Willow's Way

by Sharon Struth

  The cab slowed as they entered a busier area. Light beige-and-white brick buildings, with flat fronts and small windows, lined the street, a restaurant, corner market, and a few pedestrians on the sidewalks.

  “Are we close to the house?”

  “Just down the road.”

  They drove straight, rounding a couple of traffic circles that made crossing Fifth Avenue at rush hour seem like a stroll in the park. The car slowed and turned into a private driveway, stopping at a fork on the property.

  The driver studied his GPS. “I think we want to go left.” He motioned to a dirt road. “What do you think?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never been here before. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  He started down the isolated road, with trees lining both sides. Sleeping alone in this place could be a little creepy. Living in a big city, Willow never felt unsafe. Neighbors were close by.

  A clearing appeared up ahead. The dirt road ended, and a paved brick driveway began.

  “Ah, there it is!” the driver exclaimed.

  Willow ducked her head to see out the front window. Straight ahead stood a sizeable house, bigger than she’d expected. The cab pulled in front of it and stopped.

  A paper from the London attorney called the place a Victorian, but the structure looked nothing like those of the same name in the States. The multistoried home exterior, made of rough-finished stones, welcomed with a pretty front porch. Creamy beige wood trim outlined the porch and second-level dormered windows.

  Willow fished the key from her purse. “Can you wait while I make sure I can unlock the place?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The driver reached over and released the trunk, getting out as she did.

  Willow approached the wide steps leading onto the porch. Weeds popped up from the driveway stones, pointing to years of neglect. The lawyer had said a caretaker kept an eye on the property in case of emergencies and made sure to pay the taxes, but nothing else.

  Her heart raced. Family of hers once lived here. Willow squeezed the old key in her palm and approached the solid, dark-wood door. Holding her breath, she worked the key into the lock and it clicked open.

  “Miss? Here’s your bag.”

  She turned to find the driver at the base of the porch. She squared away the fare. As the cab drove away, the loneliness washing over her at the train station returned.

  Drawing in a breath, she imagined her mother at her side. Here we are, Willow. The home where I was raised.

  Willow swallowed the lump in her throat, took the luggage handle, and hoisted it up the steps. A low howl of a dog, followed by rustling from the nearby woods, made her pause.

  She turned to the sound, laughing as a short-legged, shaggy dog approached, its long tail raised high in the air, wagging like a flag of surrender. The cute canine bellowed another generous howl and came toward Willow; she swore it wore a smile—if a dog could.

  Willow stepped off the porch. “Hello there, little fella.” She crouched down and extended her hand. “Come here.”

  Woooowooowoooo. This time he offered a softer, less frantic cooing that warmed and welcomed. He swarmed her calves while she ran a hand along his thick, wiry fur, trying to figure out the breed. A body like a basset hound, with the same white, black, and tan coloring, yet his thick, wiry hair was very un-bassett-like.

  She touched his long, silky ears. “You’re a cute little guy.”

  With that he rested his short, thick legs on her knees, giving her the once-over, too.

  Long snout. Pronounced black nose. Smiling dark brown eyes peeked out beneath a mop of hair atop his crown-shaped head. A real cutie. He licked her cheek.

  “Are you lost or just part of the welcome wagon?” He licked her again. “Then part of the welcome wagon it is.”

  She checked his collar for ID. A metal tag read Henry and listed a phone number.

  “Well, Henry, why don’t I call your—”

  “Henry!” A child yelled. “Henry!”

  The voice came from the direction of the same thick trees where the dog had exited.

  “He’s over here,” Willow hollered back and a moment later a young girl of maybe five or six dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt emerged.

  She marched over. “Oh, Henry.” She shook her head and her fawn-colored pigtails danced. “You are not always a good listener.”

  The dog abandoned Willow. As he rushed to meet the girl, his back end swayed to one side, as if it couldn’t keep up with his front half. He ran right into the young girl, but she braced herself from falling and leaned over to give him an affectionate pat on the back.

  “Henry! You can be such a bad boy.”

  Henry licked her cheek, making the girl giggle. Willow couldn’t wipe the smile from her face if she tried. Besides the young girl’s contagious laugh, her accented voice and reprimand sounded so grown compared to American children.

  Willow walked toward them. “What kind of dog is he?”

  “Oh, he’s a petite.”

  “I’ve never heard of those.” Willow squatted down and ran her hand along his low, long body. “Just a petite?”

  “No. A Petite Basset Griffon Vendéen.” She pronounced the words with a beginner’s French accent.

  “That’s a mouthful. Well, I’ve definitely never heard of that either.”

  “That’s why we call him a petite, or sometimes a PBGV.” She cupped the dog’s snout in her hands and kissed the top of his head. “My mum used to breed them.” She frowned. “Now we only have Henry.”

  “Oh, so she doesn’t breed them anymore?”

  She quieted and stroked the dog’s long ears. “My mum passed away. But my daddy let me keep Henry.”

  Sadness tore at Willow’s chest. To hear that such a young child had suffered the loss of a parent didn’t seem right. “I’m sorry about your mother. I lost mine, too. It’s hard.”

  The little girl played with the dog for a bit then glanced up at Willow. “You’re American?”

  “Yes. I just arrived in the country. Do you live near here?”

  “Through those trees. Are you the lady who owns this house?”

  She nodded. “I’m Willow. What’s your name?”

  “Jillian. But everyone calls me Jilly.” She scrunched her nose, the bridge of it dotted with freckles. “Willow is a funny name.”

  “It’s definitely unusual.” Kids were always so straightforward, a quality she possessed herself that was not always admired by other adults. “My mother told me Willow meant slender and graceful.”

  In her chubby childhood years and adolescence, Willow had wished she could change her name to anything else. Not once in her life had she felt slender and graceful.

  “Really?” Jilly’s eyes went wide.

  “Oh yes.” Willow lifted her arms over her head, joining her fingertips together then sticking out her leg with the toe pointed. “Graceful like a ballerina. See?”

  Her reward came when Jilly’s chestnut-brown eyes brightened and she nodded. “Oh yes, you look just like one.”

  “Why, thank you so much.” Willow took a bow, accepting a compliment far from the truth.

  “My daddy helps take care of your house.” Jilly picked up a stick and threw it. The dog bolted off in pursuit. “It used to be my mum.”

  The lawyer had given Willow the name O. Hughes with a phone number. “And where do you live again?”

  Jilly pointed to the trees as the dog returned and dropped the stick near her navy-blue sneakers. “In the cottage over there. Me and my father.”

  When she’d picked up the key, the lawyer had briefly mentioned a cottage on her land, saying it hadn’t been included in the home’s original estimate. An unexpected cha-ching on her cash register.

  A woman in the distance yelled, “Jilly! Come home now.”

  The chil
d picked up the stick. “I have to go now. Come, Henry!”

  She waved the stick and took off for the trees, with Henry galloping at her heels and baying his cry of reveille.

  Willow soaked in the joy of watching them, the feeling swiftly replaced by unexpected regret. When she and Richard hadn’t been able to have children, he’d refused to adopt. She’d never know if that might have helped root their marriage.

  As the dog and child disappeared through the trees, Willow turned to the house. A tremor of excitement rumbled in her chest as she made her way to the front door.

  * * * *

  “What do you mean Billy called in sick? Again?” Owen Hughes stood in the reception area and stared at Margo.

  “Billy has a bug.” Owen’s feisty office administrator glared back at him and spoke with a stern tone, which he accepted because, as his mum’s friend, Margo had known Owen since he wore diapers. “Can’t have him getting the customers sick, can we?”

  “No. Of course not.” He’d taken his anxiousness out on the wrong person. “It’s the last thing I needed today. I’m tired. Left the house at sunrise to get into London for a nine o’clock meeting.”

  “How’d it go?”

  He sat on a metal office chair near Margo’s desk and crossed his ankle on his knee. “We have a new hotel client who’ll send tours our way.”

  “Fantastic.” Margo threw up her hands, more glee than Owen could muster at the moment. “Wanderlust Excursions Cotswolds Tours is starting to come into its own.”

  “It is.” So why didn’t he feel great? “Appears as if I’m the only one left to take over Billy’s tour today. I hope Bea can keep Jilly longer. This single parenthood thing isn’t easy some days.”

  Margo leaned forward and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I already called Bea. She said of course. I told her you’d be heading home from the tour after five.”

  “You’re the best, Margo. Sorry if I’m a bit ruffled. I got an email while at my appointment. Seems I may get kicked out of the cottage soon.”

  “Kicked out? Why?”

  “The owner showed up. Can you believe it? After all these years. The lawyer says they want to sell the place fast as possible.”

  “Suddenly it’s an emergency.” Margo’s thin eyebrows arched. “When the owner died and Tracey moved into the cottage... Well, it must be over ten years ago.”

  The mere mention of his ex-wife stirred up sadness. They had married because Tracey got pregnant with Jilly—the marriage lasting a mere six months—but he’d always cared about her. Her unexpected death last year had shocked the whole town. Only those close to Tracey understood the depth of her depression.

  “Why the rush to sell?” Margo asked.

  “I don’t know, but they did say the owner is American. I’m worried about telling Jilly the news.”

  Jilly’s tears in the months following Tracey’s death had nearly ripped Owen apart, most notably when he’d told her they might have to move. But Daddy, how will Mommy know where to find me? she’d asked over and over. How did he talk to a child about suicide? About death? God knows he tried. The child psychologist didn’t seem to help. But a great gift from a guardian angel had come when the lawyer for the house asked if Owen would assume Tracey’s role as caretaker. He’d grabbed the chance to give his baby girl one less thing to worry about.

  “Perhaps the new owner will let you stay if you explain your situation.” Margo’s optimism never failed her, a trait he normally found uplifting.

  He shook his head. “They have every right to sell.”

  “Come on, Owen. You could try.”

  “And say what? Please don’t sell your property. I used all my savings to buy into a Wanderlust Excursion franchise here in Southern England and need a cheap place to live. Oh, and my daughter will be upset if we move because she’s worried her dead mother won’t know where she’s gone.” Tightness tugged at his chest. “Good grief, Margo, they’d laugh in my face. Even if they offered to sell me the cottage, I don’t have a dime to buy a place right now.”

  Money. It controlled everything. Owen could almost hear his father crow over Owen’s choice to invest in the tour business when he learned the latest news. Owen barely had one foot back in Bitton to care for Jilly when Dad had pushed him about joining the family roof-thatching business. How many times did he have to say no?

  “Yoohoo. Earth to Owen.”

  He looked up at Margo. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I said you don’t know what the owner will do unless you give asking a try.”

  “I can’t. It sounds like a soap opera and nobody’s problem but mine.”

  The bigger obstacle would be finding a cheap rental that allowed for a dog. Not all places accepted animals and Henry—with all his quirks—was Jilly’s guardian angel.

  He smiled to ease the worried expression on Margo’s face. “So tell me the details on Billy’s tour.”

  “A group of librarians, here for the Jane Austen Festival. They want the half-day tour.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Just enough time for me to grab lunch then head over to the meeting point.”

  He made a quick call to Bea, wolfed down a burger at a place down the street from his Bath office, and then picked up his customers.

  As he drove the group of eighteen to their first stop, he methodically pointed out landmarks and tried to sound enthusiastic. Never a struggle when he’d worked as a tour director for Wanderlust’s other European destinations, far from Bitton. In those places, he didn’t have to deal with his father.

  He slowed the van as they neared the car park on Bratton Road.

  “We’re going to stop so you can see the Westbury White Horse.” He motioned to a distant hillside. “When you exit the van, take a look that way and you’ll see the symbol for the town of Westbury. A salt engraving of a horse that stands at one hundred eighty by one hundred seventy feet.”

  As the passengers exited, he heard the usual ooo’s and aah’s. When had his passion for the sights of the Cotswolds fizzled out? All he knew was he hated being back home, the sacrifice made only for his daughter’s well-being.

  While he stood with the tour group talking about the salt horse, a thatcher service truck flew by on the road. An idea tumbled toward him, although it stung a bit, like salt on an open wound. What if he worked part-time for his dad? He’d sworn he never would. But the extra money could help his finances, at least until the tour franchise made better profits. Yeah, it could work, but at what cost to his happiness?

  Chapter 4

  Willow pushed and the front door opened with a foreboding creak, like every horror movie she’d ever seen. She laughed off the omen and entered, inhaling a dank, musty scent. The scent of neglect and passing time.

  In her imagination, arriving at her grandparents’ house conjured images of a greeting filled with the sweet scent of cookies baking and a toasty fire in the fireplace. The stale air and dimly lit foyer weren’t even close. She released her luggage handle, aware of a gentle throb in her hand from her tight grip.

  She owned this house now. She’d make it homey, so prospective buyers didn’t run out the door screaming.

  Light would help. Tipping her head back, she studied a brass fixture hanging from the ceiling with scarlet shades shaped like tulips. On the cracked plaster wall to her right, she found a switch, but when she flipped up nothing happened.

  Stepping in further, she peeked through a doorway opening to her left. The living room. Dim, just like the entryway, due to tightly drawn shades on a tall bay window. Sheets covered several objects. Judging from the size, she guessed furniture.

  A creak came from above. Or was it below? She stilled.

  “Hello?” Her voice reverberated against the walls. Nobody answered.

  A quiver traveled her spine. Forget imaginary monsters or ghosts. All kinds of critters could
be roaming in a vacant house, especially one in the country. Why hadn’t she thought about that before?

  According to the lawyer, the caretaker’s limited responsibilities included watching the property and hiring seasonal maintenance for outside of the house, not upholding the interior.

  She drew in a deep breath. Old houses made noises. Get over it, Willow.

  Turning into the dark living room, she navigated piles of newspaper and boxes to reach the bay window. She tugged a corner shade and let go. It snapped up to the window top like a speeding bullet, letting out a loud bang as it hit the top. Willow’s terrified heart jumped straight into her throat and a cloud of dust tickled her nose. She opened the remaining shades with more care, and once opened they offered ample light to get a better look at things.

  Beneath the sheets she found a formal gold sofa, several floral straight-backed chairs, tables with Queen Anne–styled legs, and various models of brass and ceramic lamps.

  All the lamps were unplugged, but she found one with a bulb and plugged it into the wall socket. Nope. After trying two more lamps, she concluded the power didn’t work.

  She returned to her backpack and removed a pad from inside, writing down electric. Organization mattered if you had a goal. Even a weight-loss goal, she’d learned with her first big weight-loss success, which was the kind of thinking that helped her start her company.

  Crossing the foyer, she entered the dining room and walked past a large, sheet-covered table with chairs and a brass chandelier, dripping with noticeable cobwebs.

  She walked into the kitchen. After opening the dusty curtains over the sink, she turned the faucet. Cold, brown liquid sputtered from the spout. Letting it run for a minute with no noticeable change, she figured she’d found problem number two and would add contacting a plumber and cleaning supplies to her list. A dirty, dull, gold-patterned vinyl floor showed signs of wear, and curled away from the wall in one corner, not far from a rusted gas stove. Across the room sat a boxy refrigerator. She walked over and opened it, gagging as the stench from a few items left behind assaulted her senses. She slammed the door shut and hurried from the room.