Willow's Way

by Sharon Struth

  A lump settled in her throat. After a lifetime of believing none of this existed, she finally held a photo that proved it had. These really were her grandparents. People who might have loved her without reservation, who knew she’d been born since they’d put her in the will, yet never met their granddaughter.

  The photo blurred behind her tears, prompted by frustration and an ache for what could have been. Why did her mother leave here? Why didn’t her grandparents reach out? If they knew they had a granddaughter, why hadn’t they discussed it around Bitton?

  What had gone wrong with this family?

  “Hello? Anybody around?” A man with a deep voice and a British accent called from downstairs. “It’s the groundskeeper.”

  Finally. “Be right down.”

  She tossed the picture on the dresser and hurried downstairs. As soon as her feet hit the landing facing the foyer, she stopped.

  “What are you—” Heat rushed her cheeks. The man with the van she’d met yesterday stood at the door, his lean frame tilted against the doorjamb and his arms crossed. The same amused grin she’d seen yesterday crossed his lips. “Please don’t tell me you’re the groundskeeper.”

  “The one and only. Nice to see you again, Rosebud.”

  She laughed. “My God. How small is this town? Am I going to find out next that we’re related?”

  He stood straight and rubbed the back of his neck while still smiling. “I doubt it. I’d have been told by now.”

  “I’m Willow Armstrong.” She approached him, hand extended. A more suitable greeting then yesterday’s neurotic tirade. “Sorry. When you offered me a lift, I didn’t quite hear your name.”

  He shook her hand, a good handshake, with a touch of tenderness. “Owen Hughes.”

  His dark chocolate eyes locked on hers. Kind eyes. How had she missed this? “A lifetime of living in Manhattan has left me streetwise but perhaps overly suspicious.”

  “No worries. I’m sure you were knackered from the flight.”

  “I was. I mean, if knackered means tired.”

  He chuckled. “It does.”

  “You were very kind to twice offer me a ride.”

  “When I bumped into you yesterday, had you just left the house?”

  She nodded. “On my way to the Clemmen’s B and B. My plan was to stay here, but this house isn’t fit to live in.”

  “I imagine not.”

  His gaze trickled from her face all the way down to her clean white sneakers, the perusal making her breath shorten. A man hadn’t looked at her this closely in a long time, although she hated when they did. Especially now, with the added poundage.

  Just then, Owen’s kind eyes met hers and his lips softened into a smile. “I think you met my daughter yesterday.”

  “Oh yes. Jilly said her dad worked as the groundskeeper.” Willow looked away from him for the few seconds she needed to push away his intense scrutiny. She lifted her chin and smiled. “Yes, we had a nice chat. She’s adorable. Seems very grown-up for such a little girl.”

  “As her dad, I’d have to agree on the adorable. And on the other, there are times I’d swear she’s already a teenager. It’s a world where kids grow up too fast.” The shine in his gaze spoke to his love for her, but then his expression went neutral. “It’s been a long time since anybody has shown an interest in what goes on with this house.” His voice, for the first time, carried an edge. “You’re thinking of selling the place?”

  “Not thinking. I absolutely will.” She lifted her brows and nodded her head, just so he’d understand she took her goals seriously. “But right now, it has no power.”

  “Yes, your message said.”

  “And the water is brown. On top of that, all my grandparents’ things need to be moved out. Plus whatever else I find along the way. Did you know my grandparents? I mean, being the caretaker and all.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m from town, but we hadn’t met. I took over this job for…well, Jilly’s mother, my ex. She’d done this job before she passed away.” He said it quietly and offered nothing else about the circumstances for such a young woman to have died. “When I came to take care of Jilly, I agreed to take this job, too.”

  “I thought you owned a local travel company.”

  “I do both,” he said quickly. “Anything else I can answer for you about the place?”

  “Before I list with an agent, I’d like to take a look at the cottage. When it’s convenient for you and Jilly, of course.”

  His jaw flexed. “Sure. It’s through those trees. I’m taking a group to Stonehenge soon, but can spare a few minutes to show you outside the place. Our driveway and the one to this house are connected, but it’s an easier walk through a path in the trees.”

  As they left the house and crossed the yard, she said, “How far is Stonehenge from here?”

  “Not far. About an hour.”

  Another selling plus. They walked in silence and started down the worn dirt path where Jilly and Henry had emerged yesterday.

  She glanced his way, studying him in more detail. He’d shoved his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants and his white oxford shirt opened to expose his Adam’s apple. The shirtsleeves on the slightly wrinkled shirt were folded to his elbow and the ends of his hair curled at the shirt’s collar in back. He seemed to be in deep thought and, for some reason, his silence bothered her. Maybe because he’d been so lively on the train.

  “Would you need a hand with the house cleanup?” He finally looked her way and lifted his thick, dark brows.

  “I might.”

  “Let me know.” He pointed ahead. “Here we are.”

  Quaint and cozy summed up the white stucco structure. Henry peered out a window, howling at them.

  Owen chuckled. “I heard you met Henry yesterday, too.”

  “I did. He’s a real character.” Her gaze drifted away from the dog to the roofline over the window. A straw roof?

  “Well?” He motioned with his hand and stared at the place with pride. “What do you think?”

  “It’s cute. Kind of old.”

  He raised a brow. “There are a lot of old things in England. This was the original house built back in the mid-eighteen hundreds. Years later, someone bought the property and built the larger house.”

  “Eighteen-hundreds? I’m shocked they didn’t modernize this place. I mean that roof…” She shook her head. “Very old.”

  “What do mean?”

  “It’s straw. One huff from the big bad wolf and it’s a goner.”

  He laughed. “That’s very funny.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m not trying to be funny. From a resale standpoint, I’d imagine it’s not a plus.”

  “From a resale point, it’s classic. That there is a thatched roof, one of the historical treasures found in this part of England. One of the reasons people visit the Cotswolds.”

  She studied it again with a critical eye. “Still, the heating bills with that type of roofing must be enormous. A more modern roof material would surely save money.”

  He snorted a laugh. “You Yanks. Always want to pave paradise and put up a parking lot. Listen, Rosebud, thatching is one of the oldest-surviving building crafts and England’s most common roof covering until the end of the nineteenth century. These roofs are extremely thermally efficient—warm in winter and cool in summer. Better than conventional materials.”

  “What about fire? Couldn’t straw catch on fire easily?”

  He shook his head with confidence. “Homes with thatched roofs are no more likely to catch fire than those with conventional roofs. Didn’t you read up on the Cotswolds at all before coming here?”

  “Only a little. My goals were just to get to my grandparents’ house, fix it up, then sell it.”

  He stared at the house then he turned to her. “I think one of my tours is
in order. Tourists come here from all over the world and you should find out why before you get rid of this lovely property.”

  “Oh, I’m set on selling it.” She debated on telling him why, but then decided against it. Nobody here knew anything about the mess she’d left behind in the States. Keeping it quiet meant freedom from questions and judgment. “This trip is business, not pleasure. Now back to that roof, would you say it’s in good condition?”

  “It’s seen better days.”

  “Do you know someone who could give me a professional assessment of the roof?”

  He pursed his lips. “I do.”

  “Could you pass along their name and number?”

  “I’ll give them a call for you.” He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, and turned to the woods. “I need to get going.”

  “Sure.” She followed him. “Thanks for showing me the place.”

  He nodded. They walked back, Owen quiet and staring straight ahead. She searched through their conversation, worried she may have offended him again. Then it hit her why he’d acted so uncomfortable at times: she was selling the place where he and his daughter lived.

  “My goal is to sell both the big house and cottage, but if you’d like to buy the cottage in order to stay here, I can talk to the lawyer.”

  He stopped. “Me? Buy it?”

  “Yes. So you don’t have to move.”

  He shook his head and started to walk at a fast pace. “Buying a place isn’t in my plans at the moment.”

  She hurried to catch up with him. “Go ahead. Make me an offer I can’t refuse.” She smiled when he glanced her way. “I need to sell as fast as I can, so I’m open to a good offer.”

  He slowed down, and she hoped the intense look on his face meant he was giving her offer due consideration.

  As they neared his van, he stopped and faced her. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m not interested. I’ll call the power company and someone about that roof.” He shifted, glanced down for a split second. “You know, the offer stands for a tour if you’d like. It’s on the house since we’re neighbors. All I’d ask is maybe a review online if you like it.”

  She couldn’t figure out why he’d offered the tour, but she felt bad refusing, especially after how she’d turned down rides from him. Twice. “You know, a tour sounds like fun.”

  He lifted his brows, almost surprised to finally get a yes. “Good. And if you want a hand inside, I can swing by when I have time.”

  “Sure. I could use a hand with some heavier things. I appreciate the offer.”

  “Happy to do it. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  Willow returned to the house, happy to get this project fully underway. She’d consider her budget for repairs before she went any further. And maybe if she made progress by the end of the week, she’d actually take him up on the tour offer.

  * * * *

  Owen exceeded the speed limit hoping to reach his Stonehenge–Avebury tour group meeting at the Royal Hotel on time.

  As he followed the road that ran along the River Avon, even the radio blasting a new Ed Sheeran song he liked couldn’t stop him from thinking about Willow’s assessment of the straw roof. Maybe some Americans didn’t appreciate the history found in such landmarks. Most structures in the States weren’t nearly as old as those in the UK.

  He turned onto Upper Bristol Road and flew past the large residential houses made of limestone. He chuckled, remembering what she’d asked about the cottage roof. If Dad had heard her talk about replacing it, his lecture would’ve been longer then Owen’s. Although Dad relished any excuse to offer a lecture.

  Strange she’d go right to selling the place. A wealthy woman like her didn’t need money.

  If he’d been willed a house in a foreign country, he’d first learn about the area, not rush to sell. Money wasn’t everything. Okay, maybe not entirely true. He could sure use a little more these days.

  Willow, though, seemed determined to sell her property. Fast.

  The entire time he’d been with her, he kept trying to find a subtle way to put his half-thought-out plan to work. A free tour for a review. Hell, what a witless offer.

  His call moments ago to the power company showed they were busy, estimating the repair crew might be out in a few days. He hoped so. Any delay might keep Willow here long enough to allow him to help her fall in love with England. Fall in love with the Cotswolds. And maybe, if luck was on his side, she’d decide not to sell and his problem would be solved.

  He turned down a side street to detour from the busier tourist areas and finally arrived at the Royal Hotel in Bath, only one minute past the time he’d been scheduled to get here.

  He’d never considered himself manipulative, but right now, with Willow, what choice did he have? The idea he could get her to love the Cotswolds might be a long shot, but he’d do anything for his daughter’s happiness and to stay in this cottage for a little longer.

  Anything. Except beg her not to sell for his daughter’s sake. She was fully entitled to sell her property, but if she decided on her own to stay, well, that was a different story.

  Chapter 7

  From her seat on the living room sofa, Willow popped the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth. She debated what to pack next. Her grandparents sure had collected a lot of stuff. Stationed over by the bay window, a walnut étagère filled with decorative knickknacks was next on her list.

  She stood and tossed the wrapper in a black trash bag on the floor, filled with books, newspapers and other items in no condition to keep. On her way to the étagère, there was a knock at the door.

  Peeking out the window, she spotted a white van with lettering that said Western Power Distribution. Owen had left only a few hours ago, but to get such a quick response must mean he possessed some real pull around town.

  She opened the door to find a youngish man with a beard, wearing a fluorescent work jacket over black pants and a shirt. “Hello.”

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. Are you the home owner?”

  “I am.”

  “I just received a work order to restore power at this address.” Another man got out of the truck and headed for the door. “We were in the area and figured we’d take a look.”

  “Wonderful. It’s been shut off for some time.”

  “That’s what our records show. We’ll need to inspect the wiring before we do anything. Old houses, they can have all kinds of issues.” He looked around the foyer and reached out and touched a crack on the foyer wall. “Age catches up with wire and things should be checked to avoid possible fires.” His coworker came up behind him and nodded. “Do you mind if we come in, take a look around?”

  “Please. Just go where you need to.”

  He tipped his white hard hat and went off.

  Rewiring a house would cost a fortune. Willow figured she’d need to invest some money in this place, but she’d hoped for as little as possible. Electricians weren’t cheap. Besides electricity and the brown water, what other problems might be lurking?

  She took her phone from her purse and Googled problems with old homes. Hazardous materials, termites, plumbing, foundation or structural problems… Her angst escalated.

  She exited the article. This old house might need more work than she could afford or have time to complete. In her desperation for money, maybe she’d been hasty jetting off to England and should’ve taken time to evaluate potential costs to ready for sale. Or had the lawyers hire someone to do exactly what she’d flown here to do.

  She sighed. Coming here had been a haphazard idea. Since she was here, though, the only choice was to move forward.

  After assembling a cardboard box, she went to the étagère and devoted her attention to packing. She lifted a figurine of a woman in a billowy skirt, far too pretty to get rid of or even give away. Underneath, Royal Doulton - Buttercup had been imprinted on t
he base.

  Had her grandmother handpicked this or was it a gift? After going through all the figurines and thinking about her grandmother with each one, she kept only a few as keepsakes of her grandmother’s collection.

  On the next shelf were more family photos, the largest an oval photograph of her grandparents framed in silver antique. Derrick’s hair had thinned and Sarah’s face showed wrinkle lines near her eyes and mouth. The couple smiled, but not with the same joy found in earlier snapshots.

  Willow opened the back latch, removed the photo, and flipped it over. In lovely script, someone had written Sarah and Derrick, 1975. Seventy-five. Willow had been born in seventy-six, conceived and born in the US. Her mother’s leaving could explain their sad smiles.

  She added it to the pile of things she planned to take back to New York. All she had left to connect her to the one set of blood relatives she knew about.

  Melancholy rushed her like a sudden fog. Since finding the will, she’d learned more about her family’s past than in her whole thirty-nine years, but it left her thinking about all the moments she’d missed out on.

  She lowered herself to the floor, concentrating on the next shelf to ease the pain. It held several crosses and angel figurines, speaking to the deep faith she guessed they had after what Edna had shared about them. When she finished wrapping the last one, she went to the bottom shelf holding an assortment of small porcelain dogs. A stubby-legged, curly-haired one reminded her of Henry and she laughed.

  Gathering all the dogs, she carefully wrapped them in paper and put them aside for Jilly.

  “Ma’am?”

  She rose, dusted off her jeans, and went over to the workman and his coworker. “Any chance all you have to do is flip a switch?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid you have some wiring issues. We can’t restore power until you get an electrician out here to do some work. Once that’s done and approved, we can make arrangements to get you up and running.”