“Lord, I am lonely. Summer wasn’t so bad. Fall was bearable. Winter…” She stuffed down a sob, “I don’t know if I can make it until spring.”
Her knitting needles clicked at speeds she rarely tried to achieve as she worked the final packet and collar of Chad’s birthday sweater. If she worked her fastest, she could get it done and be able to block it overnight. She held the piece up in the light and studied it. The heathered oatmeal merino yarn was perfect. She’d fallen in love with the Aran sweater with an Irish collar years earlier, and rejoiced when she noticed Chad’s birthday on his driver’s license one day.
The quiet seemed oppressive. She tried singing but felt even lonelier than ever as her voice echoed in empty rooms with no harmony accompanying her. Anxious to finish, Willow knitted faster. She dropped stitches, ripped out small sections, and tried again, determined to go to bed as soon as possible.
In bed, a silent house made sense. The stark emptiness around her felt comfortable and normal when cuddled in bed with blankets and pillows around her. During the day, she and her mother had spent so much of their time doing their own things that it wasn’t unusual to be alone during the day. However, from dinner until they parted for bed, she’d had someone to talk to—to read with, and to share her dreams.
“I want my Mother,” she whispered mournfully as she wove the last yarn end into the sweater. “I am tired of being alone.”
Chad arrived at four-thirty with Caleb Allen and burst into the empty kitchen. “She’s not here—”
“Someone is in the barn, I think. What smells so good?”
Under the lid of the Dutch oven, Chad found a roast. “Oh man, roast.”
“She eats well anyway.”
“She eats a lot! She works hard, and in summer puts away twice as much as I do.”
The “men” found Willow in the summer kitchen dipping candles. Chad watched amazed as she dipped the candles in her large pot, into ice water, and back again in the pot. Paper cups lined the counters and rows of tiny tea lights sat cooling in paper-lined trays.
Willow didn’t even turn away from her work as she said, “Sorry, Chad, can you show him what to do? I got a late start today, and now I’m really behind.”
“Only if I’m invited to dinner.”
“Sure. You’re both—”
Caleb grinned but shook his head. “I wish I could, but Mom’s making my favorite casserole. I’ve been bugging her about it for weeks, so I need to be there.”
Chad stood close to the stove and watched as Willow dipped her candles in the tallow, dipped them in the ice bath, and then back to the tallow vat again. “What’s in there?”
“Tallow—beef fat from the cow, beeswax, alum, and some cinnamon oil.”
“Odd, I thought I smelled lavender.” He sniffed the pot. Definitely cinnamon. “Must be your hair,” he thought to himself.
“I am done with the plain and the lavender, but I like cinnamon for December and February.”
Chad caught Caleb giving him a knowing look and shook his head, his eyes demanding, Don’t get ideas, boy. That last thing we need is Fairbury gossip spreading faster than usual. Caleb nodded in apparent agreement.
As he led the boy outside, Chad noticed Willow humming the tune she’d loved so much from his Argosy Junction CD. He glanced back, took in the candles that filled the room, and wondered just how many she’d made that day. How did she manage to get so much done without her mother’s help?
At first, Caleb’s milking left more milk in the animal than in the bucket. Chad stripped one teat and showed the boy how to use enough force without hurting Ditto. Caleb tried again, listening to each instruction, following them all until he felt more confident. “What happens if I don’t get it right? The animal gets sick, doesn’t it?”
“That’s why you’ll do it properly tomorrow. You know there won’t be anyone to pick up the slack. That said,” Chad pulled out his phone and punched a bunch of keys. “—if you have any doubts, if there isn’t close to this much milk, call Luke. He’ll help.”
“Why didn’t you just ask him?” Caleb’s eyes grew wide. “I wasn’t complaining, or anything. I just wondered why risk it with a kid…”
“Because Willow will be more willing to use you than Luke. You’ll let her pay you. She won’t feel like she’s putting you out. Luke is family—”
“I thought she didn’t have family.”
Chad tried again. “He’s my cousin. He’s my family and my parents are doing their best to convince her to become an honorary Tesdall/Sullivan.”
“You could make that official, you know…”
“Don’t even go there.” The warning he tried to interject into his tone sounded more like panic to him. You’ve got to get a grip.
“I’m just sayin’…”
Willow wasn’t in the summer kitchen when they returned to sterilize the buckets, but a pot of water boiled for them. Caleb’s eyes widened. “She’s good.”
“Yep.”
“I gotta go home. Just strain it and put it in the fridge, right?”
“Right. I’ll do it.” Chad pulled his keys from his pocket and twisted Willow’s key from the ring. “Here’s this one. Check the water too, while you’re gone. Make sure the pipes aren’t frozen.”
“And break any ice in the water troughs, right?”
Chad grinned. “You’ve got it. You’ll be great. Thanks.”
As Caleb stepped from the barn, he glanced around him. “This is a nice place—big for one person.”
“Big for two, but it works for them.”
The boy stared at Chad for a moment before he said, “Worked, you mean. It worked for them. Looks to me like it only works if they have help.” Before Chad could reply, he added, “Gotta go before Mom hollers at me.”
Caleb’s words reverberated in his mind, ricocheting off memories that proved the boy’s point. It seemed as if no matter what he said or did, the point always came back to a warped version of the verse in Genesis. It’s not good that Willow should be alone…
“Why don’t you wash up?” she said as he stepped inside the back door. “Dinner’s done.”
He pulled off his jacket, hanging it over hers on the hook. Somehow, he’d never been able to use the hook where Kari’s had once hung. After drying his hands, he took the roast platter from her and nudged her toward the table. “Sit. You look beat.”
“I am. Long day.”
“My mom used to joke about how she slaved over a hot stove all day. You actually did that.” As he spoke, he sliced the meat, putting several on her plate. “Roll?”
“Yeah—” She rose to get them, but he stopped her. “I’ll get it. You’re resting.”
Several times during the meal, Chad had to nudge her hand or her foot, prompting her to eat. As for him, the meat seemed to melt in his mouth, the vegetables were cooked exactly how he liked them—not too done, not too raw. Her mashed potatoes had flakes of skin that should have given them a lumpy texture. He’d never had better potatoes. And the gravy… his eyes closed as he took another bite, savoring the flavors.
The moment she finished eating, Chad sent Willow upstairs. “You take a shower. I’ll take care of the stoves and wash dishes.”
“That seems a bit disproportionate.”
“You just fed me the best meal I’ve probably ever had. I call it even.” He grinned at her as he pushed her from the room. “Go.”
The moment he heard the water come on, he pulled out her loom and the tray of fabric strips, setting them by the couch. Maybe if it were there, she’d sit when she came back downstairs. The stoves, all three of them, came next. By the time he started on the dishes, she’d returned. “I’ll dry.”
“Go sit down.”
She shook her head, snapping his leg with the dishtowel. “We’ll work together. I like having someone to work with at night.”
“I like having someone to work with at night.” Her words pricked his heart. Why did he resist what could be such a good thing? Is it so w
rong that I would like the chance to find a girl, fall in love, and then get married?
She stared at him as if waiting for a response. “What?”
“I asked if you wanted chocolate cake.”
“Later. I’m stuffed.”
Once in the living room, Willow’s eyes widened. “Oh you got it out. Thanks!” She sat on her rug loom and grabbed a handful of pieces. “I dumped my tray yesterday, and now they’re all a mess.”
Without a word, Chad started sorting her colors while Willow chattered freely about her day, the candles, and the pattern of her rug. “I’m so excited. It’ll match the other one. I’ve never been especially fond of that long tree one in my room.”
“Then why did you make it?”
“Well, I thought I’d like it when I made it. It just looked so… not what I wanted when it was done.”
“What will you do with it?” For Chad, the idea that Willow would replace something before she’d worn it out seemed impossible.
“Well, I’ll probably add it to the dead ones in the attic. Mother thought they acted like insulation to help keep the house warmer, so we put our old ones up there. I shouldn’t have done this. It’s really wasteful; the rug is just barely wearing on the edges—”
“I wondered—” It felt rude to ask, but Chad could picture the rug between his couch and the bar that separated his living room from his kitchen. If it looked half as good as he imagined, it’d be great—not too feminine. His family couldn’t complain about the lack of décor with something like that on his floor.
“So, what would a guy have to do to convince you to let him have the rug when you’re done with it?”
Her head snapped up from the frame where her hands deftly worked the wool strips in and out of the backing. “You want it?”
“I think it’d look cool between the couch and my bar—”
“Sure! Take it home tonight.”
Chad shook his head, murmuring something about being patient, but she didn’t seem to hear him. Amused, he listened as she went off on another tangent, sharing plans for replacing the rugs in the library with book quote rugs. “It’ll be forever before those rugs wear out, so I have time to choose my quotes.”
After a few more moments of silence, she sighed contentedly. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to. This week has been especially lonely at night.”
Chad’s throat constricted and his mouth went dry. He’d just been mulling that their relationship was perfect the way it was and he didn’t need to introduce anything as pressure-filled as marriage into the recipe. “Aww, Willow,” he choked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“It wasn’t so bad in summer and fall, but it’s so quiet in here at night. I like the solitude sometimes, but other times it’s just—just—” she paused before whispering, “awful.”
His hand covered hers. “This is exactly why going to Rockland is a good idea.” The word quiet bounced through his mind for a while. “Hey, would audio books be enjoyable?”
“Audio books?”
“Books read aloud and on CD or MP3.” A blank look masked her face. He waited several seconds and tried again. “Would you enjoy listening to books read aloud by others?”
She reached for her Alexa Hartfield novel, but he waved her back. “I’m not reading it. Reading aloud isn’t my thing, but I can take care of too much quiet when you want to work on something.”
She shrugged and grabbed another pile of blue wool from his knee. “It sounds wonderful. I don’t really understand, but if you think it’s a good idea, take my card and go buy it before I go crazy.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Flakes fell around him as Chad rounded the corner. At times like these, his mind escaped to Rockland and imagined cruisers with heaters—stakeouts even. There simply was no appeal to walking a beat along Fairbury’s commercial sidewalks.
Wayne at the Pettler finished shoveling his sidewalk just as Chad passed. “Hey, Chad, mind carrying this around the corner to Michelle over at the Mail Box? I just got a rush order.”
He took the shovel, swung the top over his shoulder, and sauntered down the sidewalk, feeling like an overpaid and glorified errand boy. “Your attitude stinks, Chad,” his conscience accused.
“Another year in limbo,” he mentally retorted. “Morning, Mrs. Costas.”
“Good morning Chad. You’re such a good boy. We’re lucky to have you while we can.”
“While you can?”
Mrs. Costas tucked her scarf in a little more snugly and smiled dolefully at him. “Before Rockland calls you away. We eventually lose all of our nice boys to Rockland. Except Joe. He’s going to stay forever, I think.”
Chad grinned at the older woman, giving her a glimpse of the dimple that few ever saw. “I’m not going anywhere, Mrs. Costas. I’ve decided to stay here with Joe and keep the varmints out of Dodge, er, Fairbury.”
“Well, that is a wonderful thing to hear. I hope you do.”
In front of The Mail Box, snow was packed and slick. A woman carrying a box to be shipped reached the front, sighed as her shoe slipped, and turned around again, muttering, “I give up.”
“Ma’am?”
The woman turned. “Yeah?”
“I’ll help you in and shovel out the front before you’re done.”
As he spoke, Chad chopped at the icy surface of the snow and then shoveled a strip away from the entrance. Opening the door, he set the shovel down and took her package. “Watch your step. I’ve got this; just get in where it’s warm. “Michelle?” he called as he ushered the reluctant customer inside the warm building.”
“Back here. I’ve got your copies and I need to talk to—Oh, hello, Mrs. Klein. Need to ship that?”
Chad set the box on the counter and disappeared out front to finish shoveling the area in front of Michelle’s shop. The merchants on Center Street had complained about her lack of diligence in keeping her section of the street clear, but Chad knew she tried. If he couldn’t spend a minute helping, what kind of man was he?
When he finished, he popped his head in the door and told her she was set for a few days. “If you keep a shovel out there, I can take care of it before or after work.”
“Oh I couldn’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t. I volunteered.” He turned to leave, but she stopped him.
“Do you have a minute? I have your copies.
The sight of the “copies” Michele brought him left him nearly speechless. “What—”
“I couldn’t just run them off in black and white. Not after I read some of them.”
“You read—”
Blushing, Michele tried to explain. “I didn’t mean to—not at first. I ran everything off, went to put the rubber band around them, and dropped everything. I tried to reorganize them, but there were no page numbers, so I had to read to make sentences make sense and then I couldn’t put them down.”
“Kari is like that isn’t she?”
“Kari?” Michelle wondered aloud.
“Willow’s mother. Those are her journals.”
“Oh my,” Michelle began, “I’ve never read anything like it. I wrote a note—” she pulled an envelope from beneath the counter, “—apologizing. I felt terrible once I realized how much of it I read, but that woman’s faith touched me like nothing I’ve read in a long time.”
“So you printed them in color?”
Looking somewhat chagrined, Michelle shook her head. “Not all of them. Just the prettiest and,” she choked, blushing. “—my favorites. Do you think Willow will be upset?”
“No. She’ll probably offer to loan you the rest.”
Michelle took back the letter and opened it. “I sort of suggested that but not quite the way you mean.”
“Huh?”
Grinning, she showed him the letter she’d written to Willow. “Dear Miss Finley,” Chad read to himself.
I need to apologize. After I printed the pages from your mother’s journals, I dropped them everywhere. Norm
ally it wouldn’t have been a big deal, but I had a fan going to dry some things, and it just blew the papers all over my workroom.
They aren’t numbered, so getting them back in order required a little reading at the beginning and end of each page. Once I started, I just couldn’t stop. These are some powerful journals. They moved me, challenged in my faith, and left me hungering to know more about who your mother was and how she lived.
I know that there are sections of these journals that must be incredibly private, but they’re so personably written and illustrated, not to mention inspiring, that I truly believe they would bless many people. Please consider publishing at least a compilation of them. The right printer could make a facsimile copy of the pages you were willing to share if you chose.
Please pray about it, and if you need help, I am here waiting to serve.
Sincerely,
Michelle Ferguson
The Mail Box
“Wow.”
Michelle nodded. “Yep. That’s exactly how I felt when I read them. Wow.”
Willow drew streamers, confetti, and tiny number twenty-sixes all over the butcher paper on her table. Chad watched, sipping his coffee, as she spent at least an hour creating the perfect wrapping paper for a box that didn’t look anything like the display box he’d seen. “Come on, how about twenty questions?”
“Nope,” she answered as she grabbed a metallic gold pen and added occasional swirls across the pale blue paper. It looked festive. “You can wait to find out with the rest of your presents. Your mother warned me that you’d pester me about it.”
He glanced at his watch. Why had bringing Caleb out here at six in the morning seemed like a good idea? “I’m hungry.”
“You’re the one who told me not to cook.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re the one who insisted that I needed an Old MacDonald’s biscuit with eggs and cheese.”
Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 2 Page 18
