There it was again! The guitar seemed fuller now, richer, sweeter, until Myra realized there was a voice accompanying the strings, soft words, indecipherable over the rumble of the dryer. But the song was more than just music, it was a cry, and Myra didn’t need to understand the words to hear the message.
Longing. Like the cold that settles into your bones in the dead of winter, and no matter how many layers you wear, or how closely you draw up to the fire, it’s there, that deep ache that won’t let you rest, that won’t leave you in peace.
It had to be Willow. Myra had never heard anyone else here sing like that. Oh, Patti had a pretty voice, and she could certainly carry a tune, but Patti sang more like a Lemon Sister. Not this gypsy haunting that lingered in the air like mourning.
She reached up and gave the chain above her head a quick tug, knowing if she opened the door with the light on, it would blaze across the way toward Willow’s place, interrupting the music. And Myra did not want the song to end. She had to hear it better; it called to her.
Leaving her basket of folded bath towels on the floor, she slipped out into the warm night, and made her way toward Elderberry Croft, stepping just out of the spotlight of the lamppost that monitored the comings and goings of the residents at night. Now she could hear what Willow sang.
In the lingering silence I still hear your whispered sigh.
But your hand in mine tells me you’re leaving.
You must not know how much I need you,
That every moment you stay keeps me breathing.
So far away, you’re drifting,
So far from me.
I can’t reach you anymore, anywhere.
But my heart won’t set you free.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Myra could make out the shadowy form of Willow perched on the low ledge that bordered the stream, her feet dangling in the shallow water. She cradled a guitar in her lap, the neck more upright than out to the side, almost like she was playing a miniature cello. Flickers of moonlight cast off the surface of the water flowing around her ankles, and Myra saw the girl bring a bottle to her lips, and take a long draw from it, before resting her cheek against the instrument in her arms.
Sitting alone in the dark, singing love songs to someone who’s drifted too far away, drinking away the pain of heartbreak.
Myra turned and quietly made her way back to the laundry shed, unable to bear being a witness to the young woman’s suffering a moment longer.
As she pulled the door shut behind her, the song continued, this time just the lonely guitar. Myra closed her eyes and leaned against the door in the tiny dark space, listening, her own heart breaking for her young neighbor.
After a few more moments, Myra tugged on the light cord again, suddenly too weary to contemplate coming back one more time tonight to move the wash to the dryer. She’d take the dry load home now, finish folding it there, and be back first thing in the morning. She scooted the basket closer as she swept the rest of the unfolded towels into it, cringing at the noise it made clunking up against the metal casing of the dryer. She did not want Willow to know she was there; she already felt like an intruder. Scooping up the washcloths and hand towels, now in a hurry, she dropped them into the basket, hoisted it to her hip again, and turned to slip outside.
A piercing pain shot through her heel, wrapping around her ankle and scurrying up her calf, and in the split second before she screamed, the spine-chilling echo of a rattle registered in her mind. A nubby tail waved at her as it disappeared into the crack between the two machines, the rattlesnake more interested in finding another cozy place to curl up for the night than in inflicting any more hurt on Myra.
Chapter 3
Myra shoved open the laundry shed door, her foot beginning to throb. “Help!” She cried out, hoping her voice would carry across the way to Willow, hoping the babble of the brook and the girl’s playing wouldn’t drown out her call.
She twisted her leg a little to peek at her foot, but the sight of so much blood started her panicking. She thought she might pass out from pain. “Help me! Willow!” She could barely stand to put weight on the toes of her right foot, and she took a few more hobbling steps before she stopped. Visions of dying right there in the middle of the driveway, her underwear in the washing machine for anyone in the world to discover, flashed through her mind. “Willow!” She cried out again, then saw the girl moving toward her.
Myra collapsed on the ground, relief making her legs give out altogether. By the time Willow bent over her, she was sobbing in pain, and she rolled to her side, clutching her stomach, the thought of what was to become of her making her nauseous.
“What happened?” The smooth voice washed over Myra like remnants of sad song.
“A rattler! A rattlesnake bit my heel. Call 911.” It was just a harsh grunt, her jaw clenched around the words. Remembering the silhouette of the bottle, Myra squinted up at Willow, hoping the girl wasn’t too drunk to help.
“Don’t move. Be still, and try to stay calm, okay? You don’t want that venom moving through your system any faster than it has to. I’ll be right back.” Willow was on her feet, darting back to her cottage, sure-footed. She disappeared under the shadowy awning of her porch momentarily, before the lights in the house came on, one by one, flooding the area where Myra lay with a warm glow from the open windows.
Through squinted eyes, she spotted Willow’s guitar propped against the front steps, leaning precariously to the left, as though perhaps the instrument was a little tipsy, instead of the musician. She made herself focus on the shape of it, the hourglass curve of the body, so like a woman’s; the long straight neck that held the keys to every song. She finally closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the night, trying to recall the haunting melody Willow had played only moments before.
Hurrying steps, then a cool hand was pressed to her cheek. “Myra. I’m going to wash your foot, okay? I’ll try not to hurt you, but I need you to relax and stay calm. The paramedics are on their way.”
“Call Eddie,” Myra moaned, not bothering to open her eyes. “He needs to get that snake before it gets anyone else.” She grimaced, her heel on fire.
“Hush now. Everything will be okay. I already called him and he’s on his way.” Myra felt the younger woman’s cool hand on her ankle, and she flinched. “I’m sorry, Myra. We need to make sure your heel is clean, okay?”
Myra nodded, and clamped her lower lip between her teeth, holding her breath against the anticipated pain.
“Breathe with me, Myra. Deep breath in through your nose, slow breath out through your mouth. It will help you stay calm.”
The cool washcloth on her foot shocked her over-stimulated senses, and she let out a short shriek, jerking her leg away from Willow’s touch. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m such a baby.” She was sobbing and her stomach sloshed threateningly.
“No, Myra. You’re being very brave. I’m going to try again, okay? I’ll just put the washcloth over it; I won’t touch it. Breathe with me.”
This time Myra was more prepared, and held still while Willow placed the washcloth over her heel and poured water over it in a slow, gentle stream.
“Hey.” Eddie had arrived. He was out of breath and looked like he’d been hauled out of bed. His shirt was askew and his hair stuck out at odd angles, but to Myra, he was a sight for sore eyes. “How is she?” He directed his question to Willow, and Myra, for once, remained silent and let the two of them talk about her, uninterrupted.
He dispatched himself to the laundry room, his heavy gloves and snake hook in hand. Myra knew he was a pro at catching rattlers, and she sighed with relief, knowing the park residents would be safe to do their wash in the morning. Every year, between May and September, the snakes were on the prowl, and he rarely got through a season without having to deal with at least one of the frightening creatures. Myra had complete faith in him.
Thinking about the others coming to do their laundry reminded her of what was in the washer. “Wil
low, my laundry! I have all my personal things…” Another wave of pain forced her to clench her teeth together.
“Don’t worry about your laundry. I’ll take care of it for you.”
“Tell Kathy. She owes me,” Myra moaned.
Willow chuckled softly. “You need to stop worrying about everyone else, Myra, and focus on you right now.”
“Tell me what? What do I owe you?” Kathy’s face appeared over Willow’s shoulder, her thick black hair mussed and wild, eyes puffy from sleep.
“My laundry. I don’t want anyone seeing my underwear.”
“No one cares about your underwear, silly.”
Myra squinted up at her friend. A pebble was digging into her hip, but she didn’t dare move. “I’m not being silly. Why do you always say I’m silly?” Myra snipped.
Kathy straightened, her features disappearing as the light behind her threw them into shadows, but not before Myra glimpsed the wounded look in her eyes. Kathy harrumphed. “I’ll fold your undies for you, don’t worry. I don’t know why you’re so worked up over them. Everyone wears underwear. Okay. Not everyone. But everyone has seen them before. Well, maybe not everyone has seen your underwear before. But I’ll hide them for you so you can go on pretending your skivvies don’t exist.”
“And you call me silly.” Myra let her eyes drift closed. Were her lips tingling? Could she feel her toes? Why did it burn so terribly?
The paramedics arrived shortly, flashing lights, but no sirens. It didn’t matter, though; before long, between the emergency crew and the lightly-sleeping neighbors, the place was milling with activity.
Jessie, a strapping young man, his biceps bulging beneath the blue shirtsleeves of his uniform, immediately began asking her pertinent questions, and she tried to answer them as best she could. A woman with gentle hands, who introduced herself as Lisa, picked up her foot and began to examine the bite, while another fellow held a light for her. A few moments later, Lisa raised a hand to get Jessie’s attention.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she nodded at her co-worker. “Mrs. Cordova, you said you were bitten by a rattler?”
Myra nodded, and glanced over at Eddie, who was just emerging from the laundry shed with a black plastic trash bag.
“Right here.” He held the bag aloft. “It’s a rattler all right.”
“Hm.” Lisa turned to the paramedic holding the flashlight. “Pete, can you take a look here?” Pete bent forward, and studied Myra’s heel too, then shook his head.
“No puncture wounds.”
“Right,” confirmed Lisa. She looked up at Eddie. “Was there by any chance glass or something else sharp in there that she might have cut her foot on?” She turned back to Myra. “Your heel is badly lacerated. Did you actually see the rattler strike?”
“There’s broken glass all over the floor in there. Looks like a cup or a jar or something.” Eddie came a little closer, the lumpy bag clutched in his hand. “Myra, did you go and drop your juice glass in there, then step on it?”
“Is it possible you weren’t bitten by the rattlesnake after all, Mrs. Cordova?”
Chapter 4
Silly woman. Silly old woman. Kathy was right.
All that rigmarole over a stupid cut. And it was her fault, too! Her empty wine glass, knocked off the dryer in her hurry to get back to the comfort of her own home, away from Willow’s misery.
“Poor rattle snake,” she murmured. “Slaughtered because of a silly old woman.” She’d probably scared it with all her movement, and like most snakes, it wanted nothing to do with her, and had been scurrying off to safer places.
At least the cut was a good one. Apparently, when she bent to pick up her laundry basket, her foot slid sideways off the back of her flip-flop, and her heel came down on the jagged edge of the broken glass. Fourteen stitches and a big old bandage, a round of antibiotics, a set of pain-in-the-rear-crutches, and a promise to not put any weight on her foot, and to keep it elevated as much as possible until her follow-up appointment in five days.
Willow Goodhope, bless her heart, accompanied her to the hospital, then made sure Myra was settled before she headed to her own little place around three o’clock in the morning. Six hours later, she’d been back at Myra’s front door, a banana-elderberry bread loaf in hand, along with a pretty set of white stoneware mugs, and some kind of herbal tea. “A nice cup of tea to soothe the nerves,” she said, by way of greeting. “And the bread is just because.”
Myra watched the younger woman wander around the small kitchen, humming softly to herself, as she waited for the water heating up in the kettle on the stove top. Willow wore her hair scooped up into a jumbled mass of curls on top of her head. Her floral peasant blouse kept slipping off one shoulder, revealing the lacy strap of the tank-top underneath. Denim cut-offs that weren’t short enough for Hollywood, over purple Capri leggings, and strappy sandals gave her a carefree, youthful air that Myra envied.
“Do you like sugar? Or cream? Both?” Willow’s smile was warm and bright, in spite of her lack of sleep.
“Why are you so chippy this morning?”
“Chippy?” Willow’s eyes sparkled, but not in a way that made Myra take offense. “Well, I don’t know about chippy, but I don’t think coming over here all crabby pants and grumbling would help either one of us. So what’ll it be?” She held up a mug.
Myra lay stretched out on the sofa, her foot propped up on a cushion, the television remote and a stack of gossip magazines within reach on the coffee table, thanks to Willow’s attentive care. “I’ll take sugar. No cream, please.”
“Sugar, no cream. Coming right up.” Willow brought the mugs over and set one down on a coaster, before handing Myra a plate of sliced banana bread. The dark elderberries gleamed like jewels lodged in the crevices of each piece. “Careful. The tea’s still hot.”
Myra sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, her emotions still in an upheaval over the whole fiasco she’d caused. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she murmured, almost afraid to hear the answer. She kept her face averted. “You must think I’m as crazy as a loony bin.”
“I don’t think you’re as crazy as a loon, or a whole loony bin! You had every right to be terrified. A rattler?” Willow slipped into the armchair across from the sofa, folding one leg beneath her. “I think you’re terribly brave.”
Myra shook her head, and pushed herself up a little, finally meeting her neighbor’s eyes. “I’m sorry I kept you up all night. I really was trying to slip away and not interrupt you at all.” She hesitated, but only for a brief moment, then continued. “You seemed so sad last night.”
It was Willow’s turn to look away; she dropped her gaze to the mug she held between her hands. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled ever so slightly. “I wish you would stop apologizing. In fact, I should be the one apologizing, because as terrible as this sounds, I’m a tiny bit glad you got hurt last night.”
Myra frowned, but she didn’t know quite what to say in response, so she clamped her mouth shut and waited for the girl to explain.
“You were right,” Willow continued. “I was sad last night. I was feeling terribly sorry for myself, and I think I would have continued to get sadder if you hadn’t had your crisis when you did.” She looked up, blinking, her eyes glistening. “I was missing my family something fierce last night.”
“Oh. Well.” Myra reached over and picked up the full mug from the coffee table. Bringing it to her lips to fill the space left by her lack of something to say, she blew on the surface of the dark liquid, and sipped gingerly.
“Do you have family, Myra?”
Turning the focus from Willow to Myra caught her by surprise, and she stumbled over her words a little. “Do I have a family? Of course. Everyone has a family.” The tea really was nice. The floral taste floated over her tongue, and she could feel the warmth of the liquid sliding down her throat, soothing, comforting. “I have three sisters and a brother, all still living in Costa Rica. And my mother is still alive
. I go see them all every year.”
“Oh wow! Costa Rica? You must love going home.” Willow’s face brightened, and she settled deeper into the chair, her own plate of banana bread balanced on her lap.
“This is home, Willow. This is my home. I go visit my family, and then I come home to this.” Myra spread one arm out, a gesture meant to encompass her small mobile home, and all The Coach House Trailer Park as well. “This is home.” Of course, she would explain, but she paused, and smiled at how good the words sounded to her. She loved this little place.
“Of course it is. I’m sorry. That was rather presumptuous of me, wasn’t it?”
“No, no. It’s okay. It’s just that everyone thinks I’m a silly old woman without a husband, stuck here like I have no choice, living here on borrowed time. But I love this place. I choose to live here.” Myra nibbled on the bread. It was soft, moist, and the tangy berries complimented the sweet banana flavor just right. “This is delicious. Thank you.”
Willow nodded, working on her own piece. Myra took another sip of tea. “My husband died almost forty-five years ago, and for a while, I thought I might die, too. I was too young to be a widow, only twenty-eight years old, and I was six months pregnant with our first baby. I grieved too much for Rudy, and so did our baby, because he died before he had a chance to live. Little Rudy went back to heaven to be with his papa.” She loved the idea of her two guys planning and waiting for her to join them one day.
“Oh, Myra.” Willow’s voice cracked. “I’m so sorry.” She brought a hand up to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, her words catching on their way out.
Elderberry Croft: The Complete Collection Page 16
