Volume Three
Chautona Havig
Copyright 2012 Chautona Havig
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Twitter: https://twitter.com/ - !/Chautona
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All Scripture references are from the NASB. NASB passages are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE (registered), Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation
Contents
Chapter Sixty-Nine 5
Chapter Seventy 12
Chapter Seventy-One 20
Chapter Seventy-Two 24
Chapter Seventy-Three 28
Chapter Seventy-Four 32
Chapter Seventy-Five 39
Chapter Seventy-Six 43
Chapter Seventy-Seven 48
Chapter Seventy-Eight 53
Chapter Seventy-Nine 57
Chapter Eighty 65
Chapter Eighty-One 69
Chapter Eighty-Two 73
Chapter Eighty-Three 79
Chapter Eighty-Three 86
Chapter Eighty-Four 91
Chapter Eighty-Five 96
Chapter Eighty-Six 102
Chapter Eighty-Seven 107
Chapter Eighty-Eight 113
Chapter Eighty-Nine 117
Chapter Ninety 121
Chapter Ninety-One 125
Chapter Ninety-Two 129
Chapter Ninety-Three 133
Chapter Ninety-Four 139
Chapter Ninety-Five 144
Chapter Ninety-Six 149
Chapter 97 155
Chapter 98 160
Chapter 99 165
Chapter 100 170
Chapter 101 176
Chapter 102 182
Chapter 103 196
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The scent of baking muffins filled the kitchen as Willow worked. She wiped up the sprinkles of flour on the countertop, remembering their shock as she admitted she didn’t bake with whole-wheat flour. But whole-wheat is so much healthier! I thought you’d be into healthy, Marianne had protested.
Clyde McFarland had carted away two separate wheat grinders over the years—and two large bags of wheat berries. Kari simply hadn’t had the patience to learn to bake with it. We eat real whole foods. Fake flour isn’t going to kill us if we don’t live on bread alone. At least what we eat will be good.
Once the kitchen sparkled, she carried in a box and unwrapped a teapot. She washed it well, dried it, and set it on the hutch where a teapot had always sat. As she unwrapped and washed the lid, her fingers traced the pattern. It was so perfect—so her. Polish pottery, Libby called it. Willow grabbed the first mug and repeated the washing progress, imagining the cups of tea—coffee for Chad—that would fill them.
As she stood back to admire everything, something niggled at her. Willow reached for her purse on the shelf by the back door and pulled out all the cash she had in it, stuffing it into the teapot. “There. That’s better.” Just knowing that money was in there made everything feel “right.” She sank into the rocking chair, enjoying the warmth of the stove. Her eyes closed.
“Mother, why do you keep money in the teapot?”
“Because we don’t use it much and it’s convenient. My mother always kept cash in the teapot on the shelf when I was little.”
The girl chewed on the end of her braid. “You have a wallet. If you kept your money in your wallet, we could have more tea parties.”
“Do you want more tea parties?” The mother turned, flipping a long braid over one shoulder and twisting the dishtowel.
The child’s lips pursed as she considered the question. “I guess not. We have one whenever I ask.”
“Exactly. It just gives me a tiny taste of home.”
“Why don’t we just go there and see your family. Then you would feel better.”
“Because I love them, sweetheart. I love you. And going home means someone would get hurt.”
“But not if the bad man didn’t know. We could go after dark and knock on the back door.”
The mother hesitated as if debating something within her heart and then said, “But that doesn’t mean no one would get hurt, Willow. My parents don’t know if I’m alive or dead. If I went back now, they would know that I left them—didn’t say a word. That would hurt too.”
“Will you never go back?”
“Maybe if the bad man dies. His son died. Maybe if the bad man dies I can write and see if my parents will forgive me.” She turned back to drying the big pot before adding, “No, I don’t think I will. Sometimes it is best to make a decision and stick with it—even if you regret it.”
From the table, the little girl picked up her colored pencil and began coloring again. The words sprouted seeds, which buried themselves in her heart. The sniffle from the sink told her that her mother was crying—again. Those tears watered and germinated a new resolve—resolve never to make her mother cry at the memory of her.
Willow’s mind jerked into the present as the sound of a crumbling log falling in the stove. She glanced up at the teapot flanked by the mugs, creamer, and sugar bowl. The thoughtfulness of the gift struck a chord deep in her heart. “And then I was so ugly to her when she tried to talk to me about Chad. I should call—”
She stopped midsentence as she recalled Chad’s words. “Cheri thinks we shouldn’t announce anything until after Luke’s wedding in March.”
“I guess I’ll call and tell her I’m praying about it. Yeah. That’s the truth. I’ll be praying about it until it won’t do any good anymore,” she muttered as she stood to adjust the handle on the mug that now sat where Mother’s teacup once sat.
She stood back to admire the effect. Different from the delicate cups her mother had owned, this tea set was solid and suited both her tastes and the room where it lived. Chad’s new mug sat on the next shelf looking left out—just as she imagined he’d feel at a tea party. Grabbing the box, she went outside and tore it into pieces, stuffing them in the incinerator.
Shivering, Willow hurried inside and went to finish putting away the rest of her gifts. From the coffee table, she picked up a DVD case, still unsure what good it did to have a movie that she couldn’t watch. North & South. She’d expected something about the War Between the States but discovered a story about England’s mill towns. Maybe Chad would bring his new computer to her house. He said it played movies just like Alexa’s player. Yes, they’d have to watch it soon.
“Where do I store a movie? Does it go in the library, my room, Mother’s—”
That sparked a new thought. Mother’s room. It should be Chad’s now—soon. It was closer to the stove than the spare room and therefore warmer. She’d planned for years what she’d do with the spare room if they ever had time. Now that Chad wanted her inside as much as possible until they caught whoever broke into her house, Willow had time to work on it.
She whipped out her phone and called him. “What time do you work again? I can’t remember.”
“I’m working now, silly.”
“Oh.”
The disappointment in her must have been audible because he asked, “What did you need?”
She thought fast. “When is your lunch?”
“Two.”
“If I walk into town and get a few
things, can you take me home at two?”
After several seconds of silence, Willow was sure of his answer. To her surprise, he said, “Can you do something for me?”
“Sure, what?”
“Dial my number before you leave so that you can hit send immediately if anything goes wrong.”
Again, she’d forgotten. “Sorry. I wanted paint to work on the spare room while I’m on ‘house arrest’ so I didn’t go crazy being shut up, and then the first thing I do is ask you to help me leave.”
“Well, I have a feeling you were asking me to take you but then you found out I was working—”
“Ok, smartie. Will you help me or not?”
“Call me at two.”
She squealed and snapped the phone shut. Seconds later, it rang. “What!”
“I just thought you should know; I miss you.”
“Sap.”
Smiling to herself, she shut the phone. His more recent hesitance and reserve had given way to the old Chad—affectionate, teasing, and the big brother she’d never had. However, he now occasionally made obvious and deliberate attempts at flirting, something she found delightfully terrifying.
What had she been doing before her mind went off on the spare room topic? She glanced around her and then saw the movie on the coffee table again. “North & South… The library I guess. I hope Marianne knows what she’s talking about.”
She set the movie on the shelf with Austen, Bronte, and Dickens, hoping it fit in their company, and shut the library door behind her. With her new game under her arm, Willow raced upstairs making a mental note to have Chad try to teach her the rules again. She’d spent two hours with Chris on New Year’s afternoon trying to understand the strategy of Othello but failed. Remembering the pasted patient smile on Chris’ face, Willow was certain that he’d never buy her another game.
Cheri had filled a tiny bag with gift cards. She had one for Starbucks, a body products store, beauty salon, some oddly named place called “Jamba Juice,” another that Cheri said was a cinema, a mall store that supposedly only sold cinnamon rolls, a clothing store with the ridiculous name of “Gap,” and several others. Willow had protested the expense, but the entire Tesdall-Sullivan family laughed at Cheri’s “luck” with online giveaways and door prizes. “Your real gift is a shopping trip!” Cheri had insisted and then whispered, “Even if I have to skip class one day to do it.”
Christopher’s gift still warmed her heart. Her fingers curled gently around the battered old journal. Such a treasure. She had to find a safe place to keep it. “It’s my father’s. He kept it during WWII—just a boy really. I would have given you this one if it was mine to give. Yours didn’t ship when they promised, so Dad said to take this home for now. We’ll trade when the facsimile gets here.” She traced the edges of the cover, the torn corners rough against her fingers. “I should take it to Chad,” she murmured to herself. “What if it isn’t safe here?”
That thought sent a terrifying whirl of mental images through her mind. Her mother’s journals. They weren’t safe either. She could lose everything else and recuperate, but the idea of losing her mother’s journals sickened her. She’d have to take those to Chad as well. She’d miss them, but—
A new thought crossed her mind. The woman who had made the copies—Michelle something, she could make copies of all of them for her until they caught whoever had stolen her money. With the new locks, another break-in was unlikely, but she didn’t want to risk it and Chuck’s gift, a backpack complete with wheels and a handle, would be the perfect means of transportation.
The Tesdall-Sullivan family seemed to put great thought into most of their gifts. The occasional generic gift had prompted jokes and protests from gifter and giftee alike. Chuck, however, seemed clueless to the concept of meaningful gifts. If Cheri hadn’t exaggerated, and from the agreeing nods of the others it seemed she hadn’t, Chuck had entered an aisle of prepackaged, cellophane wrapped gifts at Wal-Mart and shopped directly from there. For Chris, there had been a tin full of popcorn—emblazoned with a puppy in a Santa hat, no less. Christopher received the most normal gift of all—a cutting board with wedges of cheese and a cheese slicer. Alas, Chuck’s repeated jokes about “cutting cheese” earned him several kicks from Cheri for reasons that she couldn’t fathom. A jumbo bottle of vanilla scented bubble bath, wrapped in tulle with a fake satin—who ever invented fake satin, anyway?—ribbon tying it up in one truly hideous package had been in Marianne’s box, while Cheri received a sampler of twenty unique (and grotesque) scents as “Walking Dusk” and “Dawn Dewdrops.” Cheri had promptly begun a hint campaign for her birthday. Chuck didn’t have a chance.
The pièce de résistance, however, was Chad’s gift. Four mini beer steins nestled in a specialty box, beneath them, four flavors of hot chocolate that turned Willow’s stomach at the name. Apple cider was never intended to flavor chocolate.
After a series of gifts like that, Willow’s oversized backpack had been a complete surprise. Before Willow could ask about it, Chad had joked, “Now how did Cheri know Willow needed something like that?” The smug look on his sister’s face and the chagrined expression on Chuck’s had proven him right.
By ten-thirty, she and a very heavy backpack trekked along the highway. The brisk air made her nose try to run, but with her warm boots, gloves, and hat, she managed to stay warm. A sports car zoomed up next to her, causing Willow to open her phone inside her pocket.
“Hey, want a ride?”
“No thanks.”
“Aw, come on, I can drop you off in Fairbury.”
“Please leave,” Willow insisted in measured tones.
“But—”
Willow pulled out her phone. “My friend is a Fairbury police officer and expects a call if anyone bothers me. Go away before I decide to hit the send button. Once I do, he’s on his way.”
“Sorry! Just trying to be nice.” The window whizzed upwards, and the sports car zoomed down the road.
With her phone back in her pocket, Willow continued on her way to town, wondering if she should mention the man to Chad. He’d worry and it wasn’t the driver’s fault that some idiot had broken into her house. Then again, keeping things from Chad felt icky. She’d tell him, point out that she’d been ready to dial, and remind him to be proud. Yes, she would definitely remind him to be proud of her.
She reached the police station by eleven. “Good morning, Officer Freidan.”
“Joe is good, Willow.”
“Joe. It suits you. I can’t see you as a Joseph.”
The officer accepted her backpack. “My name isn’t Joseph, so that’s probably a good thing.” He set the backpack on a table behind the counter and said, “It’ll be there. Chad called to tell us you were coming.”
“Thanks.”
She was halfway down the street before she realized she hadn’t asked his name. “Oh well, if he had wanted to tell me, he would have.”
“Did you say something?” A woman with two small children, fighting to get away from her grasp, stared at her.
“Oh, no. I was just talking to myself.”
A little girl with a bobbed haircut smiled up at her. “I do that too. It’s fun.”
Eager to continue on her errand, Willow pointed up the street. “Is the hardware store that way? Just across the street from the Pettler?”
“Yep.”
Waving at the children, she strolled down the street, trying to remember herself as a little girl. Everything seemed so huge back then. There also were fewer cars then; that was for sure—more people walking. The hardware store carried everything from obscure washers to the latest decorating magazines. Mother had joked that it didn’t matter what she asked for; Larry always had it.
With a mental picture of a treasure trove of tools and parts, Willow stepped inside and stopped short as the paint section filled her eyes. “Oh, Mother, how could you?” she whispered to herself when she saw the rainbow of paint options.
“I’m sorry, what did you sa
y?”
She blinked and a woman blocked her view of the wonderful array of colors. “I—I was just talking to myself. I never realized how many colors…” she peeked around the woman’s shoulder, trying to get a better look again. Why wouldn’t the lady move?
“Are you planning a paint project—now?”
“I thought I’d try. I can open windows and keep the fire roaring…”
“Perhaps you’d like to try this brand,” the woman suggested, leading Willow to a section of the paint wall. “It’s perfectly safe to paint with low ventilation—”
Willow, lost in a sea of paint, hardly heard her. She compared greens with blues, yellows with tans, and every shade of pink and rose imaginable. It took a full hour of indecision before she finally chose the perfect semi-light blue and mocha. Ideas spun wildly through her mind.
She purchased the paints that she needed, two new roller pads, and three rolls of paint tape. “May I leave these here until Chad can come get them? I don’t want to carry everything around town.”
“Well, sure. When is—”
“Chad. Officer Tesdall—”
The woman beamed. “You must be Willow Finley! I’m excited to finally meet you. I was so sad that I missed your party. The article in the Rockland Chronicle really—”
“Yes. Thank you. I’ll see you later. Thanks again.”
Willow escaped the building, leaving a confused-looking woman staring at her through the glass door. Rude or not, she did not care to answer questions about that article. She fingered her phone, wondering if she should call Chad or try to remember where the copy/shipping place was supposed to be. After several wrong turns, her phone still in her pocket, she found it—The Mail Box. Snow piled high around the base of the building, but the sidewalks and entrance were clear. Willow wanted to offer to help; leaving it piled up there wasn’t good for the foundation.
A woman stood behind the counter, wrapping rubber bands around stacks of papers. Willow stepped up to her and asked, “Are you Ms. Ferguson?”
“Yes…”
Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 3 Page 1
