Willow turned to her lawyer, stunned. “The city? I have to go—I’ve never been—”
“Never?”
Bill spoke up for Willow. “Kari came into the city very rarely, but she never brought Willow. Appointments were at their property whenever possible, especially before Willow was old enough to be left alone for a day.”
“Do I have to go? Mother was terrified of the city.”
“You have to be there. You’re petitioning the court. If you aren’t there, they won’t hear the case.”
“And when it’s over I’ll get my birth certificate?”
Renee explained that the judge might require the DNA testing results before he authorized the birth certificate. “You’ll submit DNA to Dr. Weisenburg’s office today.”
“How will I get to—”
Bill’s hand rested gently on her arm. “We can go over that after we’re done here.”
“I think I am done here. I’ll go get the test after I hear if I need one. I still have time to eat before the movies open, so I’m going to go now.”
Willow shook Renee Freeman’s hand and nodded at Bill. “See you later.”
“I’ll find you at the theater. We have to discuss your trip to Rockland.”
“I’m going to see the movie about the space ships and things. It looked interesting.”
Without another word, Willow left the office and walked toward the diner at the corner of Elm and Main Streets. While Bill and Renee wrapped up their business, Willow sat at the bar on a retro-looking, chrome barstool and ordered a patty melt, chocolate shake, and fries, feeling all the while like a character in a novel. The sights, scents, and sounds of the diner flooded her senses making what had almost been fantasy a new reality.
Bill stood outside the theater, two tickets in hand, waiting for her as she sauntered down the street to the front doors of the Fox Theater. “I got us tickets. Want popcorn?”
Willow giggled unexpectedly and nodded. “Just in case.”
Uncertain what she meant by those words, Bill ordered a large popcorn. Willow nudged him. “Extra-large.”
“Hey, you’re back. Feeling better?” The concessions attendant looked surprised to see her.
“Yes, now that I know how to handle motion sickness. And,” she pointed the bucket, “I’m prepared just in case.”
As they settled into their seats, Bill said, “Motion sickness?”
“I went to see Eight Cousins on Saturday night. It was nice, but I got sick so—”
The lights dimmed, the previews started, and Willow stopped mid-sentence. Bill leaned close and whispered, “You got sick from Eight Cousins?”
Her crushing reply came in the form of a hand full of popcorn—in Bill’s mouth. He chuckled as he chewed and gazed bored at the selection of coming attractions. Though barely the middle of June, Halloween horror flicks leapt from the screen, startling Willow, who subsequently sent a shower of popcorn flying over the teenagers in the row behind them. Protests drowned out her quick apology, until Bill turned around and scowled back at the crowd.
“It was an accident. She said she’s sorry. Chill.”
The next picture featured several displaced super heroes who called themselves The Mighty Mayhem. The screen erupted with battle scenes between the untrained and frightened heroes and their macabre foes, sending Willow cringing into her hands. A titter rose from the group behind them, but Willow only heard the screams of terror as a hero fell from the Eiffel Tower. A merciful “Coming July 4th” stamped across the screen before he hit bottom. Her sigh of relief escaped as a Christmas cartoon followed.
“Well that one looked interesting and less than terrifying anyway,” whispered Willow as the introductory credits began to roll. “Am I going to regret this movie choice?”
Bill shook his head. “There are a couple of battle scenes and some intimidating Warlords, but it’s mostly lighthearted—nothing like those previews.”
Ominous music hovered in the background as the screen filled with people wearing cloaks and making speeches. Suddenly, the camera panned to a family watching a debate on their home monitor. The boy jumped, wings flying about him, as he whirled excitedly in the air. To Willow, he looked like every illustration of an angel she’d ever seen. Entranced, she watched as the room full of people voted to escape their tyrannical overlords and settle on a hidden planet, mistakenly thought to be a moon, several galaxies away.
She cried as the Warlords chased their space house-ships as they flew away from the planet their ancestors had claimed as home for millennia. Bill gave up any pretense of watching the movie and watched Willow. He’d never seen anything like her absolute fixation and emotional involvement in the scenes flying before her at lightening cinematic speeds.
Cultural misunderstandings by the delegates made the audience laugh, but Willow frowned, confused. Bill grew familiar with her profile, and from the slight furrow of her brow and tensing of her jaw, he learned to predict, with surprising accuracy, whether she would smile, frown, laugh, or cry. During the two and a half hour movie, he learned more about Willow Finley than he’d ever learned about her mother in their ten-year relationship. Near the end, he realized that she’d relate to the movie in many ways as the months passed and she entered normal life.
Unaware of Bill’s fascination, Willow sat entranced by the story emerging from the scenes before her. Through the triumphs and tribulations of the exiles, she seemed to embrace their vision and immersed herself in their lives. Sometime between the first delighted catch of her breath and the final word spoken, Bill began plans for integrating himself into the life of Willow Finley.
The credits scrolled across the screen after the final scene. Willow turned to Bill, beaming. “It’s so much more enjoyable when you can actually follow the story. That was wonderful!”
“Man lady, you gotta get out more!” quipped one of the boys behind them as he sauntered down the aisle to the doors.
“Is there anyone who can take care of the animals for you?”
“Well, no. It was just Mother and me, and now—”
Bill tried again patiently, “What about that cop? Does he know how to feed chickens and milk a goat? Is there anyone at that church?”
Willow’s head shook automatically but she said contradictorily, “Well, Chad knows how to…”
“Great! Let’s call. What’s his number?”
Somewhat disconcerted at Willow’s immediate recollection of Chad’s number, Bill punched the buttons on his phone and waited for Chad to answer. He explained the situation and secured Chad’s agreement to house and animal sit Thursday night through Saturday morning. Satisfied with his arrangements, Bill turned to Willow and grinned.
“You’re all set.”
“Why until Saturday? Isn’t the—the—whatever it’s called—isn’t it in the morning? Why won’t I be home in time for evening milking?”
“Well, we can’t know what’ll happen with DNA testing or if there’ll be an afternoon session. I’ve booked a room at the Rockland Towers for Thursday and Friday nights. I thought I’d drive you back on Saturday after a trip to the zoo or something.”
They argued for several minutes before Willow slammed a plate of salad and cold chicken in front of Bill and said in carefully measured tones, “I’ll bring clothes for two days, but I don’t promise to stay both days. Enjoy your dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Goodnight.”
Without another word, Willow disappeared through the doorway. Bill heard footsteps on the stairs, returning once more. He watched amused as she grabbed her salad plate and disappeared once more. After eating his meal, he found a blank piece of paper in a notebook of sorts, tore it out, and wrote her a note.
Willow,
I apologize for upsetting you. I just assumed that you’d want to see a little of the city. Since things could go late, I made plans. I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous. I should have asked. The last thing I want to do is make things uncomfortable between us.
Thank you for
a lovely afternoon. I enjoyed the movie immensely, and as I saw it last week and barely gave it a five, you must have been the difference. I have reservations at The Oakes for dinner tomorrow after you arrive. If you’d care to go, please arrive in something suitable for a fine restaurant. Otherwise, we can go get Chinese or something else if you’re hungry.
Again, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”
Willow read the words slowly as she ate her breakfast on Thursday morning. Between bites of “scrambled omelet” and muffins, she planned her work for the day and realized that if she didn’t make soap, she’d have to throw away some of the goat’s milk in the fridge. Suddenly, soap became a huge priority.
Chad watched fascinated as Willow wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead and carefully stirred the soap mixture. He’d asked about the harshness of lye, sending Willow into a titter of giggles. As she worked, Willow explained the saponification process and assured him that during the soap making process, the lye converted into glycerin and was perfectly safe for use on delicate skin.
She pulled her wooden spoon from the pot, watching the liquid slowly creep down the spoon and then drip into the pan like honey onto toast. “It’s ready. Can you bring those molds over here?”
In what seemed like no time, Willow poured soap into molds, cleaned out the pans, and cleared the workspace. Sweat trickled down her temples and left streaks on her cheeks that looked deceptively like tears. While he dried the pots and the utensils, Chad asked when she’d cut bars and how long it would be before the soap was safe to use.
Once the cleanup was complete, and the molds returned to the pantry, Willow took Chad on a tour of her work, handing him a list of what she did in the mornings and evenings. Othello trotted beside them, as though aware that something was amiss. “Look at him! He’s getting so clingy.”
“Animals don’t handle loss with the detachment that we assume.” Chad hoped his voice didn’t betray his concerns. She’d been so lost the previous week, and now she acted as though everything was back to normal in her life.
“Ok, so you have to check the hen house. We had to kill the rooster, so it’s important to get the eggs. I let the chickens out when I feed them in the morning and then…”
All around the little farmyard Willow chattered about how and what to feed the pig, where to store the milk pail, reminding him half a dozen times to scald the pail when he was done scrubbing it. “Othello gets extra eggs, leftover meat, and if you get desperate, there are packages of frozen organ meats in the freezer marked with his name on them.”
“No dog food?”
Her laughter rang out merrily. “Where would we get dog food?”
“Where do you get chicken feed?”
“The feed store in Brant’s Corners delivers it to the barn every three months.”
“They’d have brought dog food too—”
Willow shrugged. “Then what would we do with our leftovers and organ meats?”
After the grand tour, they stood at the pasture gate and watched as the cow munched on grass and occasionally stared wide-eyed at the onlookers. “She’s a big one.”
Nodding, Willow smiled. “She’s a Limousin—longer than a dairy cow. Mother said something about them having an extra rib, but I think she was joking. I need to look that up someday.”
“Do you always buy these?”
“No. We’ve had a few Belgian Blues, but we think these have better meat.”
The pastures were huge. As she pointed out each section of their land, he noticed a trough in each one. “Which one will you use for your sheep?”
“All of them. I’ll rotate the sheep behind the cow.”
“When are sheep available? I mean, it’s not like puppies or anything, is it? Aren’t sheep born in spring?”
Laughing at his curiosity, Willow glanced at her watch and slowly returned to the house. “Well, lambing happens in fall or spring, I think, but most spring lambs won’t be weaned until June some time if they’re born in April.”
“So are you going to get one?”
She reached for the screen door, turned, and glanced back down at him. Her hair whipped around her face in the summer breeze, giving her a languid air that belied her industry and strength. “Why are you so fixated on the lambs?”
“You want to spin. I think you should have lambs for spinning.”
“Um, I think I’d have some pretty sick lambs on my hands,” she chuckled as she crossed the kitchen and hurried up the stairs. “I’ll be right back. I need to take a quick shower and get ready for the bus.”
Assuming he was in for an hour of primping, Chad checked his watch nervously. Three-thirty. The bus left daily at four-thirty sharp. If she didn’t get a move on, she’d miss the bus, and he’d be stuck driving her all the way to Rockland.
“Maybe I should call and see if anyone is available to drive her,” he muttered to himself.
The water stopped above him. Was she taking a bath? He tried to focus on anything but his watch. The strange counter and cupboard on one side of the large eat-in kitchen caught his eye. He’d stood there that first day as she frantically tried to find enough drink ware for tea. The lone teacup sat alone on the middle shelf of a narrow section in the center. It had once held a mate.
With a deep sigh he turned and leaned against the counter, his thumbs hooked into his jean pockets. She was all alone, and all he could think of was getting away from her. Again. How selfish.
“That’s a pretty mournful-sounding sigh.”
Chad jumped. “I thought you were taking a bath!”
Willow continued to French braid a small string of dripping hair from one side of her head to the other in a semi-crown. “I don’t bathe. I shower. I hate baths.”
“That was the fastest shower I’ve ever—” here he stumbled. Seen didn’t work. He didn’t see the shower and didn’t want to imply he had. Heard sounded weird. “Anyway, that was fast.”
To his dismay and premature embarrassment, she began to untie the thick terry robe. He hurried to the sink and grabbed a glass, filling it with water. Willow’s voice followed him. “Are you all right?”
His peripheral vision caught sight of a white garbed Willow entering the mudroom and returning again. “Fine,” he choked. “Just fine.”
“Think this dress will work for dinner at a nice restaurant?”
“Know where he’s taking you?” Chad tried to sound disinterested. He turned and glanced over the sleeveless, white, full-skirted dress. “Looks fine to me.”
“I can’t remember the name. A tree or flower or something, I think. He said dress up though. This is the nicest thing I own.”
Impressed, he asked, “The Oakes?”
“That’s it. I—”
“For someone who remembered a ten digit number the first time she read it, you are lousy with details.”
“I’m lousy with things I hear and some things that aren’t number related. I’m fine if I read it or it’s about numbers.”
Grabbing a kitchen towel, she squeezed her hair repeatedly and combed in between squeezes. “It’ll have to dry on the way. We have to leave soon. I’ll go get my shoes. Can you put my suitcase in your truck? It’s by the front door.”
Chad glanced at his watch as she disappeared through the doorway. It wasn’t even four o’clock yet. Somehow, she’d translated a shorter travel time in the car vs. walking, but it still left them leaving much too early.
He met her at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on her suitcase. “Where’d you get a suitcase, anyway?”
“Mother’s—her graduation gift. She said she only used it once.” Her voice cracked as she added, “To come here, of course.” She took a step off the stairs and her shoes came into view.
Chad shook his head. “Have anything white?”
Willow glanced at her slightly scuffed but clean tan Birkenstocks and shrugged. “I have these and my winter boots. Oh, and I have tennis shoes and regular work boots.”
With a quick glance at
his watch, Chad groaned. “We have thirty-five minutes or so to get you in town, find some kind of sandals, and onto a bus.”
“What’s wrong with these?”
“They’re fine for everyday wear, but not for that restaurant and not for court. You need something else. Even dressy flip-flops will work. We’ll try the market first. They’re faster than the shoe store.”
“I have flip flops that I made into slippers. Let me get them!”
Before Chad could assure her that there was no way slippers would work, Willow raced up the stairs and returned with the most amazing “slippers” he’d ever seen. “Where did you—how did you?”
“I didn’t like those plastic things, but I hate the feel of hard wood under my feet so I knitted new straps.”
“Those are perfect. Wear those.”
“I’ll get them all dirty!”
As patiently as he could, Chad led her from the house, locked the door behind him, and urged her into his truck. “You have shoes, and we won’t have to race. Make yourself some more, or I’ll buy you some more. I don’t care, but let’s go.”
They zipped down her driveway, bouncing over the ruts, rattling their teeth, before gliding onto the highway. By the time they reached town, Chad realized his mistake. He whipped into the police station parking lot. Quickly, he jogged around to open the door for Willow but found her pulling her suitcase from the back of the truck, her dress leaning against the dusty truck bed.
“Wait! You’ll get your dress dirty!”
Too late. The front of her dress was streaked with dust. Undaunted, Willow began beating on it and brushing the filth from it as though thistledown from a dandelion. “Does the bus come here?”
“No it parks behind the Fox Theater, but there’s a street fair tonight. I forgot about it. They have one every year on Flag Day weekend.”
“I didn’t realize anyone celebrated that holiday. Mother always said it was just a way to point out significant things on a calendar.”
Chuckling, Chad took her suitcase from her and gestured toward the street. “Most places don’t, but Fairbury’s founder, Thaddeus Fairbury, was born on June fourteenth, so we have a street fair with a founder’s day theme every year. Anything to bring in the tourists.”
Past Forward Volume 1 Page 8
