Liam sucked contentedly on his bottle as Chad dialed the Allen’s home. Even as he did it, he realized the irony of choosing to bring in the Allens for help instead of calling his mother or the Finleys. What had seemed like such an affront at one time was now his first reaction. Would he ever learn the kind of wisdom and discernment that his father seemed to exude naturally?
Lucas awoke the moment Chad saw the Allen’s car coming up the drive. He opened the front door, despite the frigid temperatures, and hurried upstairs to grab his other son. Liam tried to escape their bedroom as Chad changed another soggy diaper until he finally shut the door in the adventuresome tyke’s face. “You stay in here. The last thing I need is you falling down the stairs. That wouldn’t go over very well.”
The sound of Lily calling him sent Chad into a rushed frenzy of snaps, soakers, and a fresh pair of sweat pants that did not match the carefully tailored striped shirt Lucas had been wearing with the funny overalls that Willow always made. With a boy in each arm, giggling and laughing as they played their private games with each other, he hurried to greet Lily and Tabitha. “Thanks for coming out. I really blew it this time and we need to talk.”
“Everyone has those moments in their marriage, Chad. That is something you both have to learn and deal with.”
Passing the boys to his rescuers, Chad grabbed his jacket. “Thanks. I’ll be back in a while.”
“Chad?”
He popped his head back in the door, “Yeah?”
“I don’t know what the problem is, but I just thought of something on my way over.”
“What was that?”
Lily snuggled with Liam for a second and then pointed to the huge barn behind the house and the vehicles out front. “In less than three years, her life has turned upside down. For twenty-two years, she lived one way and now she’s living another. On top of mothering responsibilities, it’s probably all hitting her at once.”
Chad nodded and shut the door behind him. “Looks like everyone has realized that but me,” he murmured under his breath as he pulled his collar up around his neck and started looking for footsteps.
Chapter 14 9
The Monday before Thanksgiving, Liam and Lucas awoke with gunky noses, slight fevers, and coughs. Willow held one son on each hip and glanced from boy to boy, flummoxed. Her list of things to do in preparation for Thanksgiving had already grown to mountainous proportions. “Listen, chaps, if you won’t cooperate, I can’t get anything done. So, here’s how it’s going to be. You’re going to have your breakfast—”
Liam wailed.
“—and then you’re going to play on the floor while I clean the kitchen.”
Lucas rubbed a snotty nose into her shoulder.
“Ugh.” Willow went to retrieve a stack of handkerchiefs, but when Liam splattered his own nasal contents onto her neck and shirt, she dropped them back in the drawer and went to retrieve a box—no two—of Chad’s beloved Kleenex.
She couldn’t hold the boxes and the boys, despite her best efforts. Hating the betrayed looks on the lads’ faces, she plopped them back in the crib and went to change her shirt, wash her face and neck, and carry the boxes downstairs. Their tortured screams of abandonment followed her down and back up again.
“You are two very spoiled little—darlings.”
Once more, she hoisted a tot on each hip and carried them downstairs. Even snuggled against Mama, the lads wailed and sniffled, swiping her shirt with a fresh coat of mucous. “Ugh.” She gave Liam a mock-glare. “You know, bud, I’m starting to understand Mother. Fluids and semi-fluids are revolting to see, touch, smell, and you’d better not give me a taste!”
Liam wailed louder.
Once downstairs, she settled them into the couch with her. Lucas fussed and whined as she tried to nurse Liam into some kind of contentedness. However, with his stuffy nose, the poor baby couldn’t manage a gulp without coming up for air, creating a mess for both of them. Frustrated, Willow tried feeding Lucas, but he too struggled to breathe and nurse at the same time.
As both boys wrestled beside her on the couch, she stared at her soaked shirt and at their milk-splattered clothes. Time for another change—another one. It seemed futile, but she gathered her sons once more and carried them back upstairs to change them—again.
They tumbled over her bed as she pulled out a sweater—twice nearly falling off—and then mauled each other as she changed their clothes. She glanced at the clock, trying to remember what time Chad went into work. It had been almost an hour since the lads awoke. An hour—wasted. Willow sighed. Then she sneezed.
Downstairs, she set the boys on the floor with toys she knew they wouldn’t touch, and opened the stove door. Bending over the fencing Chad made for them hurt her back, her chest, and her arms. She struggled to settle a log in place. “I hate these fences,” she muttered.
The temptation to remove it long enough to fill the stove grew. She glanced at the boys as each one tumbled over the other in what seemed an attempt to smother each other’s wails. It was worth the risk. She’d be right there anyway. Decided, Willow unlatched the gate and pulled it apart. It took less than two minutes to scoop out the ash, refill the stove, and close the gate again. Willow glanced over her shoulder. The boys hadn’t moved.
“Kitchen stove while they’re occupied in being mutually miserable,” she muttered.
Before she pulled away the fence, Willow peered into the living room again, but the boys were still engrossed in their wailing wrestling match. The fire had almost died in the stove, but she shoveled ashes, laid new logs, and stuffed a bit of kindling in it to get up a decent blaze, hoping to take the chill off the freezing kitchen.
As Willow shut the door to the stove, she sneezed. Ashes flew from the ash can and into her face. Half-blinded, she rushed for the sink, washing her face and blowing her nose until she could see and breathe again. She turned back to finish her job and nearly froze at the sight of Lucas crawling past the fence to the stove.
“No!”
Willow’s head connected with the floor and then skidded into the brick hearth as she dove for her son. She managed to keep him from reaching for the skirt of the stove—one she had burned her hand on often—but barely. With one foot, she kept both boys at bay as she replaced the fence and carried them from the room. “Ok, that wasn’t fun. Not—aaaachoo—fun at all,” she finished with a sigh and a dash for Kleenex.
Her mind tried to race, struggled to whirl, but instead slogged through the mire of her thoughts until she found one that made sense. She sat her sons back on the floor, ignored their protests once more, and dashed for her phone. Her fingers tapped the doorjamb to the dining room as she watched her sons and waited. “Iris? What are you doing today?”
Jonathan Landry burst in through the back door and raced through the kitchen, uncharacteristically ignoring his mother’s rebuke. “Mrs. Tesdall, I found something when I was cleaning the kitchen!”
“You found something?” Willow blinked, trying to comprehend the boy’s words. Her head felt thicker by the second.
“I didn’t want to touch it, but—c’mon. You really should come see this. Or maybe Mr. Tesdall should come home.”
Iris stepped into the room, hands on hips. “Jonathan Landry! What are you talking about?”
“The barn kitchen—”
“Summer kitchen,” Iris corrected automatically. “What about it?”
“Maybe you should come, Mom.”
A sickening feeling filled Willow’s gut. “Where in the kitchen?”
“The cabinet above the fridge. I was putting the extra candles up there like you said, and the wall fell out!”
“The wha—”
Willow stood and passed a sleeping Liam to Iris. “I’ll be back in a bit. Would you rather he stay in here?”
“Is there a reason it shouldn’t be ok?”
Willow shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Just call if you need him then.” As Willow opened the back door, Iris added, “
Do you want me to call Chad?”
She shook her head. “If I need him, I’ll call.”
“She’s gonna need him,” Jonathan insisted.
Portia greeted her as she stepped from the back porch. “I’ve avoided this for two years, girl.” She sneezed again.
The summer kitchen looked as if a bomb had exploded pots, pans, and other cookery and survival items all over the counters. At first, Willow couldn’t imagine what the boy had been doing, but a bucket and an old rag on top of the fridge told her. That Iris was a smart woman. The boy would keep occupied, out of the way, and get some of the infrequently done chores while not making noise in the house. She’d have to remember that—for what reason, she didn’t know.
Procrastination. Disgusted with herself, she growled, “Snap out of it. You know what’s up there; just get them, and get them out.” Why Chad would be needed, she couldn’t imagine.
As she climbed the stepladder, Willow’s hand reached automatically toward the back where she knew the journals would be hidden in the wall. Mother hadn’t really talked about them, but Willow knew they were there. However, before she could jerk her hand back again, it connected with the cold barrel of a rifle. “Why—”
She started to grab it—pull it out from the hole in the wall—and stopped. Her hands patted her pockets, but even as she did, Willow remembered that she had left it lying on the coffee table. Her feet strode across the yard with long, purposeful steps. She didn’t say a word to Iris or Jonathan as she passed through the house and snatched the phone. Iris started to ask something, but she was back out the door before the poor woman could finish her sentence.
“Chad?”
“Hey, lass. I was just going to call.”
“What time do you get off today?”
His chuckle rumbled through the phone. “You sound adorable with your stuffy nose.”
“Not funny. I’m serious. What time are you going to be home?”
Chad told her he got off at two o’clock. “Why?”
She glanced at her phone. “Half an hour. The day sure flew past. Anyway…” She hesitated. “I have a hypothetical question.”
“Okaaay…”
“If a policeman’s wife found a weapon on their property that, as far as she knew, they didn’t own, would that policeman likely prefer to be told while on duty or wait to see it off duty?”
“Lass?”
“I don’t know why, Chad, but I’m scared.”
“Be there in five.”
Willow took a deep breath. “Chad?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe you should bring Joe too.”
Pieces of a .357 Winchester lay spread out on the counter Willow cleared while waiting for Chad to arrive. Joe Freidan poked at it with his pen. “Do we have any record of Kari Finley’s fingerprints?”
Chad shook his head, one eye on his wife. Willow sat in the corner reading her mother’s journals. With each turn of the page, he saw the tension rise, the pain increase, her heart break just a little more. “Lass, do you know if Mother was ever fingerprinted?”
“No, but…” Her eyes slid to the stack of journals. “Maybe?”
Joe nodded. “Well, it wouldn’t confirm anything except that the same person owned or used the gun and the journals, but it would be a reasonable conclusion.”
Chad hesitated. “Call Judith?”
Without hesitation, Joe nodded. “She’s the best.” As Chad made the call, Joe glanced at Willow. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Can I do something? It’s going to be okay, Willow.”
“Why did she keep a disassembled gun in the wall, Joe? Why would that be ‘okay?’”
“Maybe she figured out it was stolen. Maybe it didn’t fire correctly and she didn’t want someone to get hurt. As alone as she was out here, she wouldn’t risk just throwing it away, and she wouldn’t take it into the police if she was trying to stay under the radar. She could have found it and been worried about it, so she took it apart and saved it. If that’s the case, she probably used gloves or cloth or something to hold it. It’ll be worthless print wise if she did.”
“I thought gloves were better.”
Joe shook his head. “On porous things, sure. Non-porous needs not to be handled—laser.” He nodded at the journals. “Anything interesting in there?”
“A whole lot of stuff I never wanted to see or read.”
“See?”
“I thought I’d seen all the photos of mother after her attack. I didn’t.”
He stepped closer and reached for the book. “Let me take it, Willow. We’ll go through it for you.”
She pulled back. “I’d rather you didn’t—not before I know what you’re going to be reading.”
“We may have to take them—especially if those prints don’t match.”
“If they don’t?”
Chad stepped in the door. “If what don’t?”
“He says they might have to take the journals before I can read them if the prints don’t match.”
“We might, but I think they’ll match. Mother probably ruined any other prints if she found it.”
Joe and Willow exchanged amused glances. Willow nodded. “So he says.”
“What have you found?”
“Chad?”
“Hmm?”
Her eyes barely met his. “Not now.”
Concern flooded him. If she wasn’t willing to talk, it had to be bad. Joe stepped back, offering to leave, but Willow shook her head. “I’d say the same thing with you gone, Joe.”
As punctuation to her assertion, Willow sneezed.
Chapter 150
Dark circles rimmed Willow’s eyes the next morning. She stumbled from bed, stepped into the boys’ room, and stared at the empty crib. A rattle downstairs told her Chad must still be home. Strange—he was supposed to work at six again.
The boys slept in the playpen in the corner of the dining room. From the woodstove, Chad smiled and refilled the water pan before crossing the room. “You’re up early, lass.”
“It’s got to be after eight. I am not.”
“You went to bed after four. You’re up early.”
“Is that why you’re still here?” Willow paused on the bottom step and turned. “Be right back.”
“I’ll get you water.”
“Thanks.”
They met at the couch at nearly the same time. Chad passed the glass to her. “Drink up. I can see from your skin that you need more.”
“It gets so dry…”
“Yep.” He stared at her. “You’re sick. Go back to bed.”
“You’re supposed to be at work.”
Chad sighed. “I’m supposed to take care of my sick wife—the one who stays up until all hours when she’s already sick.”
Liam whimpered in the playpen. Chad’s eyes slid sideways and then back to Willow. She sank into the couch, holding her head. “I’m so tired. My head hurts.”
She reached for a journal, but Chad pulled it away. “Not now, lass.”
“I have—”
“No. No, you don’t have to read anything. You’re sick.” Chad jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Do you want breakfast? I made oatmeal and boiled eggs. Oh, and I ran and got some orange juice.”
“Juice.”
Chad tried not to snicker at the word. She made it sound like, “deuce.” As tempted as he was, he forced himself not to grab the journals and take them with him. Ten minutes later, he found her half-reclined on the couch and struggling through another page of the journals. “Lass, please.”
“I just want to get through it so I can be done. Don’t you get that?”
“I get that you’re worn out. I get that you’re sick—”
“And I get that I’m way behind on stuff for Thursday. Can you please call Iris back?”
“She said she’d be here at—” Chad pointed at the front window. “Nine o’clock.”
“Are you going to work now?”
At Iris’
knock, Chad stood and shook his head. “I thought I’d help Jonathan finish up in the barn.”
He hurried to open the door before another knock woke the boys. The action—futile. Iris and Jonathan weren’t two steps in the door when Willow cried out. He didn’t even have a chance to ask.
Willow began wailing about things he couldn’t even understand. The boys screamed, Jonathan glanced back and forth between the noisemakers asking, “Mom? Wha—”
Chad pleaded silently with Iris for help while he rushed to grab his sons. The cacophony of sounds built as he struggled to soothe the boys and his wife. He heard cries of “What does it mean?” mixed with cries of misery and surprise. Jonathan took Lucas and carried the little guy out of the room.
Iris took Liam and followed asking, “Bottles? Rice cereal? Both? Neither?”
“Bottles, thanks.” Chad turned to Willow, pulling the journal from her hands. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ooookaaay…”
As she wept, he wrapped his arms around her, confused by her words. Nonetheless, he did recognize something in her—fear, confusion, and incomprehension. Something in those journals bothered her, and as much as he wanted to understand it, he knew that calming her would be the most direct way to start. “Shh… just relax. It’s all ok. Whatever is in there—it’s over.”
“I don’t think it is.”
He stuffed a wad of Kleenex in her hands and winced as she blew her nose. He’d be sick in twenty-four hours. Another sneeze. Or less. “Okay, can you show me where?”
She fumbled with the journal, flipping too far forward, too far back, and finally stopping on the journal page. “There. I don’t know what it means, but it’s—I’m so confused, scared—everything.”
Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 5 Page 8
