Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 2

by Chautona Havig

  “Sure.” There was a pause before Willow added, “I wonder where our extra plates are.”

  “What did you say?”

  As she handed Marianne the plates, Willow explained their limited dish situation. “I know we have replacements—anytime something broke there’d be a replacement in the cupboard the next meal. I never thought of it before, but Mother must have them somewhere. I wonder why she didn’t just keep them in the cupboard.”

  Feeling unusually insightful, Marianne Tesdall saw Kari more accurately than most ever did. “I think your mother wanted a visual reminder that she only had enough emotional stamina for two people ‘at her table’ so to speak.”

  Tears sprung to Willow’s eyes, but rather than being overcome by them, she smiled. “Two people at her table. That’s perfect. Chad has almost become family—the brother Mother would never have had for me. I still have two people at my table most of the time. God is good.”

  “Oh Luke, I’m glad you got that on tape. Your double single knee proposal is unique; I’ll give you that. Of course, I’d give anything to be able to hear you, but the comments of the children and the aunts were priceless.”

  “I laughed so hard watching that. When Tavish said to get the smelling salts…” Luke mused thoughtfully.

  Cheri’s romance radar was in high gear. “So did you choose a date? Do you know where—”

  “Can you give him twenty-four hours before you plan his life, Cheri?” Chris’ nudge was anything but gentle.

  The room erupted in laughter at Luke’s discouraged, “Well, I doubt I can get her to find time before Christmas, but—”

  Willow’s voice, though quiet, cut through the pandemonium. “I wish you well, Luke. I’ll be praying for you and for Aggie.”

  Luke squeezed her shoulder as he moved to refill his glass. “Thank you, Willow.”

  A sidelong glance at the Tesdalls made Willow’s stomach flop in that horribly uncomfortable manner it had adopted that morning. Marianne stood, leaning her back into her husband’s chest, Christopher’s arms around her waist. They seemed to share a private joke between them, reminding her of the married couples she’d read about in books. There was something special—different about their relationship that both intrigued and frightened her.

  Until she’d been bombarded with hints about her presumed budding romance with Chad, the idea of romance hadn’t bothered her much. Bill made illusions to it, and she found the attention pleasant, but now, in the Tesdall home where deeper relationships were both casual and serious, she shied away from them.

  “Willow, I’ve got to be at work by six, and I didn’t pick up my uniforms—I think we should go soon. With the snow, the roads—”

  “Ready whenever you are.” She turned immediately to find her tote bag, but Christopher’s voice stopped her.

  “Chad, can I see you in the den before you go?”

  She watched nervously as the two men disappeared into the room and a pocket door slid shut behind them. Willow had no doubt that the Tesdall family liked her. Their warmth toward her was genuine; she was confident on that score. However, something in Christopher’s manner told her that he was concerned for Chad.

  Unaware that Willow even noticed the exchange, Christopher sat his son down for a conversation he’d rather not have. “Chad, I’d give anything to avoid this…”

  Anticipating his father’s words, Chad’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a disappointment to you in so many ways, but—”

  “Don’t assume you know what I’m going to say. I’m pretty sure you don’t.” Christopher leaned forward, his hands clasped together. “You know, I’ve been praying about you and Willow since the day you came to the store. I’ve struggled with it because I have no doubt that the Lord brought you into Willow’s life for a reason and not just to help her. She’s been good for you too.”

  As he continued, Christopher watched his son struggle against becoming defensive. They’d had the best visit since Chad left for college. Old wounds had been stitched and were healing. Was it wise to risk tearing them open again? Even as he thought, Christopher continued. “… I’m not concerned about where things are now. I know you think I’m going to condemn you for your choices concerning her, but I’m not. I see why you’ve done what you’ve done, and I’m proud of you for it.”

  Swallowing hard, Chad raised his eyes to meet his father’s. “I cannot tell you how much that means to me.”

  “Which,” Christopher continued, “is why I’m going to say something you probably don’t want to hear, but I want you to listen close to what I am saying and not add in what I’m not.”

  Chad nodded. “Bad habit of mine.”

  “Your relationship with Willow is a lot like yours with Cheri. I don’t see the same kind teasing, but I suspect that part of that is that she’s not comfortable here, and I know she’s still a little fragile. You see her as a sister; you treat her as a best friend. This is good.”

  “But…”

  “But she isn’t your sister. She’s a sister in Christ, I grant you, but she is not your sister. The day will come, probably sooner than either of you are prepared to think about, when one or both of you will marry.”

  “Pop, please—”

  “Listen to me, son. If you keep things how they are, I don’t foresee any real problems. However, if you continue to treat her like Cheri, the time will come when you’re watching movies with your arm draped around her shoulder, or she’ll fall asleep half curled against your chest or your lap just like Cheri does. That may be innocent, and I trust you to search your heart about those things and to listen to the Holy Spirit’s promptings.” Christopher took a deep breath and prayed his son really listened. “But her husband isn’t going to want to come home and find you casually affectionate with his wife.”

  “I don’t think that’s a problem. I can’t see her marrying, but if she did, I’d never—”

  “Your wife wouldn’t necessarily like it either.”

  Chad’s head whipped up sharply. “How can you think I’d ever—”

  “I know you wouldn’t. That’s not the problem. I am trying to set up a picture in your mind. If you are not careful about how you show affection—and I know you—you’re going to keep her feeling secure by any means you know. It’s who you are and who you’ve always been. I wouldn’t want you to change it. But if you keep seeing her as another sister instead of a single woman, then the day one of you marries, she loses another important relationship.”

  “Well I wouldn’t just abandon her, Pop!”

  “No, but you’d pull away. It’s a natural response and a right one. But it’d mean another loss in a young woman who can’t afford any more losses.”

  Taking a deep breath, Chad asked for clarification. “Ok, can you tell me in as few and as simple words as possible, what you’re suggesting?”

  “Be her friend, Chad. Be there for her. But keep your relationship to something that can continue, just as it is or awfully close to it, in case one of you marries.” Glad to have the burden of his heart off his chest and on the table, Christopher stood. “Of course, you’d solve all your problems if you simply married her yourself in the next decade or two.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Saturday morning Willow awoke to sun streaming through her windows and a few inches of snow on the ground. Wrapped in her favorite robe and feet swaddled in wooly warmness, she stood at the window and enjoyed the beauty of fields of snow. The dusting over the tree branches gave the farm the feel of fairyland, sighing contentedly at the sight.

  Willow loved snow in the fields and hated it in the yard. What looked like a white blanket of cotton over fields, became a slushy mess after a few tramps to the barn, to feed the chickens, chickens, and back again. The first day of snow was always a treat in the Finley home—almost a holiday. On that day, they ignored the extra work, extra mess, and concentrated on the beauty, because the rest of winter would demand the
y pay attention to it. They made snow ice cream, drank hot chocolate, ate chicken soup, and huddled next to the stove reading, knitting, or simply daydreaming.

  The clock struck seven. If she didn’t hurry, the day would be gone before she could relax and enjoy it! Willow pulled on her favorite jeans, t-shirt, and chamois flannel shirt. As she hurried downstairs, her fingers expertly braided her hair into a long French braid. Near the backdoor, her boots and over-boots sat ready for wear.

  By the time she left the kitchen, the stove crackled, the teakettle warmed, a bowl of dry oats waited for the kettle, and a Dutch oven of water sat waiting for heat to do its job. Outside, Saige barked her welcome and rolled playfully in the snow. Ice containers waited for a trip downstairs to the ice cellar. She shivered in the brisk air but knew that with a few minutes work, she’d warm up enough to shed a coat if she wore one.

  Grabbing the snow shovel from the barn wall, Willow cleared a wide strip from the chicken yard and threw open the door. The huge thermometer on the side of the coop read twenty-six degrees. “Kind of cold ladies, but there’s some bare dirt out there if you want to run around—” The birds were out of their coop before she could say cold. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  In the barn, she spread a fresh layer of straw in the stalls opposite the inhabited ones and moved the animals across the aisle. Water, hay, a little grain for the cow and the barn animals were all set.

  Willow grabbed a chicken, container of soup, and packet of dog meat from the freezer. She poured some milk in the cat pans and glanced around the barn with one final look. She hadn’t seen the barn cats for a week or two, but they’d be waiting for milk again now that it was cooler. A mouse scurried from one hay bale to the next. “They’d better catch that thing, or I’m cutting off their room and board,” she muttered as she slid the upper barn window open and then shut the door.

  In the house, she poured water from the teakettle into her cup and added her tea ball. Barely covering the oats with boiling water, she set a plate on top and retrieved a jar of peaches from the pantry. Willow scooped several sliced of peaches onto the plate, replaced the jar lid, and stowed the jar in the icebox. It needed more ice. “How fitting,” she muttered as she hurried down for another block.

  Her chicken in the pot, oats down the hatch, and kitchen cleaned up and looking spiffy, Willow shrugged off her flannel shirt and boots, slipped back on her slippers, and sighed. It was a beautiful day. By nine o’clock, she curled herself on the chaise to Alexa Hartfield’s book, sipping tea between pages.

  Her eyes closed and she listened to the sounds of her house. The fire crackled in the stove, Saige barked outside, and as she opened her eyes to read once more, she heard the gentle shushing of the page as she turned it. There was no laughter, no thumping up and down the stairs, no one calling for Mom to help with this or that, or good-natured protests of unfair treatment. There was no furnace to make a strange clicking noise just before the whoosh of warm air shot through the vents. No sirens wailed; no car doors thumped; all was quiet in her world.

  Just after noon, she stretched as she stood to heat her lunch and noticed the mail truck slow down as it neared the end of the lane. Grabbing her keys, her flannel shirt, and a thick sweater, Willow pulled on her boots and stepped outside. “Want to grab the mail with me, Saige?”

  Willow rarely made the trip to gather the mail. Sometimes weeks went by without a single letter or catalog, but if they saw the truck stop, the Finley women would take a break in their day and walk to the mailbox to see what might be in it. Down the lane, she trudged through slushy snow, Saige dashing in circles, racing ahead of her and then zipping back to urge her onward. She pulled her keys from her pocket and unlocked the box. The memory of a day long ago when she was just a child came flooding back to her.

  “Mother, what’s wrong with the mail—there are ants!”

  “Some fool thought it would be fun to dump a can of Coke inside the mailbox.”

  The little girl frowned, her face screwing up into a picture of fury. “That’s just wrong. It’s not their property.”

  The mother tossed several pieces into the stove and set a third aside. “I agree.”

  “Ants are getting on the counter.”

  “Brush them into the sink and wash them down. Get every single one off the letter. I need that one.”

  Before the week was out, mother and daughter worked side-by-side at the end of the drive, covering the mailbox with a concrete box and a locking door. The girl was certain they’d never get mail again. “But how will the mailman get the mail in if it’s locked.”

  “I’ll take a key to Fran in Fairbury.”

  “Do I have to go?”

  The mother paused, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I don’t think so. You did well last time, but no fishing either. Just stay on the ground and near the house. If it can hurt you, don’t do it. Not while I’m not here to help.”

  “I guess I could play with my fairies…”

  “Make them a Christmas tree. It’ll be here before you know it.”

  “It’s months away!”

  “Even so,” the mother said. “There. That oughtta hold off delinquents.”

  “What’s a delinquent?”

  “A person who needs regular doses of a specific vitamin.”

  They were halfway back to the house before the girl asked the question that had to be asked. “What vitamin, Mother?”

  “Vitamin?”

  “Are the delinquents deficient in? What vitamin?”

  “Matthew 7:12.”

  “That’s a Bible verse—the golden rule.”

  “My mother used to call that verse the golden vitamin—sure to cure whatever ails bad behavior.”

  Two letters and a new catalog from Hancock’s of Paducah—it was a good day. The name on the return address of one of the letters made her heart race and she hurried home to read it. The other letter looked like a bill of some sort.

  Seated on the couch, with the light streaming in from the window, Willow opened the letter from David and Carol Finley.

  Dear Willow,

  As Thanksgiving nears, I find myself thinking of you all alone in that large house and wondering how you are doing. Do you have Thanksgiving traditions or plans? How did Kari celebrate holidays with you, and now that she isn’t with you, what will you do?

  These are thoughts that fill my mind as I make shopping lists. I smiled when I wrote down marshmallow crème. Oh, how your mother hated sweet potato casserole. I’ll buy a yam and bake it for her. I always do. I’ve done that for twenty-four Thanksgivings now. No one eats it; they don’t like it. I just can’t bring myself not to bake it for her, and this year, I guess I’ll bake it for you, because now there’s no hope that she’ll ever walk through that door and tell us the nightmare is over.

  How I want to invite you to spend a few days with us, and yet your grandfather and I aren’t ready for it. I hope you can understand that. We steeled our hearts to the pain of losing Kari, and some of that steel bars us from you, but we want to unlock those doors. We just don’t know how yet.

  We saw your interview in the newspaper. I was surprised at how freely you discussed the circumstances of your birth and Kari’s disappearance. It has opened a floodgate of questions for us that we weren’t prepared to handle. I don’t say this as a means of reproach but as a request. Please leave us out of anything like that in the future. We don’t care to relive those times, but our media gossip-driven culture doesn’t respect that.

  Do you ever come into the city? Perhaps we could meet at one of those quiet little tea rooms and talk on neutral ground with no pressure. I would like that. I have a granddaughter that I don’t know, and that grieves me.

  You have cousins, you know. Kyle has three children. Jonathan is just a year younger than you—almost twenty-three. Peter is nineteen, and Bethel Anne is fifteen. Your Uncle Kyle and Aunt Sheryl live in Hillsdale where Kyle is a loan manager for the bank. Cheryl is an RN
in the oncology department.

  This letter is already longer than I intended. I find that when I start writing, I have a hard time stopping. Kari used to be that way. I have a shelf of journals and diaries from age six to age twenty and every letter she wrote home from camp. I can’t tell you how much those have comforted me over the years.

  I pray for you, Willow. I hope you know the Lord and how precious you are to Him.

  Grandma

  Tears splashed on the letter before Willow realized she was crying. Again. How tired she was of her unpredictable emotional state! It was a good letter—good and honest. It didn’t offer or expect more of her than was reasonable. After a second reading, she laid it aside. Chad would like to read it.

  The bill she expected to be for her leg. Now and then, a bill for some medical personnel that she couldn’t remember and didn’t care about would arrive, and she forwarded them all to Bill happily. However, this time, it wasn’t a bill. A check fell from the folds of a letter as she opened it. Made out to her in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars, the cashier’s check was signed by Steven J. Solari. She read the letter suspiciously.

  Willow Anne Finley,

  An interesting article came across my desk recently. Upon verification of a few simple facts, I have proven to my satisfaction that you are my granddaughter.

  Had I any idea of your existence all of these years, I would have, of course, contributed financially to your upbringing. While I cannot undo the past, I can try to make up for it by aiding your future. You will find a check enclosed. They claim it costs 150,000-200,000 to raise a child from birth to eighteen, but college adds a significant amount to that, and I have allowed for that as well.

  I know what you must think of my son. You can’t possibly think anything that I already haven’t. He was a severe disappointment to both his mother and me. Now that he is gone, we are alone, growing older every year, and finding it lonely without our son or the children he could have had.