In the basket was plate of at least a dozen warm muffins—had the girl even slept last night?—a small pillow or cushion of some kind, the now familiar picture frame lying face down in the bottom of the basket, and an envelope with his name on it. He opened it and pulled out a few pages of pale yellow paper covered with Willow’s feminine script.
Doc (I don’t even know your real name. Do you have one?),
Thank you for being Jesus to me last night. Whether you believe in Him or not, you gave me a glimpse of Him in your kindness, your words, even (especially!) when I was so ungracious and inhospitable to you. In this basket are a few things I want to explain:
The muffins are made with berries from my Giving Tree. Enjoy!
There’s a small pillow I made for the nights I couldn’t sleep and I want you to have it. Like your friend’s words, it may or may not help you, but it’s intended for good. The herbs inside are supposed to be soothing, to help calm your nerves, help you sleep—just tuck it into your pillowcase at night. It’s aromatherapy, something I love, but something I know not everyone ascribes to. Do give it a try, but if it isn’t your thing, consider it a fanciful gift from a silly girl.
The photo of Julian and Christian. Can I ask you a huge favor? Do you think you might be willing to tie it to your tree next to Lucky Dog? At least until I’m ready to take it back? I’d be honored, and far less likely to do anything NOT honorable with it.
There’s one more thing in the basket, Doc. It’s a prayer. I’m praying for reconciliation in your life. No daughter should be without her father, nor should a father be without his little girls. I don’t know about your marriage, and I have no leg to stand on, but I’m praying you’ll at least try to make amends. Don’t tell me it’s too late. It’s never too late.
Doc, there IS still some of that same guy in there under all the changes. I saw him last night. And if I, practically a stranger, could recognize him, I’m certain your wife and daughters would recognize him, too.
You don’t have to defend yourself to me, or explain yourself to me, or even tell me what you’re going to do in response to this – it’s none of my business. Just know that I’m praying.
Your friend and neighbor,
Willow Eve Goodhope (my real name)
Doc grinned at the girl’s cheekiness and tried to ignore the unsettling sensation that grew in the pit of his stomach as he read over the last item on her list. He reached back into the basket, peeled back the plastic wrap over the plate, and snagged one of the still-warm muffins. He took a bite and grunted. She could work magic with the fruit of that tree.
Heading back inside, he tossed the little cushion on his bed. He didn’t know anything about aromatherapy, but the way it smelled made him think of Willow Goodhope and baked goods and fire-smoke, and that was soothing in and of itself. He picked up the small photo and peered down into the faces of two people who gazed at the photographer with uncensored love. The duo would be the only other ornament on his little Christmas tree, but they belonged on the top branch beside Lucky Dog, of that he had no second thoughts.
The envelope with her note he left in the basket. He’d think about that later.
Post-traumatic stress disorder. That’s what they told him he had, back in the early eighties during one of his futile attempts to change his ways so he could go home. But he didn’t need any diagnosis to know that. He didn’t need some teenaged med student trying to explain to him why he couldn’t hold up under the stress, why he wasn’t “right in the head.”
He’d heard about this stuff all his life. They used to call it shell shock when he first came home, or battle fatigue, but in the 80s, a new label had been created for it, qualifying those diagnosed with PTSD to receive quality psychological evaluation and treatment, minimizing the implication that a person affected by PTSD was weak or insufficient somehow. Eleanor had begged him to get help when he first came home, but at the time, he thought he just needed to unwind a little. The booze helped with that, but the nightmares, the flash backs; nothing took the edge off those. Doc finally realized the war had become a part of him, and he ran.
And clearly, on some level, Willow was suffering from it, too. He didn’t know if she had night terrors or if she used some kind of “herb” to self-medicate—he knew she didn’t drink.
But all day, he couldn’t stop thinking about her praying for him. His mind kept wandering back to the last time he’d seen Eleanor—what was it? Eight years now?—and how kind she’d been to him, even as he inadequately explained why he couldn’t interact with the girls.
Besides his troop, only Eleanor knew how important that Christmas tree had been to him. Since the war, he’d never told another soul about it until last night. Why he’d opened up to Willow Goodhope about it baffled him at first, but the routine of his job today had given him some time to think about it a little differently. There was something empowering about sharing the stories of his grief with someone who was hurting like he was. Talking about the Christmas tree had been unexpectedly cathartic.
And it had brought Eleanor to the forefront of his thoughts.
By the time Doc got home, he could feel the long night he’d had. All he wanted to do was crawl in bed and get some rest, even if he didn’t sleep. He was just getting out of his car when he saw Christian Goodhope’s silver Avalon pull around the front of Al’s place. Doc was a little surprised to see the guy; according to Al, his case had been fully resolved, thanks to Christian Goodhope. So why was he here?
But Christian didn’t stop at Al’s. Doc stood at the door of his car and watched as the man drove slowly across the bridge to Willow’s place, the pop and crack of the gravel under the tires a faint echo of battle sounds.
Had she taken his advice? Had she made peace with her husband? Invited him here? Was it possible that she was praying for reconciliation in Doc’s life because she was doing a little reconciling herself?
But the silver car only slowed in front of Elderberry Croft, then moved on.
Doc frowned. Although he thought the two of them needed to kiss and make up, he wasn’t going to stand by and let the guy harass her if she wasn’t ready to make amends.
“Looks like I’ve got a little security issue here,” he muttered. Forgetting his fatigue, he shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked the opposite direction around the park. Unless Christian Goodhope was driving like a lunatic, Doc would intercept him conveniently near Eddie’s place.
Chapter 7
Sure enough, the silver car was rounding the bend in front of Space #8, Shelly Little’s place. Doc waited until he was just across the bridge that spanned the stream between Shelly’s and Eddie’s trailers before stepping onto the drive in front of him. Christian stopped abruptly, pebbles spitting out from under his tires.
Doc was good at intimidation. His cap low, his hands in his pockets, and his feet in a gunslinger stance, he puffed out his chest and straightened his shoulders, giving him a few more inches of breadth. He was a formidable sight, he’d been told many times before.
Christian tentatively rolled his window down just enough to talk. “Hey Doc.”
Good. He remembered. But Doc wasn’t interested in playing any game of nice. “What’re you doing here, boy?”
Christian didn’t answer for a moment, studying Doc from behind the half-raised, slightly shaded glass of his window. Doc stood unmoving, hoping against hope the guy wouldn’t lie to him and give him reason to change his mind about Willow reconnecting with him.
“I came to see Willow, but then thought better of it. I was out near Glendale today and was driving home the back way to avoid the freeway traffic. I knew I’d be close and I called, but just got her answering machine. I left a message and thought I’d hope for the best. But now?” Doc could see his shoulders rise just a little. “Like I said, I’m having second thoughts.”
Doc actually felt sorry for the guy. “You’re not supposed to be here. Not now that you’re done with Al. Did you forget that?”
�
��I know. I know.” Christian frowned, but he must have heard the change in Doc’s voice because he turned off the engine and climbed out of the car. He propped a hip against the wheel well, casual, but respectful. “I need to know. Is she okay?”
“She’s…she’s okay, yes.”
“It’s a bad time for her, Doc. For us. November is a bad month.”
“I know. She told me.”
“She did?”
“About Julian, yes.” Doc didn’t want him thinking she was pouring out her heart to him about her husband. He shouldn’t have worried.
“Oh. Good. That’s good. I’m glad she found someone she could talk to. Willow wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone. She’d keep it all inside and die smiling before she’d let on that she was hurting.”
Well, the guy obviously knew his wife. “I kinda forced it out of her last night.”
“I see,” Christian nodded, but his face flooded with concern, his hands clenched and unclenched. “Mind if I ask how?”
Huh. A little territorial, are we? Maybe he’d push the guy a little and see what he was made of.
“Neither one of us could sleep so she lit a fire, I brought my whiskey, and we told each other war stories.”
Christian’s eyes narrowed. “Really.”
“Yep.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, Mr. Goodhope, you’d better believe me. I told her about my trench, and she told me about hers. Watching your husband take out your kid is about as brutal as it ge—” His sentence was cut off by the lightning speed of Christian’s fist connecting with his jaw.
Doc stumbled a little, then spread his stance again and put up his beefy fists. “Oh-ho-ho. We got ourselves a fighter, not a lover.” Why was he goading the kid? Why was he picking this fight? What on earth did he hope to gain from this?
But Christian had stepped back and was reaching for his car door. He was shaking out his hand, obviously hurting. “I don’t want to fight you, Doc. I know I won’t win. Catching you by surprise is the best I can hope for.” He dropped into the seat and pulled the door closed behind him. “But I will tell you this. If you say anything to my wife even remotely as out of line as what you just said to me, I’ll be back, and I won’t be such a gentleman.” He started up the car and began to drive slowly, straight toward Doc.
“Better move, Doc. I don’t want to add ‘hit-and-run’ to my day’s record.”
Doc stepped aside and let the car pass. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Nice right hook,” he muttered, the pain in his jaw growing and spreading, in much the same way his respect for the younger man was growing. Christian Goodhope was the kind of guy he’d trust at his back.
~ ~ ~
That night, Doc waited up for her. He dragged a chair out onto his landing and waited. Sure enough, just around eleven, he heard the telltale signs of activity coming from across the stream, the light on her porch bright. He headed straight over.
“Let me,” he offered, taking the load of wood and the box of matches from her. She stood back and watched as he efficiently laid the iron grill with the split logs and a few pieces of tightly-crumpled newspaper.
When he had a nice blaze going, she thanked him, but still eyed him warily, correctly expecting that there was more to his visit than chivalry.
“I’m here to make you a deal.” Doc wasn’t mincing any words tonight. His jaw hurt and he’d gone easy on the booze tonight to make sure he’d be awake to talk to her. He just wanted to get this over with and go to bed. At least his beard covered the swollen, discolored jawline and he wouldn’t have to come up with some lame story for work.
“Shall we sit?” She seemed more like her normal self, her movements fluid, her hair pulled back in a soft braid that curved around to fall forward over one shoulder. “Would you like something to drink? A muffin? Soup? I made some really good potato soup for dinner.”
“I’m fine.” He held his hands out to the fire; he’d built it nice and hot. “If you want to sit, feel free. I’m just not planning on staying.”
She sat, drawing the edges of a heavy shawl around her shoulders. She was dressed warmly, her feet were in a pair of fur-lined boots tonight.
“I want to make you a deal,” he repeated.
“Right.” She studied him, her face calm, her gaze steady, but he sensed her coiled emotions as she waited for him to expound.
“About your prayer.”
“Oh. Okay.” She blinked a few times; the only evidence that he’d surprised her.
“I want to do my part to get an answer to that prayer, but in order to do that, you have to do something for me.”
“Ah. What exactly am I supposed to do for you, pray tell?” She still hadn’t looked away, and now the directness of her gaze was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. “And what happened to your face?”
He ignored the second question and answered the first as simply as he could. “I want you to call your husband. It’s time. You two have something worth fighting for. And in return, I’ll contact Eleanor. I don’t know that there’s anything left between us, I don’t’ even know if she’s still single. For all I know, she now prefers women. But I’ll contact her on one condition. You, Ms. Goodhope, will get together with your husband.”
She didn’t speak for so long, he thought she was ignoring him. “Willow?”
“I heard you.”
“Well?”
“I’m thinking.”
“What do you mean, you’re thinking? It’s a yes or no. Either you will or you won’t.” Did she have any clue as to what she was doing to him? Not only did he want to see her and Christian find a way to face their loss together, instead of pulling away from each other, he wanted to see them leaning on each other as they faced the future together. But his own future was in the balance, too. If she said no, then he was off the hook, too.
Except that he didn’t really want her to say no. No matter how he thought it through, no matter how many reasons he came up with why it wouldn’t work, no matter how many times he reminded himself of the loser he’d become, the idea of contacting Eleanor had stuck in his craw. And the longer it was there, the more he liked it.
Then Willow smiled, tentative, almost shy, her face lighting up, but Doc was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the firelight. “Christian is taking me to coffee tomorrow night. He called me an hour ago, and for whatever reason—probably something to do with you, Doc—I answered the phone.” She seemed to glow, even though her expression contained a little uncertainty and sadness in it. “I’ll fill you in on the details when I get home.”
DECEMBER DAWNING
Chapter 1
My honeysuckle has found a home here, wending its way up and over the entrance to my porch, forming a welcoming arch to all who pass beneath it. The first of the cyclamen are unfurling scarlet, raspberry, and snow white petals to the crisp December air, their dark velvet leaves like winter shawls below long, delicate necks. I hold my breath as I tiptoe past the nodding heads of the begonias, blushing pink and white on their verdant bed; I’m reverent because I know that the first frost will likely freeze the plump cells, bursting the fragile membranes that contain the succulent herb’s life forces, and today may be its last dance of the season.
There’s a winter storm coming. I can feel it in my left knee—it took the brunt of a bicycle accident in sixth grade. It always aches deep inside the joint when the temperature drops, making me feel old and wise before my time. Christian says I’m more dependable than Dallas Rains when it comes to predicting the weather.
I should be covering my potted plants right now, clothes-pinning extra sheets to stems and stalks and trellises, but I’m feeling both morose and a little reckless today, a combination of emotions that doesn’t sit well with me. In equal parts, I want to conceal and protect, as well as destroy and abandon.
It’s Christian’s fault.
For a year, he has pursued me. Relentlessly. He’s respected my selfish demands for distanc
e, for space. Space. What exactly does that mean? I don’t really know anymore. But in giving me my freedom, he’s bound me to him even more intimately. His physical absence from my daily life has not translated well to my heart, and I long for him with every fiber of my being.
His letter arrives in my mailbox each Thursday or Friday, pages torn from a blue legal pad, and every word he puts to paper is like a branding iron, searing his name on my heart. Even though he only sends one envelope a week, he writes to me every night, like I am the muse of his journal, telling me about his day, his accomplishments and disappointments, about his love for me. He never writes the words, “I miss you,” or asks me to come home, but I read those sentiments between every stroke of his pen.
Technically, it’s been eleven months and three days since I moved here, leaving him behind with the ghost of our son and the echoes of my turbulent grief. My withdrawal from him, however, started even before I settled into this little cottage at the back of The Coach House Trailer Park in early January.
Last month, November 10th, marked a year since Julian was taken from us, partly because of our self-absorption, partly because of our negligence, and partly—I’ve finally been able to admit—because terrible accidents do happen. But that was also the day our marriage was taken from us. That was the day Christian stopped reaching for me, and I stopped looking at him.
I run my fingers over the blunt tips of a chrysanthemum blossom; it’ll still be bobbing its head after the storm passes through. Mums have a way of holding on through adversity. They remind me of people, the profusion of petals curving into each other, clustering together in a show of united strength. And beauty.
Most plants remind me of people, in fact, and as I look around the river rock patio of my little sanctuary, I see the faces of those I’ve come to think of as my second family here in this park; this retreat, as Joe Sanderson calls it.
Elderberry Croft: The Complete Collection Page 34
