Under
t h e
Willows
A NOVEL
PAMELA McCORD
FROM THE TINY ACORN . . .
GROWS THE MIGHTY OAK
FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Advertencia Antipirateria del FBI: La reproducción o distribución no autorizada de una obra protegida por derechos de autor es ilegal. La infracción criminal de los derechos de autor, incluyendo la infracción sin lucro monetario, es investigada por el FBI y es castigable con pena de hasta cinco años en prisión federal y una multa de $250,000.
First Edition
Copyright © 2020 Pamela McCord
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author.
This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Book cover by Ebook Launch.
Book interior design and formatting by Debra Cranfield Kennedy.
www.acornpublishingllc.com
ISBN—Hardcover 978-1-947392-94-6
ISBN—Paperback 978-1-947392-93-9
UNDER
THE
WILLOWS
Prologue
O
I
t began with a conversation with my son.
“Dot was crying last night,” TJ said through a yawn.
“Dot? Who’s Dot?”
“You know. Dot. Alexa’s Dot.”
I stared at the back of his head, frowning, as I dished up his breakfast.
“Alexa can’t cry. It’s a cylindrical inanimate object. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”
“Mom. I’m eight. It really did happen.” He looked at me with a scowl. “I don’t imagine things.”
And he didn’t. But that comes later.
First, here’s where it started.
Chapter 1
O
T
om’s death changed everything.
I sat in my car, the engine idling, staring at the cheery yellow Victorian. I wasn’t cheered.
We’d been planning the move before Tom . . . went away, but now I was making it alone. Well, with our son, TJ. Tom had inherited the yellow house from his grandmother when she passed away several months ago. He’d flown out to look it over and reported back that it needed some updating but had good bones. He said there were lots of rooms, which sounded like heaven in comparison to our tiny two-bedroom in the city. “It has a huge country kitchen,” he said with a grin, slipping his arm around my waist. At the time I was chopping veggies in the postage stamp that passed for our current kitchen. I leaned my head back against his shoulder and sighed, daydreaming of endless countertops and cupboards in our future home, giddy at the thought of all the space.
I had a right to be bitter. A goddamn drunk driver snuffed out my husband’s life. All that crap about forgiving. I would not forgive the one who stole him from us.
Everyone was quick to say that holding on to the hate I feel for Mr. George Goddamn Daniels would only poison me and not bring Tom back. I felt the poison in me now, but embraced the huge empty hole eaten away by the acid-generating hatred. I didn’t want to feel good, because everything’s bad.
In the rearview mirror, TJ’s 8-year-old face was sad, like mine. He gazed at the yellow house, not moving to open the car door. Maybe the two of us could stare it into becoming our home.
“Ready, buddy?” I asked as I opened my door. My heart broke at his wan smile and “Sure, Mom.”
Tom had seen the house, but I hadn’t. I had no idea what awaited us other than lots of rooms. I fished the key out of my jeans pocket. It had resided in that pocket all the way from New York. I guess I thought it might help me to bond with our new life or something.
It wasn’t a gingerbready house. Not spindly and frail looking. Not tall and narrow. It was sprawling, with a wide wraparound porch and stone steps leading up to the front door.
Catching sight of TJ as he surveyed the exterior, I swallowed tears that threatened to spill out as I thought how different everything would have been if Tom hadn’t died. My little boy would be jumping around in excitement, grinning and waving his arms, impatient to get inside. He would have burst through the door and run from room to room. Tom and I would have taken our time as he ushered me into the foyer and kissed me a welcome home. I felt the ghost of a smile trying to find its way onto my face as I pictured the three of us—
Stop it! I brushed angrily at my cheeks. I needed to turn this house into a home for TJ and me. Tom would have wanted that.
No eight-year-old should have to lose his father.
My son’s eyes were flat as he watched from the safety of the sidewalk as I fiddled with the old key in the old lock. He looked away as if he didn’t care whether the door opened or not, his shoulders hunched, his head down. He kicked at a pebble, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Come here, buddy,” I said, sitting down on the top porch step and holding out my arms. He shuffled up the walk and sat next to me. I draped one arm around his thin shoulders and hugged him to me. “We’re gonna be okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you and I are going to make this our home and be happy here. It’s okay to be sad. I’m really sad, too.” I lifted his head and looked into his eyes. “You and me . . . we’re gonna take care of each other.”
I sighed and hugged him, his little blond head tucked under my chin. “You can talk to me anytime you’re feeling sad, or if you want to talk about Daddy. I hope you’ll let me talk to you when I’m feeling sad, too. We need each other now.” I ruffled his hair. “Okay, buddy?”
I stood and brushed off the back of my jeans. “Let’s go check out our new home.”
He hung back when I pushed open the front door. The inside was dim, the late afternoon sunlight not strong enough to pierce the heavy drapes covering the windows. A musty smell from the house being closed up assaulted me, and I covered my nose for a moment to give myself time to adjust to the odor.
I looked around through air inhabited by dust motes. “Wait here,” I told TJ, as I carefully opened the drapes at the tall front windows. Even with the windows uncovered, it wasn’t bright inside. The overhang from the large wrap-around porch blocked direct sunlight from shining in. Still, it was bright enough, considering the state of our mood.
“Wanna look around?”
TJ shrugged listlessly. The feeling was mutual.
“Let’s go pick out your room.” I tried to infuse my voice with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, but it sounded hollow, even to me.
“Why did we have to come here?” His eyes showed his hurt and anger. “All my friends are in the city. I won’t know anybody here.”
I sighed. “Because this is what Daddy wanted for us.”
His face scrunched up, bright tears shining in his eyes. He glared at me. “Daddy’s not here anymore.”
“You’re right,” I snapped. “He’s not, and he won’t ever be again.” Ashamed, I turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears that filled my eyes, too. I gulped a breath, struggling for control of my emotions. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m having trouble dealing with losing Daddy, just like you are. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
He
stared at his feet, not meeting my eyes.
“There are a lot of reasons we came here. Adult reasons that you shouldn’t have to care about. Just know that I love you and I’ll do everything in my power to give you the best life I can.”
I bumped his shoulder with mine. “Come on, buddy. Forgive me?”
He put his arms around me, resting his head on my chest. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
I held him out and tilted his face up to look at me. “We need to get out of this mood we’re in. I’m tired of being sad. Aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but what can we do?”
“For starters, let’s go pick out your room.” I pasted on a smile and turned him toward the stairs.
Chapter 2
O
I
n the two weeks after we arrived in Marysville, we’d settled in pretty well. TJ had chosen the bedroom at the opposite end of the hall from mine. It looked out over a forested backyard, complete with a tire swing in the big old oak closest to the house.
I set up a Dot, the small, compact Alexa unit, in his bedroom, like I had in his bedroom in New York. TJ often asked Alexa to tell him a bedtime story, and his father had recorded himself reading Treasure Island for Alexa to play for TJ. I hoped it would make his new room feel more like home.
I let him pick out Spiderman bedding to make his room more appealing and told him he could paint the walls blue and red if he wanted. Anything to bring a smile back to his face.
And joy. What I wouldn’t give to see joy in my little boy’s eyes. Maybe the same could be said about me, though.
The furniture Tom’s grandmother, Kate, left him was in pretty good shape for its age, and most of it wasn’t even smotheringly old-persony. Bad me. We got it for free. Who was I to judge her taste? It was a blessing really, since most of our furniture back in New York had been the rental variety that came with our apartment, and I’d managed to donate or sell odds and ends we’d no longer need in our new home. All we brought with us was our personal property. And memories of Tom.
Actually, the home was charming and comfy in a lived-in kind of way. Kate had taken good care of her possessions, and there was no need for me to replace anything immediately. I picked out some colorful throw pillows for the oatmeal-colored couch and put away her crocheted doilies and arm covers. A lot of crocheting had gone on in this house.
I’d only met Grandma Kate twice, first at our wedding and again when TJ was a year old. He was her first great-grandchild and she was excited to meet him. She was elderly already and didn’t like to travel outside her little town. I think that may have been the last time she did. We were busy with our jobs and our son, always intending to visit someday but never quite getting around to it, so I never got the chance to know her well. From her home, however, I could deduce some things about her. She was organized and tidy. She loved antiques and knickknacks. There were shelves of porcelain cows. She loved cows, especially the black and white Holstein ones by what I gathered from her collection.
A loud knock startled me out of my reverie. I opened the door to see a man in a postal uniform.
“I wanted to introduce myself. I’m your mail carrier,” he said with a tip of his hat. He tried to unobtrusively peer around me to see inside the house. When I crossed my arms over my chest, he cleared his throat and stepped back. He held out his hand. “I’m John Brindleson.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brindleson,” I responded, taking his hand. “I’m Kelly Harris. My husband Tom was Kate’s grandson.”
He nodded. “Kate was an institution around here. Everyone loved her.” He shuffled his feet. “Is your husband with you?”
Although he seemed personable, I didn’t know John Brindleson from Adam and wasn’t eager to share that I would be living here alone with my son. “Not at present,” I answered. I didn’t plan to keep secret the fact that Tom had been killed, but now wasn’t the time to get into the weeds about his death, especially not with a total stranger.
“Oh,” he said. “When will he—”
“Mr. Brindleson, I don’t want to be rude, but I still have a lot to do around here. It was nice to meet you, but I’ve got to get back to it.”
“Oh, okay,” he responded. He seemed disappointed that I didn’t want to set a spell, so to speak.
I smiled politely and closed the door as he stepped off the porch.
Brindleson was a large man. Even though he looked to be in his fifties, he was solid and, I have to say, intimidating. I’m sure he was a perfectly nice person, but I still didn’t want to advertise that I was a single mother living alone.
Back in the kitchen, I popped a coffee packet into the Keurig well. Sitting at the white-painted gate-leg table, I spread out the Marysville Times, a small local paper which was delivered daily to my front porch. It was getting close to lunchtime, and I wanted to relax a few minutes before calling TJ down for lunch.
I noticed an ad for a youth camp for kids 7–12 provided by the Marysville Methodist Church. I perked up at the thought it could help TJ make friends in town, and called the number in the ad to sign him up to start Monday. The camp ran daily through the summer, from 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., with outdoor activities like hiking and swimming. TJ would like that, whether he knew it or not. And I liked the fact that his being in camp all day would give me an opportunity to more fully explore Marysville.
Chapter 3
O
T
J didn’t jump at the idea of going to summer camp. I wasn’t surprised at his reluctance, as no part of this new life was easy for him. He wanted to dig in his heels to prevent me from thinking he was okay with my forcing him to leave his familiar life behind and move to this unfamiliar place. Prepared for his pushback, I reminded him of our vacation in the Berkshires one summer when the three of us hiked to a lake and Tom showed TJ how to fish. TJ had talked about that trip for weeks afterward.
“Daddy won’t be there,” he responded.
“I know, sweetie, but you’ll still have fun. And maybe you can make some new friends.”
I held up my hand to ward off his upcoming but I already have friends by saying, “You’re not going to replace your old friends, but wouldn’t it be nice to have friends here to play with? When school starts, you’ll already know them.”
He shrugged, but didn’t complain further and, come Monday, he was ready for me to drop him off at the church.
I introduced myself to the pastor and the camp counselors and inquired about Sunday services, as I thought my argument about making new friends should apply to me as well. With a parting, “Have fun,” I drove away, trusting God to watch over the most precious thing in my life.
My first stop was the Bank of Ohio branch on Main Street to transfer our accounts from our New York bank. No, my account. My meager account which wasn’t so meager anymore. The life insurance that Tom had insisted on maintaining after TJ was born had paid off. A cool two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It would make life easier for us for sure. Not that it brought me any pleasure to have such a healthy balance, but I couldn’t deny that it would come in handy until I found a job. I hadn’t worked since college and, even then, my only job had been waitressing. That wasn’t a bad thing, but it was hard work and long hours, and it would take me away from my son. Because of Tom’s career with a tech company in New York, I’d been able to be a stay-at-home mom, which we both agreed was best for TJ. For now, I wasn’t going to rush into anything. Not until I was sure we were on an even keel in our new town.
I stood uncertainly in the bank lobby until an attractive young woman approached and introduced herself as Jennifer Brennan.
“How can I help you?” she asked after leading me to her cubicle and offering me a seat.
“I need to transfer my bank accounts. I just moved here from New York.”
“Oh, well, welcome. I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
“Sorry. Kelly Harris.” I rummaged in my bag for my latest bank statement. �
��I’m not sure what the process is. What do I need to do?”
“Well, let’s get an account set up for you. Checking or savings?”
“One of each.”
“We can open each with a minimum balance until your funds are transferred. Can you do $500 for checking and $50 for savings? If not, I can see if we can lower the initial deposit amount.”
“I think that will be okay. I’ll write you a check for cash and you can use that. I don’t need to go back to New York to close that account do I?”
“No, you should be able to take care of that online, or by phone. You’ll just need to provide them with your new account numbers.”
“Great. It will be good to have that checked off my list. There’s a lot to do when you move.”
“Tell me about it,” she said while typing my information into the computer. “What brings you to Marysville?”
“My husband inherited an estate from his grandmother, Kate.”
“Kate Harris?”
“Yes. Did you know her?”
“I did. It’s a pretty small community, in case you haven’t noticed. She and my grandmother were life-long friends. I spent a lot of time at Mrs. Harris’s house.”
“What a nice surprise. Maybe I could contact you if I have any questions?”
“Of course,” she replied, typing my information into the computer. “So, you and your husband moved from New York? Do you have any kids?”
“I have a son. And my husband isn’t with us. He passed away the end of November.”
Jennifer’s eyes widened and reflected a moment of concern. “I’m really sorry. It must be doubly hard on you to be in a new town so soon after losing your husband.”
“You have no idea. It’s . . . it’s . . . been tough. And tough on TJ. He’s my son.”
Under the Willows Page 1
