Willow closed her book. The man still slept to her side. She debated on whether to say something, but he yawned and his eyes slowly opened.

  She gathered her jacket and backpack from the floor beneath her seat. When the train stopped, a more sizable crowd than at the previous stops stood to leave. Her seatmate rose, then stepped aside and waved his hand to the aisle. “After you.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled and squeezed out, following the crowd down the aisle.

  At the luggage rack, she stopped. Two bulky suitcases sat on top of hers. She tugged her handle to slide it out, but nearly knocked the other two down. People exiting bumped her as they moved quickly to the doors. Her adrenaline pumped. What if the doors shut and the train pulled away?

  A hand suddenly shot over her head and took the handle of her bag.

  “I’ll get it.” Her seatmate stood close, towering over her. “Go ahead out to the platform.”

  She hesitated. A bona fide New Yorker knew better than to leave her personal belongings in the hands of a stranger. People again banged into her trying to enter the train. Putting her faith in the stranger, she stepped outside the doors, staying close in case he planned to run off with her belongings. On one level, a ridiculous notion, but tourists were easy victims.

  That very second he turned around and stepped out, her luggage in hand. “Here you go.”

  “Oh. Thank you so much.” She grabbed the handle and felt like an idiot for the few seconds of distrust. Nobody in this country had been anything but kind.

  “Well, then.” He glanced around. “You know where you’re headed?”

  “Yes. I’m getting a cab.”

  “Okay, then. Take the lift over there with your bag up to the main level. There are always cabs outside.” He glanced toward the building. “I’m parked in the station lot. I can give you a ride somewhere, if you like.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but I’ll stick with my plans.”

  “Okay, then. I’m off.” He passed her a grin that probably got him far in life. “Enjoy your stay in England.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he walked away, he blended into the crowd of passengers. For a minute, she felt utterly alone. Hell, she was alone.

  After a stop in the ladies’ room, she took the elevator to the street level, where she struggled to get through the train station turnstile with her large luggage until a nice employee politely let her out a regular door, all while smiling and welcoming her to town.

  She stepped outside and inhaled the crisp
fall air while searching the parking lot. A nice new van approached, the words Wanderlust Excursion Cotswold Tours emblazoned in red letters against the white vehicle’s side, with a street address in Bath. In the driver’s seat sat the man who’d been next to her on the train.

  He stopped and rolled down his window and the new car smell drifted out. “You sure I can’t offer you a ride?”

  Sure, the guy possessed charm. So had Ted Bundy. Beyond his van, she spotted a cab with the driver standing outside his car door. “No. I think I found myself one. Enjoy your day.”

  She hurried off, waving to the older gentleman with a scruffy white beard, who waved back.

  In a thick British accent, he asked, “Hello there, miss. Need a ride?”

  “I do.” She walked closer to him. “To Bitton.”

  As the driver placed her luggage in the trunk, she watched the tour guide’s van pull aside in the parking lot.

  “What address?” The driver opened the back passenger door and she climbed inside.

  She read him the address and he took off.

  The cab pulled out into traffic and careened around a corner. Willow braced herself for impact with an oncoming car. She’d never get used to driving on the opposite side of the road. Crossing the street in London, she’d nearly been run over.

  According to the driver, the ride on A431, a road running from Bath to Bristol, would get them there in about ten minutes. The Bath cityscape disappeared and they drove along the Avon river, where the terrain became flat and less busy.

  Minutes passed before the driver said, “We are entering Bitton, miss.”

  She straightened in her seat, aware of every detail outside the window. At first, they drove past fields stretching as far as she could see, but when they crossed an intersection, a few houses appeared, the volume increasing as they entered town. Sights her mother must have seen. The swell of regret made her heart ache. If only she’d pressed her mother harder about the past. A trip here together could’ve opened up a world of conversations they never shared.