Elderberry Croft: The Complete Collection

by Becky Doughty

  Willow’s relief at the change of subject was evident, and he took note of the deep breath that seemed to inflate her once again, bringing her shoulders and her chin back up. “Nope. No speeches from me. Just pie. But I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot,” Joe nodded, and waved his fork in the direction of the couch, indicating she should sit again. He needed a little distance between them in order to keep his head on straight.

  Her words slipped out, haltingly at first. “I…I just wondered why people here at The Coach House didn’t have some kind of…memorial for him. A barbecue, or something. I mean, everyone needs to be acknowledged, in living and in dying.”

  “Well, now,” he said, adjusting his thoughts to the direction of her question. “I don’t know. I guess no one thought to take it on.” He shrugged like a teenager, and took his first bite of pie.

  His knees actually got weak as the tangy-sweet fruit pastry filled his mouth, making the muscles of his jaw clench. The crust was dense and flaky at the same time, and the apples were cooked just the way he liked them; sliced thinly and sautéed in butter and cinnamon. The elderberries gave it a wild taste, reminding him of the endless days of summer when he was a boy. He pulled one of the tall stools out from the table and sank into it, savoring the combination of flavors on his tongue.

  “Do you know, I used to live next door to a farmer named McGregor. Just like that Peter Cottontail, Miss Willow. Me and my little sisters used to steal fruit from the McGregor’s boysenberry vines. Every once in a while, he’d come upon us, our fingers sticky and our mouths dyed purple.” He chuckled at the memory. “In hind sight, I don’t ever remember him bein’ too angry. In fact, it seems to me that he must have let it slide more often than not. He was always lookin’ out for Mama; that man was. He bought bread and pies from her every time she baked.” He paused, remembering more. “You know, now that I think on it, she used to buy her fruit from him, then he’d pay her double that for a pie or two.”

  “He sounds like a good neighbor.” Willow was taking small bites, attentive to his every word. She didn’t ask him about his papa, and for that he was glad. It still gave him a gut-ache when he thought back on the day his mama received her Western Union telegram. She’d held on to his narrow, eight-year-old shoulders as though they could handle the weight of a woman’s broken heart. He’d stayed upright until she pulled herself together enough to make dinner, then he’d gone outside and crumpled on the ground beside his papa’s truck. It took all night and half the next morning before he was able to come to grips with the fact that he was now the man of the house. It was McGregor who found him there, who offered him a hand up, his first cup of black coffee, and a ham sandwich made on Mama’s bread.

  “Yes, I can say, in all sincerity, that McGregor was a good neighbor. I remember this one time, when all three of my little sisters were sick with some terrible cough that wouldn’t stop; that man gave Mama a ride to the hospital in the middle of the night. I thought those girls were goners, but we didn’t have the money for a doctor. I suppose he must have paid for it himself.” He took another bite.

  “Lordy, Miss Willow! This pie’s bringin’ back all kinds of memories. There was this other neighbor who looked out for our family, too, especially us kids. Her name was Delphinium Dupple. Now what kind of mother would name her poor child Delphinium Dupple?”

  “Maybe she didn’t,” Willow replied. “Maybe Delphinium had a nice, benign last name, but then married a man named Dupple. There’s no reasoning with love, you know.”

  “Well, you’re dead right about love. But Delphinium carried that name around with her from the day she was born. She never married, and she wasn’t ashamed to say so. But let me tell you, she was the best babysitter we ever had growin’ up. Mama worked nights at a local diner, and Granny Didi, as we called her, she’d feed us our supper, make sure we had our clothes lined up for school the next mornin’, and read us into oblivion every night.”

  “What did she read to you?” Willow had finished her dessert and sat back into the corner of the faded brown velour sofa, the empty plate on her lap.

  “Mostly Bible stories. She had this enormous illustrated version with pictures a kid could get lost in. But sometimes she told us fairy tales and ghost stories, mostly just on nights we didn’t have to get up for school the next day. One of us was always too spooked to fall asleep after that.” He let himself sink into the memory for a moment, the rich timbre of Granny Didi’s voice rippling through him. “She had the best way of tellin’ those ghost stories. Her voice would get all low and rounded out, like she was sittin’ in a whiskey barrel. Makes my skin tingle just thinkin’ about the sound.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “You know, I can’t quite recall. I mean, I’m certain she’s dead and gone by now, but I don’t really know. I should call my sisters, see if they know. Jillian was especially close to her bein’ the youngest and all.” He took another bite, fixing his gaze on a blank spot above Willow’s head as he chewed, trying to remember. Like a gentle whisper, it came back to him, and he nodded slowly.

  “She was there, at Mama’s funeral. I’d all but forgotten that. She came over and wrapped her molasses arms around me, and told me she was proud of me like I was her own grandson.” He waved his fork at his guest. “You know, that’s a sweet memory, Miss Willow. Thank you for bringin’ it to mind.”

  “I just brought you pie, Joe.” Willow’s laugh wasn’t nearly so loud as usual, but it came from somewhere deep inside, as though she meant it. “It’s what neighbors do, isn’t it? Looking out for each other. Being family to each other when there isn’t any other.”

  “Hm. Are we still talkin’ about my memories, or are we back to celebratin’ John Bishop?” Joe pressed his fork into the last crumbs on his plate, leaving none of the goodness uneaten. “Or are we talkin’ about you and me now?”

  Willow smiled softly, but didn’t answer his question outright. “Thank you for letting me in tonight, Joe. I needed the company.” She stood and carried her dish to the sink.

  “Leave that, Miss Willow. I’ll take care of it in a bit.” He felt the pull of her, and it reminded him of what he saw in Richard Davis’s eyes when he watched her from his front porch. It wasn’t lust or wanting in a carnal way; but an echo in the bone of something needful in her that stirred up the deep places in him.

  “I’m much better now. I’m heading home so you can make your phone call to that friend of yours.” She scooped up her cape and swirled it around her shoulders in one deft move, then retrieved her basket, placing the remaining pie on the counter.

  “Friend? Vivian?” Joe guffawed. “That woman isn’t just any old friend. That woman is my wife.”

  Chapter 5

  The look on Willow’s face was priceless. It wasn’t that he didn’t want anyone knowing about Vivian. It was just easier not to have to explain her to folks. But the red-headed girl stood there, just inside his door, looking at him with those big, bold eyes.

  “It’s a long story, child, and one for another day. If I don’t give the lovely Vivian a call before nine o’clock, I’m goin’ to hear no end to my neglect, havin’ put her off already. So scoot on home, now.”

  “I just don’t understand. Why on earth do the two of you live such a long way apart when you’re married?”

  “It’s like you said. There’s no reasonin’ in love, is there?”

  “No, I guess not.” Willow opened the door, then turned back to look up at him. “But you will explain it to me, won’t you? When can I come back?”

  “Willow Goodhope, you’d talk a cat out of his skin with those eyes of yours. Listen. I’ve seen you out and about in the early mornin’ hours. You want to know about my Vivian? You come over tomorrow mornin’ ‘round eight. I’ll have the griddle fired up and the coffee on. What will you be bringin’?”

  Willow grinned smugly. “I’ll surprise you.” Then she fluttered out the door, the hem of her cape rippling as though the shadows were jock
eying for position behind her.

  “Don’t you come back empty-handed, you hear?” he called after her. “I won’t let you in!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Now here it was, five minutes before eight in the morning, and his home smelled like breakfast, the gurgle of the coffee pot making funky jazz harmonies with the sizzle of bacon and eggs. His mouth watered with anticipation for the food he’d be sharing with Willow, while his mind mulled over the words he’d be sharing with her, too.

  There she was, making her way up the drive toward his trailer. He watched her from the kitchen window until she turned out of sight into his gate. Before she could knock, he was there, opening his home to her once again.

  “I hope you’re hungry, Willow Goodhope of Elderberry Croft.” He smiled at her pink-tipped nose and bright eyes, the chill of the March morning making her skin glow.

  “Good morning, Joe. In fact, I’m starving! I’ve been up too long already. I had a cup of coffee first thing, because that’s just my morning ritual. Coffee with Jesus. Or was it two cups? Anyway, then I started baking and that really made me hungry, but I wanted to save my appetite, so I had another cup of coffee instead. I think I might start bouncing off the walls if I don’t get some food in my stomach soon!” The words poured out of her in a rush, and Joe stepped back under the barrage.

  “Glory be, child! Maybe you’d better go back outside and run around the block a few times. That’s what Mama always did when we got ants in our pants indoors.”

  Willow laughed, set the basket she carried—the same one she’d brought the pie in last night—on the table, and un-wrapped the heavy wool scarf looped around her neck. Her cardigan was thick, with big brass buttons, and she wore fingerless gloves on her hands. “I like your socks,” he teased, pointing with a thrust of his chin. She held them up and wiggled her fingers in the air.

  “I get claustrophobic when I wear gloves. Isn’t that silly? I go into a mini panic. My skin starts itching, and my ears ring a little, then I start to get light-headed. Can’t wear them. But these? They’re perfect for me. And when my fingers get cold, I have these lovely thingies!” She reached into a pocket and pulled out a little square beanbag. “They’re full of wild rice, lavender, and elderberry flowers. I just pop it into the microwave before I go outside, and drop one in each of my pockets. Then, when I need to warm up my hands, I do this.” She shoved her hands into her pockets to demonstrate. “And voila! Toasty warm! You want to feel one? They’re still warm from at least fifteen minutes ago, and they smell heavenly!”

  “Lord, have mercy. You sit your backside down right now. Come on. Sit.” Joe practically pushed her into one of the stools. “You’re making me nervous!” He’d already set the table with plates, silverware, water glasses, and coffee cups, but he reached over and snatched up the mug from in front of her. “No more coffee for you. At least not until you get yourself together a bit. And take those things off your hands. This isn’t some Victorian tea party.”

  Willow made a funny face at him, then took a deep breath as she peeled off the red gloves. “Maybe it’s more of a tea party than you thought! Look what I brought!” She whipped the cloth off the basket. “Scones and leftover elderberry filling from your pie!”

  Joe chuckled when he saw them. “Scones, huh? All I see is some highfalutin biscuits, Miss Willow. But they sure smell nice. Thank you for bringin’ them.” Then he gave her a stern look. “Are you ready to settle down? I’m a man who likes to spend time with his food. I don’t need the accompaniment of conversation; especially not with a scatter-brained chatterbox like yourself this mornin’. It’s not good for my digestion.”

  “Okay. I’m calm. Sorry. Maybe it’s not just the caffeine. Maybe it’s the spring air and the promise of a good story.” She sat forward and clapped her hands. “I can’t wait to hear about you and Vivian!”

  “Well, wait you must, because I plan to enjoy my breakfast first. Besides, I think it will do you some good to practice a little patience and self-control.” Joe sat down across the table from her and reached for one of her hands, then bowed his head, not waiting to see if she understood his intentions. He’d learned long ago that explaining things like thanking the good Lord for His daily provision usually just took up praying time. No one had yet refused to at least bow their heads alongside him. He was pleased to hear her murmured ‘amen’ following his.

  Willow finished her first plateful, then begged for her coffee cup back. “Come on, Joe. I can’t eat scones without coffee. I mean, biscuits. So do you like them?” She pointed at the golden pastry on his plate. “They’re made with elderberry flowers.”

  “You and that elderberry tree.” Joe frowned. “Is that your tree spirit, or somethin’?”

  Willow threw back her head and laughed, obviously delighted by the idea. “Well, if I believed in such things, then I’d say absolutely, yes.” She circled her redeemed mug with both hands, and held it out for him to fill. “But the truth is this. I grew up in a part of Oregon where elderberry trees are everywhere. My childhood sounds a little like yours, in fact. We weren’t what people considered well-off, if you know what I mean, but there was always something delicious to eat in our home. My mom used to take me out into the woods and, depending on the seasons, we’d find all kinds of things to add to our table. Have you ever had stinging nettle pasta? Or cattail cobs?”

  Joe was beginning to understand the wild thing he saw in her. She continued. “They’re not really cobs, but when the cattails first formed their buds, Mom used to steam them, and we’d eat them like miniature corn on the cob. In fact, when I was little, I thought that’s what was in those cans of fancy mini-corn on the shelves in the grocery store.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “And everywhere we went, there were elderberry trees. But the elderberry didn’t just provide for us in one season. That tree is a tree of life, Joe; the ultimate giving tree. In spring, we made bug spray out of the young leaves. It flowers from spring through early summer, and there’s so much you can do with the flowers. The fragrance is almost intoxicating and there’s nothing better than to read or nap under those trees in the heat of the day.” She selected another scone out of the basket, slathered it with butter and some of the tart fruit filling, and took a bite, chewing it slowly. “Shade and berries in the late summer and on into winter, pithy wood for tinder in the winter and early spring. Everything about that tree is beneficial, if used in the right way.”

  She ate a few more bites while Joe watched and waited. There was something about her voice that was a little intoxicating, too, and he felt like he could listen to her talk all morning. “So when I came here the last days of December, looking for a place to stay, and I found that rogue elderberry tree growing by the little creek, I fell in love with the place. It was like God put a mark on Elderberry Croft, an X on a treasure map. He knew I needed something that he alone could give me, some kind of evidence that he cared where I ended up.” Her voice had dropped so low Joe had to lean in a little to hear. Then she fell silent altogether.

  “Where is your family, Willow Goodhope?” It was a broad question, one that left her lots of room to answer.

  “My mother passed away when I was fifteen.” She smiled warmly, clearly having come to terms with her loss long ago. “She died as she lived, at peace. She had cancer, and we didn’t know until it was too late. My dad survived that by sinking into his work for a while. I thought I’d lost him, too, but then he came around, and we became the best of friends. He’s still alive and kicking, but he lives in a 55-plus community. I see him fairly often; almost every Sunday after church.” Her smile brightened as she spoke about her father, and Joe nodded with satisfaction. It was good to hear a girl speak highly of her daddy.

  “But here I’ve been talking about me, and I want to know about you, Joe. And Vivian. Your wife!” She shook her head and snorted. “I still can hardly believe it.”

  Chapter 6

  Joe told her about how he’d stayed single on into his e
arly sixties, taking care of his little sisters after their mother passed away, making sure they were provided for. He put Mona through college, then Beatrice, who both became teachers. When it came time for Jillian to go to school, she got married instead, and Joe paid for her wedding after approving of her young man.

  “That’s a lot of sacrifice on your part,” Willow stated.

  “Sacrifice was what my mama did after my papa didn’t come home from the war. I just made sure all her hard work wasn’t for naught.” When he promised Mama he’d look after the girls, he never thought twice about doing otherwise.

  “But when I met Vivian, my whole world shook like a California earthquake. That woman pulled her smokin’ vehicle onto my auto repair lot, threw open her door before the engine had completely died, and started hollerin’ such things as I’d never heard come out of the mouth of a woman before. I stood there, my own mouth open as my ears filled with that vile, and I knew I had to rescue her from herself. But not before I rescued her car. It was a cherry 1955 Plymouth Belvedere, its baby blue and white body in perfect condition. But I had a feelin’ if she’d had a baseball bat in her hands, that vehicle would’ve seen its last day.” He guffawed at the memory, but his heart beat a little faster inside the walls of his chest as he recalled her long brown legs sticking out of her short maroon miniskirt, her arms flailing in the air, bracelets all a-jingling.

  “To this day, my Vivian could out-curse a sailor, but it’s a rare occurrence, and for that I’m glad. She terrified me and captivated me all at the same time. I was a goner when she bent over, yanked off one of her high heels, and threw it at the windshield of that poor car.” He leaned back in his chair, and grinned at Willow across the table.

  “After I helped her hobble into the front office and gave her a glass of water, I went back out and located her shoe. Then I knelt down in front of her, and cuppin’ her lovely leg in my hand, I slipped the shoe back on her foot, all the while, never takin’ my eyes off her face.” With his hands, he demonstrated his actions. “When she smiled, and said, ‘So this is where Prince Charmin’ works,’ I knew she felt the same immediate attraction.”