by Becky Wade
“Hi, neighbor!”
He looked up to see Macy walking toward him. He’d been so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed her car. He killed the saw’s power. Straightening, he pulled off his safety glasses and faced her.
Macy, a divorced mom of three, was his nearest neighbor. His house sat in the center of seventy-five acres, which meant she had to drive over to visit, which she did a couple of times a week.
“The kids and I made pumpkin bread today.” She lifted a foil-wrapped rectangle. She’d tied a bow around it. “I brought one over for you two.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I know how much you both like to eat.”
“You’re right. We do.” He grinned. It was a grin he dialed in.
Unlike a certain professional model, Macy liked him.
Macy wasn’t full of calm confidence, though.
Macy made him feel as though he were walking across a brown winter field.
“And that just about summarizes last night’s craziness,” Willow told Nora and Britt that night. She’d just brought them fully up to speed on her conversations with Charlotte and Corbin.
Both her sisters regarded her with arrested attention.
Nora, two years younger than Willow, had cinnamon-red hair, a bookish brain, and a proclivity for proving herself helpful. Willow had always loved Nora’s look—her pale, heart-shaped face, medium height, intelligent eyes—because Willow had always loved Nora. But this past summer, when Nora’s geeky tendencies had veered toward frumpiness, Willow had stepped in and very tactfully, with political correctness that would have stupefied Miss Manners, cajoled Nora into a makeover. Nowadays, Nora dressed like the stylish genealogist she was and wore the glow of a woman in love, thanks to John.
Britt was six years Willow’s junior. With her expressive, finely boned features, light brown eyes, and mane of chestnut hair, Britt could have become a model, too . . . had she been two inches taller and even the slightest bit interested in Willow’s profession.
The only profession Britt had ever been interested in was the one she’d achieved: chocolatier. She relished creativity, the pursuit of excellence at her art form, and adventure. Tonight she’d caught her hair back with a thin headband, then knotted it into a messy bun. She wore a plaid shirt, quilted vest, jeans, and duck boots that folded over at the upper rim to reveal a shearling interior.
The three sisters had carried bowls of ice cream, spoons, a thermos of decaf coffee, mugs, and three blankets to the dock that jutted out from the base of the lawn that rolled from the historic brick home’s back terrace to the Hood Canal.
No boats were presently moored at the family dock, but the sturdy wooden structure did boast a portable fire pit and three chairs. Willow loved sitting on the dock, listening to the lapping lullaby of the water and taking in the view. Currently, she was the only resident of Bradfordwood, since her parents were overseas serving as missionaries and her sisters had homes of their own in Merryweather. She went to the dock on misty mornings, during golden afternoon hours, and at night, like now, well after darkness had fallen. At the moment, the orange-yellow flames in the fire pit cast a glow over Willow, her sisters, and the dark swells of the canal.
“So why do you really think Corbin asked to speak to you privately?” Britt asked Willow.
“Because he hates me and enjoys getting a rise out of me.”
Nora opened her mouth, then, appearing to think better of it, closed it and studied Willow thoughtfully. Nora was likely tempted to defend Corbin. She wouldn’t, though. Nora’s first loyalty was to Willow, and she wouldn’t risk hurting Willow by siding with Corbin.
“Corbin doesn’t hate you.” Britt wrapped both palms around her steaming mug. “The night of Grandma’s birthday party there was a lot of something heavy between you two in the air—”
“Heavy loathing,” Willow cut in.
“Nope.” Britt gave her head a definitive shake. “You loathed-slash-loved him at Grandma’s party. And he loathed-slash-loved you back, which is pretty much one step away from matrimony.”
Nora snorted.
“It is not!” Willow said.
“Yes, it is,” Britt insisted. “I know these things. I’m a romance guru.”
Willow rolled her eyes, then ate a spoonful of ice cream, letting it melt over her tongue for a moment before chewing the cherry and chocolate pieces.
“You loved Corbin once,” Britt stated.
“The operative word there is once,” Willow said.
“But you did love him. And he loved you.”
“He never told me he did.”
Britt’s eyes took on a shrewd cast. “I think that he did.”
“He’s a player,” Willow said. “I don’t think he’s truly loved any of the women he’s been with. He’s never married. He’s never even been engaged.”
“Well, I think he loved you,” Britt said. “A shared history like the one you have with him holds a lot of power.”
“Power to irritate me. That’s about it. I never should have let him get away with anything less than ninety-two and a half percent of the blame for our breakup.” It wasn’t exactly true that the power to irritate was the only power Corbin had over her. Since seeing him, she’d felt shaken at times. Angry at times. Distracted by memories of the things he’d said during his visit to the inn.
“What exactly happened to break you two up?” Britt asked. “You were blissfully happy, and then you were done. All you said at the time was that he wasn’t the man you thought he was.”
“I don’t want to go into it, to be honest.” In large part because telling her sisters everything would mean incriminating herself.
“Have you forgotten about the TV interview Corbin gave on ESPN?” Nora asked Britt.
“Oh.” Britt scrunched her forehead. “That’s right. I had forgotten.”
“Let’s just say that I had good reasons to break up with him, and leave it at that,” Willow said. “With any luck, I won’t see him again. But if I do, I now have ground rules in place.” She swirled her ice cream, then took two more bites. Their discussion of Corbin was blunting her enjoyment of her Cherry Garcia. Another black mark against him.
“What are you going to do about the girl?” Nora asked. “What did you say her name was?”
“Charlotte.” Willow set her bowl aside. “She’s adorable in an awkward, middle-school girl kind of way.”
“Middle school was the worst!” Britt said.
“Terrible,” Nora agreed.
“To answer your question,” Willow said to Nora, “I’m not sure what I’m going to do about Charlotte. I’ve been feeling guilty ever since I told her I wouldn’t help her.” Charlotte had scored a direct hit to Willow’s heart. The two of them, as Charlotte had pointed out, were both related to women who’d been struck by disaster.
It was more than that, though. Charlotte reminded Willow of Nora and Britt when they’d been that age. Willow was an oldest sister. Her identity as Helper of Younger Sisters had been hardwired into her since birth. It went against her role as oldest sister to turn down Charlotte’s request for help.
Charlotte’s not your little sister. Yet she’d definitely felt a sisterly protectiveness toward the girl.
“There’s no possible way that I can solve a cold case involving a missing woman. Which is why I told Charlotte no.” Willow gestured to Nora before reaching to refill her coffee mug. “You’re a historian and a genealogist.” Nora owned all of Merryweather Historical Village but took daily control of only its Library on the Green Museum. The other buildings she rented to vendors. “You’re better equipped to help her than I am.”
“Feel free to send her my way if she’s interested.”
“No offense, but I don’t think she will be interested,” Britt said to Nora.
“No offense taken.” Nora buttoned the top button of her pea coat, then pulled her blanket up to her chin.
“It sounds like you’re the one she trusts and looks up
to,” Britt said to Willow. “You’re the one she wants help from.”
“I, for one, am inclined to think that Charlotte chose the right sister,” Nora said. “You listen, Willow. You care. You have an eye for detail. Who knows what you and Charlotte might be able to uncover together.”
“True,” Britt said. “The missing woman disappeared on your birthday, so maybe God does mean for you to join forces with this girl.”
Clearly, her two sisters had been drinking the same Kool-Aid as Charlotte. “Charlotte’s a fan of mine, which means she views me through rose-colored glasses. That’s why she thinks that I have the power to unravel the mystery of Josephine Blake. But I’m just an ordinary person—”
“You’re not very ordinary,” Nora said.
“I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” Willow said. Her sisters hadn’t had years of experience with fans. They didn’t comprehend how fans built their heroes up in their minds to be whatever the fan wanted them to be. Corbin would understand the fan dynamic, he had legions of fans—
Corbin was a scoundrel. Corbin was about as trustworthy as a toddler with a permanent marker.
“Charlotte needs to talk with her mom and grandma,” Britt said. “They’re going to have to tell her the truth so that she can understand exactly what went down.”
“I agree,” Willow said. “That’s the advice I gave her.”
“Are we sure that she’s going to follow through, though?” Nora asked. “It’s probably a little daunting for a twelve-year-old to confront her family about a lie they’ve been perpetuating.”
Willow’s guilt over Charlotte flared. “She has my email address. If she contacts me, I’ll do what I can to encourage her.”
Nora extended her booted feet closer to the fire. “If you and Charlotte need me to dig up historical research at any point along the line, all you have to do is ask.”
“I told her no. Why are you talking as if Charlotte and I are already a crime-fighting team?”
“Because we can tell you’re going to do it,” Britt said.
“I’m a model! You both seriously want me to look into the forty-year-old disappearance of Charlotte’s great-aunt?”
“Yes,” they answered in unison, smiling.
Email from Charlotte to Willow:
Ms. Bradford,
I just wanted to say thank you very much for meeting me. It was the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.
I’d send you flowers or something if I had any money. But since I don’t, here’s a link to a lit song by BTS, one of the bands I love. Jungkook, from BTS, is one of my favorite singers.
Your friend, Charlotte
Charlotte,
You’re welcome! It was my pleasure to meet you.
Have you had a chance to talk with your mother and grandmother about Josephine yet? If so, let me know how it went.
I enjoyed the music video. I especially liked BTS’s dancing and costumes. Back in the day, I was a fan of boy bands myself. I particularly loved *NSYNC.
—Willow
Ms. Bradford,
I watched the “Bye Bye Bye” video from *NSYNC. It wasn’t bad. All the guys seem pretty talented except the blond one with the curly hair.
I haven’t talked to my mom and grandma about it yet. I keep putting it off. The whole thing is sort of making me sick to my stomach.
Your friend, Charlotte
Charlotte,
I completely understand. It’s sometimes easier to talk to perfect strangers about things that matter than it is to talk openly about them with your own family members. Nonetheless, I think it’s important for you to discuss this with them, so I encourage you to decide when and where you’re going to ask your mother and grandmother about Josephine, then say a prayer for bravery, then speak the words.
Keep me updated!
—Willow
Ms. Bradford,
When my mom told my grandma that I got to meet you, my grandma asked me to invite you to lunch at her house on Saturday. They want to get to know you and serve you some food. I’m sure you’re really busy. But if you can come, then I’ve decided that I’m going to ask them about Josephine while we’re all there together.
Can you come?
My grandma makes really good chicken salad sandwiches, which I usually don’t like. But hers are really good.
I hope you can come.
Your friend, Charlotte
Charlotte,
Please thank your grandmother for inviting me to lunch.
I’d love to come.
—Willow
Chapter
Four
Charlotte had not oversold the deliciousness of her grandmother’s chicken salad sandwiches. They were amazing, indeed: studded with cranberries and walnuts, seasoned just the right amount, and served on brown bread with butter leaf lettuce and thin slices of tomato.
Willow had eaten every bite of her sandwich and her cup of vegetable soup, plus almost all of her chips and fruit salad. Charlotte’s grandmother, Melinda, could cook.
“Thank you,” Willow said sincerely as she passed her plate to Melinda and her bowl to Jill, Charlotte’s mom.
“You’re welcome.”
Melinda and Jill collected the remaining dirty dishes, then sailed toward the kitchen to prepare dessert.
Willow, Melinda, and Jill had conversed easily during lunch, enjoying the meal on Melinda’s back deck, which was surrounded by wooded hills. They chatted about the mild weather, the view, and local events. The only person who hadn’t seemed to share in their enjoyment was Charlotte. She’d been quiet and skittish.
“Are you all right?” Willow asked once Melinda and Jill were out of earshot. She’d been waiting for Charlotte to broach the subject of Josephine, but so far, she hadn’t.
“Sort of.” She leaned toward Willow. “When should I say something about Josephine?” Charlotte’s eyes reminded Willow of a rabbit in hiding.
“I think you should say something as soon as they come back.”
“What do you think of . . . What if you asked them about Josephine? Then I could, you know, pretend to be shocked?”
Willow regarded the girl calmly. “The truth is the best policy. If what you found out about Josephine matters to you, and I think it does, then you need to be the one to ask your mother and grandmother about her.”
Charlotte licked her lips.
“It’ll be all right, Charlotte. They love you.”
“’Kay.” Charlotte fidgeted with her dress.
“I’ve got your back.”
“I know you already told me that you can’t help me find Josephine. But I just wondered if there’s any chance that you’ve changed your mind.” More words rushed out before Willow could answer. “I’ll totally understand if you haven’t changed your mind! But I’d just . . . really like your help.”
Willow had to give the girl credit. Twelve years old and already full of persistence. Channeled well, that persistence would take Charlotte far later in life. “You know I’m only going to be in Washington for another two months.”
Charlotte nodded.
“And like I told you at the inn, I don’t know how to search for missing people.”
Charlotte nodded again. Her eyebrows steepled in the center with anxious hope.
Over the years, charities and fundraisers and businesses had all requested Willow’s support and endorsement. Hundreds of people had sent her letters and emails asking for money and sharing tragic stories of abuse or financial ruin or terminal illness.
Willow had responded to the flood of requests by choosing to focus her efforts on one particular cause. She’d teamed up with Benevolence Worldwide eight years ago as one of their ambassadors. Benevolence, a Christian non-profit foundation, provided food and education to impoverished children across the globe. She loved the work she did with them and loved that serving as an ambassador for Benevolence often gave her a chance to share her faith in public ways.
How long had it been, though, since she’d inves
ted in a young girl’s life in a personal way?
Too long, perhaps.
She genuinely liked Charlotte and because of that she wanted to help her. She did. She only wished she could help her by giving a speech at Charlotte’s school or taking the girl shopping. What Charlotte wanted was far harder. If she said yes to Charlotte’s request, and if Charlotte’s family gave her their blessing, then she’d be obligated to follow up her “yes” with time and commitment.
“Please?” Charlotte whispered.
Willow caved like an undercooked soufflé. “Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll work with me to find Josephine?”
“Yes. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you!”
Melinda, who was wearing a collared tennis shirt, a Nike power skirt, short socks, and purple ASICS, carried a chocolate Bundt cake onto the deck. Charlotte’s grandmother’s short, light brown hair framed a face adorned with nothing more dramatic than mascara and peach lipstick. Her body was composed of lean muscle, sheathed in faintly saggy skin that had been freckled and tanned by the sun to the color of pecans.
Over their shared lunch, it had become clear to Willow that the older woman was controlling, direct, and organized enough to have become a CEO. Instead, she’d brought her talents to bear on her role of captain to her 3.5 doubles tennis team at Shore Pine Country Club.
Melinda’s daughter Jill followed, bearing a platter loaded with a coffee carafe, cups and saucers, plates, and fresh silverware. Jill presented an interesting study in contrasts to her mother because Jill didn’t appear to be particularly sporty, nor controlling, nor organized. She was soft-spoken and genuine, quick to laugh, and even quicker to happily announce her flaws. In talking with her, Willow had discovered that Jill was a jewelry designer, wife to Mark, and mom to not only Charlotte but two younger sons, as well. With her long dark blond hair, jeans, and trio of necklaces, she gave off a relaxed, creative vibe.
When coffee had been served and they were sectioning off slices of the rich, moist cake, Charlotte caught Willow’s eye. You go, Charlotte mouthed.
