Past Forward Volume 1

by Chautona Havig

  He stepped inside Kari Finley’s room and glanced around. He’d never allowed himself to linger but now he did. Peonies filled a fishbowl on the dresser. Chad glanced at the floor and realized Willow had beaten Kari’s floor covers as well. He hunkered on his heels and ran his hand across the hand hooked rug and smiled to himself. They were modern pioneers, these Finley women. They bought nothing they could make themselves and made an art of living.

  The faucet squeaked as Willow turned off the water in the shower. What seemed like seconds later, she emerged squeezing her hair with a towel, a comb in hand. As she started downstairs, Chad called to her.

  “I’m in here. I hope you don’t mind. You’ve been cleaning.”

  “Was it really that bad? I haven’t done anything for almost three weeks.”

  Shaking his head, Chad pointed to the rug and the fresh flowers. “I just noticed the rugs and things.” His eyes found the shelf between the doors and spied the journals displayed there. “Are all of those your mother’s?”

  “Well, all of Mother’s aren’t there, but yes, she filled all of those. Mother was a prolific journalist.” She led him to the kitchen and poured each of them a glass of cold mint water from the icebox, collapsing in the rocking chair next to the stove. “You’re wearing your uniform. Do you have to be at work soon?”

  “No. Lunch break. I swapped with Joe today so he could do something with Alexa’s brother. Anyway, I stopped by the market and talked to Jill MacIntyre.”

  “Who is Jill?” Willow drained her glass and stared at it as if she couldn’t believe it was gone.

  “She runs the weekend farmer’s market. She said you are welcome to bring your produce and have your own stall there, or, if you prefer, she’ll come see what you have to offer and buy outright what she thinks she can sell.”

  Willow stood and poured a second glass of water before settling back down in her chair. “I don’t have time to run a produce stand, even one day a week, and I certainly don’t have any way to get it there.” She hesitated for a moment, thinking. “No, I just don’t have time. I think I’d prefer to sell directly. Do you have her phone number?”

  Chad shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t think to get it. I was so excited that she was interested that I drove right out here.” He carried his glass to the sink saying, “I need to get back and grab something for lunch, my break is half over. I just wanted to tell you.”

  “You could have called.” She eyed the phone on the kitchen table meaningfully.

  “Well, I was close anyway. I chased a car halfway here before highway patrol took it over for me, so I thought I’d just come tell you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll figure something out.” She pushed herself out of the chair, chugging the last of the water in her glass. “Come on, let’s make you a sandwich.”

  Ten minutes later, Chad drove away with the biggest ham, lettuce, tomato, and onion sandwich he’d ever seen. Thick slices of homemade sourdough bread held slabs of ham nearly as thick and half a tomato that dribbled down his chin as he bounced down her driveway and onto the highway. An ice-cold thermos of goat’s milk sat next to him on the seat, but Chad ignored it until he found himself desperate to wash down his food.

  Lord, I want to be able to say, ‘Here I am, send me,’ but I can’t. And even if I did, what would be the point? You already have. I’m stuck in this merry-go-round of Willow’s life. He took another swig of milk, still surprised that it wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d expected. And why didn’t You have them buy dairy cows instead of goats? Can you imagine the ice cream they could make? Uncle Zeke’s ice cream… mmm…

  As the sun began to set, the temperature in Willow’s house dropped by small degrees. Cranking the ice cream freezer was hot, tiring work, but she sat in Mother’s rocker, humming along with Chad’s CD and singing the choruses as she learned them. When one arm grew tired, she rotated the freezer, cranking with the other, until the ice cream froze and firmed.

  Her cell phone rang as she scooped cherry-almond-vanilla ice cream into her bowl. A frustrated sigh escaped and she flicked the phone across the counter at the interruption of her treat. She continued scooping and put away the ice cream before settling in the chair again with her phone and bowl. Taking a steadying breath, she slid open the phone and punched his number. “Hello. Chad?”

  “Hey, thought I missed you.”

  “Just busy. What can I do for you?”

  “I wondered if now was a good time to bring Jill over. She’s eager to check out your produce before tomorrow’s market.”

  “That’s fine. Smmwee mmphoo then.” She swallowed the bite. “Sorry, mouthful. See you then.”

  Each bite of ice cream brought back memories—ones she couldn’t afford to indulge with guests coming. Another steadying breath—and then another—helped as she carried her empty bowl to the sink. She washed and dried it, grabbing another—the only other—from the shelf. New pain gripped her heart as she scooped huge helpings into both bowls and set them into the icebox.

  Othello greeted two trucks with a bark and a nip to the puppy’s leg, warning the little thing away from Chad’s tires. He climbed from his truck and knelt to scratch the puppy’s ears. “Good boy, Othello. This little thing’ll get herself killed if she’s not careful.”

  “This is a nice place! I always thought it was abandoned—the weeds out by the road…”

  “Yeah. Apparently, that was deliberate. Come on in. I’ll show you around.” Chad led Jill into the house through the front door. He suspected that she would appreciate Willow’s earthy lifestyle and wanted to point out the woodwork, area rugs, and hand painted “wallpaper.”

  Hands in his pockets, Chad smiled as Willow entered the living room. “Hey, this is Jill.” He glanced at the woman beside him. “Jill, this is Willow Finley.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I made ice cream. Come into the kitchen.”

  From the icebox, Willow produced bowls with spoons already in them, chilled. Jill took the proffered bowl eagerly and dug her spoon into it. Chad tried to signal a warning, but the slight shake of his head was lost as Jill’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh this is so good!”

  With a nudge at Chad, Willow gestured at his bowl. “Eat. It’ll melt.” To Jill she said, “I’ll go get some buckets from the barn in case you want to take some of the produce with you. Come on out when you’re done.” Her eyes slid over to Chad who still stared nervously at his bowl of ice cream. “Just follow Chad. He knows the way.”

  They watched Willow disappear out the back door and call to the puppy as she sauntered to the barn. Chad took another tentative bite of his ice cream but the second was as good as the first. “I can’t believe how good this is; I thought it would be awful.”

  “Why?” Jill’s face showed her confusion and surprise.

  “It’s made from goat’s milk. I thought you needed more milk fat—and well, the milk doesn’t taste the same as regular cow’s milk.”

  Taking another bite of her ice cream, Jill glanced around the kitchen. “This place is incredible isn’t it? I heard they never had guests until Ms. Finley died.”

  “Outside of an occasional delivery and an annual tax visit, that’s about right..”

  “Wow.”

  A huge grin spread across Chad’s face. “That’s one word that everyone eventually says about Willow or her mother. ‘Wow.’”

  Jill rinsed their bowls and set them in the sink. “Ok, take me to this garden.”

  As they rounded the chicken yard and the full size of the garden came into view, Jill gave a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding. They grow all their food, don’t they?”

  “All but grains. They even have a root cellar—actually use it.”

  With a bucket in each hand, Willow met them at the end of a row of tomatoes. Jill took one look at them and grinned. She pulled a pocketknife from her pocket and with Willow’s permission sliced open the tomato. The meat was firm, red, and juicy—perfect. “I’ll take them—all that you have to spare.
What else is there?”

  Chad watched, satisfied, as Willow and Jill discussed peas, tomatoes, radishes, and lettuce. Melon vines caught Jill’s attention, but there weren’t enough melons to keep her supplied this summer. As he expected, Willow assured her there would be plenty the next year if she wanted them.

  Jill sent him to her truck for crates and the process—one he realized might become a weekly one—commenced. The women picked and loaded crates, while Chad, muscles screaming after several trips, carried them to Jill’s truck. Between trips, he listened as Jill asked Willow her secret for sweet lettuce and how much more she could plant for the next year. He dumped the crate of carrots in the bed of the truck, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. Would she do it? Would she add to her workload? Now that she had more on her shoulders than ever, would she really add unnecessary work to it?

  Carrying buckets of peas and green beans, Jill and Willow met him at the truck as he loaded the last crate of tomatoes. Jill counted the produce and filled out a check while Willow assured Chad that there was more than enough food left for her. “I’m the carnivore—Mother practically lived on vegetables in summer—always grew more than we needed because she was sure she ate more than she did.”

  As Jill’s truck bounced over the rutted lane, Willow stared at the check, amazed. “Look! It’s just a little extra produce and look!” Excited, she grabbed Chad’s sleeve. “Come on, I have more ice cream. Let’s celebrate! I can plant more next year. It’ll be so much fun! Oh! I should have asked about the fruit!”

  Chad followed Willow into the kitchen and watched as she washed both bowls and spoons before scooping more ice cream into them. In the living room, he sank into the overstuffed chair, propping his feet on the ottoman, while Willow stretched out on the chaise. For some time, the only sounds in the room were the clinks of spoons against their bowls.

  Suddenly, Chad set his feet on the floor and bent forward, his arms leaning against his knees. “Wait. Did you say fruit?”

  “Sure. On the other side of the tree break, behind the barn we have an orchard.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “You know, next spring I might add a few more trees too.”

  “What kind of fruit?” Chad glanced at his bowl with only half of a cherry left on the spoon.

  “Cherries, peaches, pears, apples. Oh, and we have berries. Blueberries, raspberries, elderberries, and blackberries. Mother made elderberry wine sometimes. And,” she continued as though stating the obvious, “strawberries of course.”

  “Strawberries? Where?”

  Willow pointed to the west front corner of the house. “About a hundred yards that way. Mother found a perfect mound over there that gets afternoon shade but lots of sun during the morning and very early afternoon, so she planted the strawberries out there. We’ve always had more than we needed, but the birds like them.”

  “Isn’t strawberry season over?”

  “We’ve had a steady stream of strawberries to eat, but next week I think I’ll have to start freezing them. The green beans too.”

  A glance at his watch told Chad he needed to hurry home for a pre-work nap. “I have to go. I go on at two-dark-thirty, as my mom would say. This was really good, thanks.”

  Willow took the bowl from him and thanked him for bringing Jill out to meet her. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “Hey, have a good time tomorrow. Don’t worry about anything here. I’ll get the chickens in and feed the other animals. Wilhelmina likes me now.”

  She waved until Chad’s lights flashed across the porch and then let the screen door slap gently behind her as she took the bowls back to the kitchen for the third time in one night. While she washed them, she prayed. “Lord, please bless him. He’s a good man. He can be irritating, but he’s a good man, and I’m blessed that he’s my friend.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mozart surrounded them in a quiet cocoon of classical music as Bill’s Camry zipped along the highway between Fairbury and the Rockland Loop. The air between them practically wailed with discomfort and uncertainty. Willow tried several times to tell Bill about her hopes of visiting the clothing store, but with the awkwardness between them, telling him she’d made arrangements to spend more time with him felt uncomfortable. Her eyes slid sideways as Bill sighed, gripping the wheel tightly, his knuckles white.

  Minutes later, Willow glanced sideways again, miserable. She wasn’t accustomed to not saying whatever was on her mind. The uncertainty felt duplicitous and affected. Nonetheless, it was real—at least the feeling was—and Willow knew she had to get past it. She searched her mind for anything happy or interesting to share with Bill and remembered the sale of her produce.

  “Oh, did I tell you what Chad did yesterday?”

  The question, as innocent as it was phrased, couldn’t have been more unwelcome if she’d tried. She watched from the corner of her eye as Bill’s features hardened into a resolute expression of disappointment and patience. Before she could consider it, his reply sent a discordant note rippling through the car as though Mozart himself disapproved of her question.

  “No.”

  Inwardly shrugging her shoulders, Willow continued her story. “Well, he brought Jill McIntyre out to the house last night. She runs the farmer’s market in Fairbury every Saturday.”

  Bill glanced at her. His features relaxed just a little as he said, “Oh? What did she want?”

  “Well, she bought all my extra ripe tomatoes, peas, some lettuce, cucumbers, and a little squash. All that produce Mother and I planted for us isn’t going to go to waste after all!”

  Willow withdrew her check from her purse, excitement exuding from her. “I brought the check she gave me. I thought you could deposit it for us.” She held it where he could see the numbers.

  Her enthusiasm was contagious. Bill nodded his approval. “Wow. Just for one week’s vegetables?”

  “Yep! She says she’ll take anything I can spare. I forgot to tell her about the fruit. I hope she wants that. Mother always ate an obscene number of cherries, and they’re almost ready to pick.”

  “You have fruit?”

  Willow’s laugh mixed with Mozart in perfect harmony. “That’s what Chad said when I mentioned it last night after Jill left.”

  “I thought you said he brought her.” Bill’s carefully enunciated words did little to hide some kind of disappointment or disapproval.

  “He did. She followed his truck in hers. She has a big, old truck. It was almost full when she left.” Willow decided now was probably the best time to tell him about her change of plans. “Since he was there, I asked Chad if he could stop by tonight—”

  Bill interrupted sharply, “I’ll be sure to have you back in time. Never fear.”

  “— and milk Willie so I don’t have to rush back.”

  Amazed, Willow watched as the mask and armor that surrounded Bill melted away. “Really? I thought—”

  “I know, but you were trying to do something nice for me and—” she paused, hoping she wasn’t about to send him back into his shell. “Well, I kind of hoped you’d be willing to take me somewhere.”

  From the look on his face, nothing Willow could have said would have pleased Bill more. He flashed a bright smile and promised, “Anywhere you want to go, we’ll go. Name it.”

  “You might regret that,” she warned. “I heard about this store—”

  “So you are a normal woman! I knew it!”

  Willow tried to manufacture an irritated expression, but the twitch of her lips and the twinkle in her eyes ensured utter failure. “What do you think I am, a normal man? A normal monkey? A normal weasel?”

  “I was going more for an abnormal woman.”

  The outskirts of Rockland loomed. Bill must have sensed Willow’s growing unease, because he gave her a quick, reassuring smile and said, “It’s ok. It’ll be fine.”

  Willow tried to recompose her features into some semblance of calm and reason but failed. “I’m sorry. It is just so immense. I’m not us
ed to being afraid of things.”

  “Don’t look at the city, look at me. Talk to me. What do you want to do today?”

  Taking his advice, Willow trained her gaze on Bill’s face and talked freely, ignoring the rapidly advancing city. “I thought we were going to the Pennsylvania Avenue Museum.”

  “We are. What do you want to do—see the whole thing in one trip or focus on a few rooms and then come back another time?”

  They debated the merits of a grand sweep of the museum or seeing a few rooms and spending more time in each but didn’t come to a decision. As the Loop neared, Bill asked about her shopping detour, “Where is that store you wanted to visit?”

  “I don’t know. It’s called Boho Chic and is on Boutique Row. That’s all Lee said.”

  Bill whipped onto the Loop and joined the mass of vehicles encircling the city. She watched in semi-fascinated horror as he wove in and out of traffic and then zipped off the freeway onto Waterbrook Avenue. Within minutes, they parked in a garage at the corner of what the Rockland citizens affectionately called “Boutique Row” and took to the street on foot.

  Glancing around him, Bill admitted, “I don’t know what end of the street it’s on—”

  “Maybe we should ask someone in one of the stores.”

  Unbeknownst to her, Willow was about to be inducted into the fraternal order of women with directionally challenged, stubborn men in their lives. “Well, if it’s on the Row, then it’s not like it won’t be right here.”

  Broad sidewalks, remnants of the city’s historic past, led them down tree-lined streets full of shoppers. Old storefronts with curved glass windows and classic signs boasted jewelry stores, cosmetic stores—even a purse store. “There’s a purse store? A store where they just sell purses? Where do people put all this stuff? How many pictures and vases and figurines can people have? Oh look, an antique bookstore!”