Christian moves back to the table and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. But when he speaks again, I realize he’s no longer joking around. “I wasn’t propositioning you, Willow. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, either.”
“Then what was all that about?” I dislike being so unsure about things, about myself, and my voice comes out snippy.
“I just thought if we addressed the bed up front, we could stop feeling so awkward about it. You keep looking at the bed, then at me, then at the bed again, like you’re hoping I can’t see it. Well, I can. And yes, just in case you’re wondering, I have no trouble imagining you in it, okay? I’m still your husband, and even if I wasn’t, I’m still a man.”
I stare at the floor, wondering how on earth we ended up having this discussion already.
“Willow,” he sighs heavily. “I’m actually in shock that I’m here at all, that you’ve invited me into your private chambers, so to speak. This place,” he turns and gestures to the room with an outstretched arm, “is something else. I feel a little on pins and needles myself.” He stops, and I finally look up at him. He’s sprawled casually in his chair, one leg stretched out to the side, the other foot propped against the base of the table. But I can see the tension in his shoulders, that twitching in his jaw I know so well. I haven’t thought about how difficult this must be for him.
“Why? Why did you invite me here? We could have gone out tonight again. I would have gladly taken you anywhere. Why here?”
When I still don’t answer, he continues. “I don’t think I can go through a whole evening not knowing what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours. I’ve been begging God for an opportunity like this ever since you moved out, and now that it’s happening, I need to know what you’re thinking. Does this mean you still love me? You’re taking me back? You’re coming home? Are we going to talk about Julian? About us?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Or is this just…really good chicken?”
The microwave beeps, like it’s mocking his words, and I carry our plates back to the table. Christian doesn’t straighten up, even when I sit down, and I realize he’s not going to let this go any longer. I take a quick gulp of water, condensation making my glass slippery.
“I invited you here because I’m not good at playing games, either. I can’t pretend we’re two strangers out on a date. I can’t look at you across the table at a café and act like we don’t have a history. I can’t tiptoe around topics of conversation that might make me cry in public. I want to talk about Julian. I want to talk about us. About you. About me. About—” My voice breaks and I look away. “I want to know if there’s hope for us. I’ve been doing a little praying myself, you know.”
His eyes are dark, fathomless in a way that reminds me of how he looked when I told him I was moving out.
“Loving you was never the problem, Christian.” I breathe in deeply and let it out slowly. “I’ve never stopped.”
He sits up then, and reaches across the table to take my hands in his again. Without preamble, he bows his head and begins to pray. “Father, thank You for these beautiful hands that prepared this meal for us. Please sit with us tonight. We need You, Jesus. Amen.”
He has never been long-winded in prayer, something I appreciate.
With the first bite, he moans in a way that makes me blush, and I am instantly enjoying myself. The food is really quite good, even microwaved, and I hope he’s missed my cooking, among other things. From his letters, I know he’s reverted back to bachelor meals consisting of grilled cheese sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly, ramen noodles, and takeout. During our Thanksgiving brunch, he regaled Dad and I with the sad tale of his last attempt at roasting a piece of meat, how it ended in disaster when he fell asleep watching football.
I ask him how he likes his work, although I think I already know the answer from the things he’s written. He regales me with odd cases from their files, stuff he knows will be new to me, and I’m a rapt audience. But then, Christian could be talking about the color of concrete and I’d listen. He has a voice that could melt glaciers in Antarctica.
He asks me about my neighbors, about Al especially, and I entertain him with stories from around the park.
“I hope to one day meet everyone here. It would be nice to put faces to names.”
I chuckle and tell him about the notorious trailer park stalker, Shadowman. “I think the residents would like to put a face to a name, too.” When he realizes I’m talking about him, he reaches across the table and brushes my cheek with his knuckles.
“I was a mess back then, Willow. I couldn’t sleep. I was barely eating. You hadn’t so much as written a postcard telling me you were okay. I knew you were alive only because your dad assured me you were, but I couldn’t bear not knowing, not seeing you.” He takes a sip of his sparkling water and sits back. His plate is empty. “Doc. He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Doc? Yes, he’s a good guy. In fact, I couldn’t have asked for better neighbors here; all of them. Maybe a little less strange, but then, if they were all normal, I wouldn’t fit in so well.”
“Do they—have you told anyone—about Julian?” He trips over the question, but he says our son’s name with great care. I don’t think he talks about him any more than I do.
“I’ve told Doc.” He nods, almost as though he already knows this. “Andrea and George also know, a young couple who was living in the main house. They’ve moved in with her parents, though, and I seriously doubt they shared it with anyone else here.”
“I told Al.”
“You did?” I’m surprised. I see Al every day when I check the mail, often stopping to chat, especially if Doc is there, too, but he’s never spoken a word of it to me, nor has his attitude toward me changed in any way.
“I miss you, Willow. I miss Julian.” Christian’s eyes darken again and he looks down at his hands as he toys with the napkin in his lap. “Coming home to our empty house, day in and day out, I—I can’t tell you how—”
My heart breaks for him. Why have I made this so much about me for all these months? Why have I not considered my husband’s pain? How on earth have I convinced myself that I am hurting any more than he is?
“Christian. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” I have no words to make it right. I don’t know what else to say. “I’m sorry.”
He stands up and circles the table, then drops to one knee in front of me, turning me in my seat so I’m facing him. He takes both my hands in his and we’re almost eye-to-eye. I can smell the clean, spicy scent of his aftershave mingling with the shampoo he uses, and it’s a heady reminder of how often we’ve been this close before.
“Willow, please tell me you’re coming home. I don’t want to live without you. I don’t want to sleep without you. I don’t want to eat without you. I can’t—I don’t have anyone else to talk to about Julian. I don’t want to talk to anyone else about Julian. No one knows him like you do, and I can’t stand the way people look at me when they hear what happened. I need you, Willow, and I have to believe that you need me, too, even in some small way. Please come home to me.”
I pull my hands from his, ignoring the flash of despair in his eyes, then cup his face gently. My hands seem to remember his flesh, the pads of my palms fitting into the contours of his cheeks, my fingertips pressing into his temples, feeling for the faint pulse throbbing just beneath the surface of his skin. My thumbs stroke his cheekbones and I lean forward to kiss his forehead, then his right cheek, his left cheek, and his mouth. I have never been more ready for his kiss than I am right now.
This night has gone nothing like I planned. I thought we’d eat, we’d talk about Dad, about Christian’s family, his work, and maybe about my neighbors. We’d pour coffee and head out to the patio with our cheesecake slices topped with elderberry syrup. We’d start a fire and talk in whispers about Julian so we wouldn’t have to see each other’s faces. I’d cry softly into the corner of the blanket around my shoulders, and Christian would remain stoic, solid
. We’d agree to do this again next week, then he would go home, and I would stay behind, clean up, and go to bed. Alone.
But as my husband wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his embrace, I no longer care that my plans have been upended. God has a way of taking my ideas and rearranging them in unexpected and often remarkable ways, and I’m learning that His way of doing things, when all is said and done, tends to have far better results than anything I could ever dream up.
Chapter 4
It’s Saturday morning, and Christian is here for coffee and more of my scones. He’s been introduced to my elderberry tree, as pathetic as it is this time of year, and we’re sitting together on cushions in front of the fire, sharing a blanket on this blustery morning.
“I’d like to have Christmas here,” I say, my voice quiet. “With you.” Christian has come for dinner every night this week and we’ve talked a little about me going home, but I haven’t been back yet. I know it must happen soon, that I need to face my fear, my grief, but he’s not pressuring me to do so before I’m ready. He seems content with the way things are for now.
Christmas a year ago was agony. Still reeling from the devastation of losing Julian, there was no tree, no lights, no celebrating anything. Christian was gone to his parents’ house when I crawled out of bed around noon, and although he left a gift for me on my bedside table, I didn’t see it until three days later, and he never said a thing about it. I didn’t open it; by the time I noticed it, I had made the decision to leave.
I feel now like I need something new and different to purge the memory, or to at least dilute it so that it’s more palatable.
“I have a feeling most of the people here at the park will be sticking around for Christmas, and I’d like to have a get-together for whoever is here, maybe a Christmas Eve potluck. I think Dad would enjoy it, too. He might even bring his new girlfriend.” Dad’s been dating a woman who reminds me a little of my mother in the way she talks, the way she watches Dad with gentle eyes, even the way she cocks her head to one side when she’s listening. This is the first woman he’s been sweet on for any length of time, and it’s bittersweet for me. I love seeing him so animated, and I really like Sara, and I know if Mom were here, she’d applaud his choice. But then again, if Mom were here, he wouldn’t be having to make a choice.
Christian leans over and kisses the side of my head. “I don’t care where we spend Christmas, as long as we spend it together.”
“Do you think your folks will mind if we ditch the big family event again this year?” Every year, it’s been tradition to wake up, have our little Christmas together—the two of us at first, then it became the three of us—then head to a big family dinner at Christian’s parents’ home, along with his siblings and their families. We usually pick Dad up on the way there, then take him home at the end of the night. My in-laws, Dan and Rebecca, know Christian and I are back together, but I’m hoping they’ll understand my hesitancy to jump right back into the festivities. My heart is full of all the things that have come to the surface, and I feel raw and vulnerable and exposed. I need a little more time.
“Mom told me yesterday she’s already received her favorite gift of the season,” he murmurs. “You and me, together again. They understand.”
I sip my coffee and stretch my toes out toward the fire, wiggling them in my favorite leopard-print socks. Christian has his arm around me beneath the blanket, and I snuggle up closer to his side, but it’s still so cold. “Can we go inside?”
I head in while he puts out the fire. As I look around at the things that have parenthesized my life here, I can feel the threads holding it all together beginning to fray and unravel. Elderberry Croft has become a home away from home for both of us. Christian still knocks, in spite of my reassurance that he doesn’t have to. I still get flustered when I know he’s coming over. But this is no longer a hideaway, because I now welcome the one from whom I was hiding away. He eats meals here with me, we watch movies and read together here. He shares my bathroom, and my bed, and he’s lain awake beside me long into the wee hours as we talk about what’s ahead for us.
Our future does not lie here. This park, this cottage by the stream where the rogue elderberry tree flourishes; it has all been a gift, one I will cherish forever. But my time here—our time—is running out, and maybe that’s partly why I want to spend Christmas in this place. I want this little home to carry the memory of mine and Christian’s love, not just for each other, not just for Julian, although we’re finally celebrating the brief, blessed time we had with him. But I also want to leave here having done my best to let the residents of The Coach House Trailer Park know how much I cherish each one of them.
Chapter 5
The stringed lights are hung, the fire is blazing, there are three gas heaters strategically set up around the patio. Tables are decorated with red and green coverings, real pine branches cut from someone’s tree, with flickering candles in festive votive cups tucked in among the boughs. The elderberry tree is adorned with varying sizes of glowing paper lanterns. Christmas music is playing on an old-fashioned boom-box stereo brought over by Donny Banks, and Joe and Vivian are manning a grill again. It’s like the 4th of July, but with a few alterations: It’s cold, Donny isn’t drinking, and Christian is standing beside me, his arm draped around my waist. What a lovely party this is turning out to be.
My father awoke with a cold yesterday, and he’s been put on house arrest by his doctor. He’s been prone to bronchitis the last few years, and once it turned to pneumonia practically overnight. He had Christian pick up a huge box of éclairs from my favorite bakery in town for the party tonight. We’ll be seeing him tomorrow.
Andrea called this afternoon to let me know that George has the night off. They’ll be here as soon as her father gets off work; she and George are bringing Andrea’s whole family. Joe and Vivian won’t be staying late—they have a long drive ahead of them so they can do the family thing in Los Angeles all day tomorrow, and I haven’t heard from Doc in days. I saw him earlier this week and he assured me he was planning on being here, but the party started an hour ago, and his car is gone.
Christian and Doc have had their heads together a few times over the last two weeks, coming up for air as nonchalantly as two-year-olds caught with their hands in the cookie jar whenever I approach. Whatever it is they have going on, I’m sure I’ll approve. I don’t know of two men I’d trust more.
“It’s good to finally meet you, Shadowman.” I smile at the familiar greeting I’ve heard all night as people are introduced to Christian. It’s Ivan, and I’m happy to see him here tonight. He’s been single for several months now, and has been plugging into his parents’ lives and vice versa, but I worry about him. I’d like to believe there’s a good woman out there who will see how incredible he is, and who will help him see in himself the man was made to be. He claims to know and worship the same God I do, so that’s between him and God. No matter what, his choices, and the road ahead for him won’t be easy, and I often find myself talking to God about him.
Christian is gregarious and receptive and open handed with his responses to everyone and I’m proud of him. I know he’s grateful to these people who have made me feel at home here. Oh, how fiercely I will miss this place! I can’t think about it right now or I will break down, and tonight is about celebrating this season and simply being together.
Our story has made the rounds. I brought Christian, and a plate of fudge, to Myra’s home a two weeks ago, and over coffee and sweets, we shared with her what had happened to make me take cover here at Elderberry Croft. I was certain of two things: that in telling her our story, the rest of the park would know in a matter of days, if not hours, and that Myra would fall madly in love with Christian, and would bend over backwards to protect his reputation even while she gossiped about us. Sure enough, by the time I made my rounds with gift baskets and personal invitations to our Christmas party, I could see the light of understanding in peoples’ eyes; even a few empathet
ic tears.
Across the bridge come Andrea and George, an entourage of smiling people behind them. They must have parked in their old spot under the carport of the main building. No one has moved in upstairs above Pru yet, but I have a feeling the apartment may end up being Donny’s. He seems to be taking his sobriety seriously, at least for now. The two brothers are sitting together, Donny talking up a storm, Eddie grinning in appreciation, and Shelly on the other side of Eddie, her hand in his. I pray the peace will last for Edith’s sake, who’s watching them with glistening eyes from across the patio.
I met Andrea’s parents, Tom and Jean, when they came to help move the kids, and I welcome them as they lead their group up the steps and under the flowering arch onto my patio. Andrea introduces me to her brother, Scott, and his girlfriend, Jenny, and her aunt, Nan, who’s come to spend the holidays with them. Nan looks at Andrea in a way that assures me the girl is in good hands.
A scream startles us all into silence, then Kathy Kekoa pushes past me toward her home across the driveway where a car has pulled up and parked. I turn to share a knowing smile with my husband, who worked hard to track down these beloved family members in time for this party.
“My boy, my boy! Makani!” Our party watches the joy unfold as Makani Kekoa steps from the car and sweeps his mother into an enthusiastic embrace, lifting her off her feet. A short, plump woman about my age emerges from the passenger side, a tentative look on her face. I know she’s worried about seeing her mother-in-law again, but Kathy waylays her fears as she dashes around the front of the car to hug the girl tightly.
Elderberry Croft: The Complete Collection Page 36
