Elderberry Croft: The Complete Collection

by Becky Doughty

Kathy. My neighbor across the drive. The one who spies on me through her kitchen window whenever I’m working outside. I sometimes sense she’s still trying to figure me out, even after all these months. Am I really that strange? Kathy reminds me a bit of the aloe plant I have growing in the clay pot beneath the eucalyptus tree. Prickly and sharp on the outside, her angles severe and pointed, but on the inside, she’s a balm to the wounded.

  “I like Kathy,” I say to the aloe, assessing one of its sword-like leaves that’s been hacked off, the end puckering in on itself. I burned my fingers pulling a tray of elderberry scones from the oven on Thanksgiving morning. Nervous, distracted, I was making breakfast to take to Dad—Christian was meeting us there—and I used a damp dishtowel instead of my oven mitt. I hurried out here with a paring knife and sliced away the green skin to dip my fingertips in the gel oozing from the translucent flesh.

  The medicinal plant will heal itself, but the scar will remain. I won’t bother covering it; I’ll take it inside instead. It’s far too vulnerable to the elements and far too valuable to lose.

  I do like Kathy and I’m surprised that I do. Like the aloe, I sense she’s far more valuable than most here believe, and I think she, too, is vulnerable to the elements..

  My eyes drift from my patio to the driveway that leads around the back of the park, past Kathy’s place to the trailer behind hers, and the next, and the next. I know each of the people who live here has suffered losses that have left them scarred. And like me, they’ve ended up here because of those losses and scars.

  Kathy and the man she married who beat the love out of her, then abandoned her and their infant son. Patty and Richard and Ivan, waking up after years of silence and unaddressed animosity between them. Joe, sacrificing his dreams for the sake of everyone else’s happiness.

  “Shelly and Eddie,” I say, glancing at the pairing of wild mint and the delicate blooms of the blue Star of Bethlehem in a pot on the top of a stair-step plant rack. “Those two together seems like just the thing, don’t you think?” I talk to my plants, not because I think they listen, or that they might lift their little flower heads and talk back, but because I am still not accustomed to being completely alone.

  Myra is the lacy white alyssum growing in the bowl of almost every pot, beneath the rosebushes in the flowerbeds, and in patches along the edge of the parking spot in front of Elderberry Croft. She embellishes each life in this place, whether they like it or not. Like the low-growing mounds that spread without intent, Myra brings uniformity to the residents here, continuity on a foundational level. Like alyssum, she’s everywhere I look; doing someone’s laundry, baby-sitting someone’s dog, serving someone chili, hosting another poker game.

  Donny is making plans to be home for Christmas, from what his mother says. Edith is happy and hopeful, but I can see the worry in Eddie’s eyes for how it will all turn out. His kid brother is like English Ivy. It’s hardy and lush and lovely to look at, but as every gardener who has ever succumbed to the lure of its star-shaped leaves and rambling vines knows, the ivy only remains lovely when it’s contained, controlled.

  Al. I’m on my way now to check the mail. I’ll watch for him because I know he’ll be watching for me. He used to creep me out—I could see him sitting on that barstool behind his sliding glass door, ogling me as I passed in front of his trailer. But he’s grown on me, and now that his name’s been cleared, he’s coming out of his shell a little. He reminds me of the camellia bush Christian bought for me on our honeymoon, the one I planted in our yard the day we returned. It took nearly three years to bloom, but it’s been a showstopper since, packed with water-colored puffballs from October through the end of spring.

  Christian gave me a bouquet of our camellias last Thursday when he arrived at Dad’s apartment for breakfast. Standing close enough to touch, but with a chasm of uncertainty between us, he told me they were the first he’s seen on the shrub this season. They’re late this year, and I want to believe there’s a correlation between the hope blooming in my heart and the blooming of his gift to me.

  “Hey there, Miss Willow.” It’s Joe, a plastic grocery bag in each hand. “I’m clearing out the last of my greens. They’re a little stringy if you just fry them in bacon grease, but if you got yourself a soup bone, they’ll make a fine addition to stew. Nothing like greens to keep the heart healthy.”

  I appreciate Joe’s generosity, and even though I’m not a big fan of greens, other than fresh spinach, I gladly accept his offering. “Thank you, Joe.” He smiles, and heads off to find someone else to unload his extra produce on. This is what makes living here so unique; we all seem to have a place among this family of maimed oddballs. I find myself humming the song from a childhood Christmas movie about an island of misfit toys.

  I hang the bag on the doorknob; I’ll rinse and refrigerate the rough leaves when I get back from checking the mail. I might even add some to the vegetable soup on tonight’s menu.

  I’ve taken to making a large pot of soup or a good-size casserole at the beginning of the week and just eating off that for as long as I can, pairing it with bread and salad when I have it. Meals have lost their luster, not having anyone but myself to appreciate what I concoct in my kitchen. I’m glad I have my neighbors to bake for, but I didn’t realize how much I missed cooking dinner for someone until Andrea stayed with me those few weeks in October and the couple shared many of their meals with me. She ate mostly because I set food in front of her and she didn’t want to be rude, but George reminded me of Christian, closing his eyes and sighing rapturously with the first bite of every meal. It didn’t matter what I made; he all but licked his plate clean, then stuck around to wash the dishes with Andrea. I usually sat outside, giving them those moments alone before George headed off to work his night shift at the post office.

  Even watching the two of them standing together at my little sink, murmuring low, the way he tucked her hair behind her ear so he could better see her face; it made me ache for my husband in ways I’d been able to keep at bay in my isolation. There were many nights I stepped outside more to escape their intimacy than from any magnanimous notions on my part.

  On the way back from the mailbox I stop to let Pru and Carney pull in past me. He’s driving his orange el Camino again, just during the day, and only when Pru can drive with him. She’s like one of those huge dahlias, the flowers the size of dinner plates, while Carney is like an evergreen shrub, a juniper, strong and steady, the framework that holds the earth in place.

  I wave and keep going. I love spending time with Pru, but it’s never a quick chat, and I’m too unsettled to stop for a visit right now.

  Christian is coming for me again tomorrow night, but this time, he’ll be having dinner here. At Elderberry Croft.

  And therein lies the source of my conflict. It’s been a year since I turned away from him, eleven months and three days since I left him. Last month, I made a deal with Doc, and I agreed to see Christian again, just the two of us. We met for coffee at a little restaurant neither of us had ever been to, but it was close to a favorite bookstore of ours. I shot him a questioning look over my mug.

  “What happened to neutral territory?” It was what we’d agreed on.

  “In case we run out of words of our own,” he explained. “I thought the familiar ground might help us find our footing if we trip each other up tonight.”

  I saw right through him.

  We both know there’s something intoxicating about the ambiance of a bookstore, surrounded by the layered aromas of newly-printed pages and coffee and cinnamon and inspiration, senses heightened by the anticipation of catching the one you love alone in the next aisle over.

  Christian is pursuing me. And I am unnerved, because I think I want to be caught.

  Chapter 2

  I’ve cooked up a storm tonight. I don’t know why; Christian isn’t coming for the chicken breast stuffed with smoked mozzarella and prosciutto. Except that I feel the need to have something impressive to set before him, so
mething other than me, in all my fluttering awkwardness and uncertainty.

  I’ve moved the wrought iron table and two chairs out of the galley kitchen and into the main room. They consume most of what’s left of the limited floor space, but it takes the focus off my daybed angled in one corner, draped with shimmery fabric and twinkle lights like some heathen fantasy. What am I thinking, inviting him here?

  I set out candles, then put them away. I turn on all the lights, then turn them all off and bring out the candles again. I finally settle for turning on every lamp, giving the room a welcoming glow without feeling too intimate.

  He’s here. The sound of gravel crunching under tires is louder than the quiet purr of his new car. I’m so nervous I think I might be sick. What is wrong with me? My cheeks are burning, my palms are sweating, my toes are nearly numb with cold inside my favorite black flats.

  The last seven years of my life have revolved around the love and friendship—the knowing –of this man, but tonight I feel like I did the first time I made dinner for him, hoping I won’t disappoint him, hoping I’ll be enough for him to want to stick around for a few more meals together.

  There’s a large mirror on the wall behind the door, and I check my reflection one more time. I straighten the shoulder seams of my jade-green sweater, tug the hem of it a little lower over the top of the ankle-length plum skirt I’m wearing, and check my teeth, for what, I don’t know. I’ve hardly eaten all day, and I’m wearing no lipstick.

  I look pale; maybe I should put some on. But then he’s knocking on the door.

  One, two, three, four—I don’t want him to think I’m too anxious. I take a deep breath, and pull open the door. I hope my smile looks natural, because I can’t feel my face.

  “Hi.” My voice is surprisingly calm. “Come on in.”

  He hesitates, and I wonder if he’s as nervous as I am. Then he smiles and enters, and Elderberry Croft instantly shrinks. I automatically step back; it’s not his sheer size that eats up the room, but the amount of space he takes up in my life. How have I endured so long without such a huge part of me?

  Tonight he’s come without flowers, but that just reminds me of how well he knows me. I far prefer living plants to cut flowers, but he isn’t carrying a plant either.

  “I brought you something,” he states, as though reading my thoughts. He hands me a wrapped rectangular box from behind his back. It looks like chocolates, and I can’t help but be a little disappointed. I love chocolates, but it seems so cliché, especially in light of our circumstances.

  “Thank you.” I can’t even bring myself to open it, so I set it carefully on the edge of the desk at the big window overlooking the patio. It’s lit up outside with twinkle lights and a few lanterns. There’s wood stacked in the fire pit, ready, just in case.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” He’s slipping out of his jacket, a brown leather classic that still isn’t fully broken in because it doesn’t get enough wear and tear here in Southern California. His expectant tone makes me feel guilty.

  I untie the red bow and tear away the crisp brown paper I recognize from my wrapping supplies box I keep at the back of my closet in our bedroom. It’s not a box filled with chocolates, but one that stationery comes in, and I glance up at him, a question in my eyes. Does he want me to start writing back to him? He’s still smiling, patient, his jacket now draped over his arm.

  I let my eyes drift lower, following the way the waffle weave of his thin navy sweater embraces the contours of his shoulders, the width of his chest. I look away; I am far too aware of his physical presence tonight.

  “I remember you said you’d lost your copy.” He’s prompting me, sensing my discomfiture. I open the box to find The Blue Castle, a favorite book of mine by Lucy Maud Montgomery. I loaned mine out to a coworker at the café, but she quit soon after, and I knew my book was gone, too.

  I touch the black lettering on the cornflower blue linen fabric stretched over the cover-boards of the book. It’s a very old edition but it’s in great condition. I’m amazed he remembered, and touched by how personal this gift is. Not a box of chocolates at all. I should have known my husband better.

  “It’s missing the dust jacket,” he says, as though he’s afraid that’s the reason I don’t speak. I wonder if he knows that Valancy Stirling’s best friend, Cissy, suffers the loss of her only child and that it leaves her devastated? That Valancy leaves Barney because she cannot face living with him after what has transpired between them? Has Christian read the part where Barney pursues his wife, asking her to come home to him, proclaiming that he loves her after all that’s happened between them?

  “Thank you,” I murmur, and clutch the book to my chest, wishing I could come up with words that would express what’s in my heart. “Are you hungry?”

  He studies me for a moment, evaluating my less than exuberant reaction, then nods. Christian is one of those rare breed who almost always thinks before he speaks. He’s a good counterpart to my impulsive nature, mainly because he doesn’t make me feel foolish for being the way I am.

  I take his jacket from him, and when my fingers brush his arm, he flinches, almost imperceptibly, but I’m not fooled. When we met over coffee last month, he offered to help me with my jacket, but I declined because it was chilly. Thanksgiving morning we moved carefully around each other in Dad’s place, talking, laughing, cleaning, even praying together over the food, but never making physical contact.

  I wonder how we’re going to get through another date without touching. And I wonder what will happen when we do finally reach for one another.

  I tell him to sit while I hang his jacket from the hook on the back of my crooked front door. I drape it carefully over the thick flannel shirt I took from his closet when I moved here. I want to be able to breathe him in even after he’s gone tonight and his flannel now smells more like fire smoke and the Tahitian vanilla incense I burn in here. Besides, I forgot to hide it before he came, and I don’t want him to see it in such a prominent position. I’m not ready to admit that I wear it almost every day; that I wrap myself in it each night.

  He dwarfs my table, and as I dish up our plates from the pots on the stove, I feel panic rising up in me again. What are we doing? How is this possibly going to work? It’s too soon, too close, too intimate. I can hardly breathe, and even though he looks calm on the outside, I can see the muscle twitching in his jaw.

  I sit down across from him, and when our knees bump, he grins like a cheeky boy, and doesn’t move his feet. I shift sideways a little in my seat to accommodate his long legs, and he places both hands, palms up, on either side of the table. “This looks and smells amazing,” he says. “Will you let me pray for us? For tonight?”

  I have missed this; my husband leading us in prayer. I miss his bowed head across from me, our hands and hearts joined together in thankfulness for God’s provision, not just of the food in front of us, but for the life He gave us to live, the love He gave us for each other, for Julian. I lay my hands in his and his long fingers wrap around mine.

  Neither of us speaks; everything slows and fills out. I’m holding my breath, and I think he is, too.

  Chapter 3

  I let the air out of my lungs in a rush, and then I’m crying, and he’s on his feet, drawing me up out of my chair.

  I can hear his heart beating strong and steady in his chest beneath my cheek, the perfect counter-rhythm to the frantic pace of my own. His hands, one spread across the middle of my back, crushing me to him, the other cupping my head, his fingers in my hair; the subtle sandpaper of his freshly-shaved jaw against my forehead. I slide my arms around him, surrendering what little is left of my resistance.

  I am home. We move side-to-side ever so gently, a delicate dance as we rediscover how well we fit together.

  I know the chicken is getting cold, but I don’t want to break the spell. Can we stay like this forever?

  “Willow?” His voice rumbles in his chest, and I smile at the how tenderly he speaks my
name.

  “Mm?”

  “I can’t…um…think clearly like this.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I like it when he’s flustered; it’s usually the other way around. I step back, but leave my hands at his waist, my fingers remembering the cut of his torso, even through the layers of his clothing. The space between us no longer feels like a wedge, and I’m acutely relieved.

  He lifts my face up so I have to look at him. He’s seen me cry too often for me to worry that he won’t like what he sees, but I’m not sure I’m ready to be kissed, even as I ache for it. He seems to understand that on some level, pressing his lips to my forehead instead. “I did shave tonight, right before I came over, just so you know.” He rubs a thumb over the place he just kissed.

  “I’m going to go wash my face,” I whisper. “Give me a minute, okay?”

  He nods and releases me.

  In the bathroom, my reflection is still pale, but there’s a blush on my cheeks, my eyes glisten with more than just tears, and there’s a red patch above my eyebrows where Christian’s jaw rubbed. We’ve never been able to get away with nuzzling before going anywhere public.

  When I return from the bathroom, Christian is perched on the edge of my bed, and I pull up short. He shrugs and pats the comforter beside him.

  “No.” I shake my head and glare at him.

  “Willow, come on.” His voice is gentle, persuasive. “Come over here.”

  “No.” I cross to the table. The plates of food will need to be warmed up and I dislike the thought of using the microwave on my gourmet meal. “I invited you here for dinner, not for…that.”

  “Not for what, exactly?” He grins again, and I realize he’s teasing me. Like old times. And I’m playing right into his hands. Like old times. Can it be this easy? After all this time, can we just pick up where we left off?

  “Christian, please.” His name on my lips feels right. “Don’t tease me. I’m walking on pins and needles here already, and I so badly want things to go right. So far, I’m not doing so well. I’ve cried like a baby, the food is getting cold, and now you’re lounging on the one piece of furniture I’ve been trying to pretend doesn’t exist. Will you just come back and sit in your chair so I can at least pretend I still have a modicum of control around here?”