Past Forward Volume 1 (36 page)

That she painted fabric at all amused him
but did not surprise him. However, her words did. “You’re going to
cut this?”

“Did you see the mess in the living
room?”

“Couldn’t hardly miss it. It’s an obstacle
course in there.”

Willow stood, washed out her brush in the
sink, and led him to the sea of fabric and pattern pieces all over
the floor. “I needed more fabric. I want to make two, and I can’t,
so I designed some to go with this.”

“Why not just buy more?”

She gave him the look that he had come to
recognize as studied patience. “Well, primarily because this is
fun. But even if it wasn’t, I don’t know where Lee bought the
fabric or how quickly it would get here.”

“Lee gave you odd shaped pieces like
that?”

Laughing, Willow pointed to her dress still
hanging on the dummy. “No, these are the scraps. She actually
bought more than I needed.”

“You
made
that?”

The Finley women were talented. The fact
that she’d made a dress didn’t surprise him at all. He was certain
that the quality of anything Willow created would be excellent, but
he hadn’t been prepared for the kind of details she’d put into the
style of it. A lifetime of living with his sister had taught him
enough to know she’d sacrifice almost any luxury to have a dress
like it.

“Chad, I make nearly everything I wear, or
hadn’t we discussed that enough? I’m pretty sure you’ve asked about
me saving my sewing time up for something or another,” she
teased.

“I—wow. I didn’t know you could make
something like that. Cheri would go crazy for a dress like
that.”

Willow eyed him curiously before returning
to the kitchen. She grabbed her brush, dipped it into a new jar of
paint, and told Chad to make himself comfortable. “What are you
doing here?”

“Like I said, just making sure you didn’t
float away.”

After a swipe or two on the fabric, Willow
stared at the jar of paint. “Can you get me the striped fabric in
there please?”

After comparing colors, she squirted a bit
of pink into the brown and swirled the colors together. Chad
watched, fascinated. Once she was satisfied, she mixed more paint
until it was right again and resumed painting.

“Can I make me a sandwich? I’m starved.”

“Make me one too, will you?”

He knew it. She hadn’t eaten—possibly since
breakfast if that dress was any indication. He splashed through the
puddles to the barn, the puppy yapping at his heels. “She given you
a name yet, girl?”

In the fridge, Chad found leftover ham
and—was it rye bread? “Mmm. That looks good.” As he pulled a jar of
homemade mayonnaise and a pot of mustard from the door, it occurred
to him that in less than two months, seeing things like mayonnaise
in a canning jar and mustard in a mini crock no longer surprised
him. In fact, he rarely noticed anymore. Chad saw bean soup in a
mason jar and grabbed it too. The rain seemed to ask for soup with
sandwiches.

Willow smiled up at him as he rushed in
carrying a steaming pot of soup. He set it on the wood cook stove
and dashed back out into the rain, returning minutes later with a
cast iron skillet covered with a Dutch oven lid. “Man, I don’t know
how those old southern houses managed to get food inside while it
was still hot!”

Willow’s head snapped up and she glanced
around, listening. Ignoring Chad, she dashed into the pantry, raced
through the living room closing windows, before dashing up the
stairs three steps at a time. Chad listened and realized that the
wind had just shifted. The rain now fell from the east leaving the
south windows free of rain.

“Why were all the living room ones
open?”

“The porch protects those so I kept them
open. I love the cool air.”

Chad handed her a bowl of soup and a
sandwich on a plate. “Go sit down and eat, or I’m dumping this on
your fabric.”

“No you won’t.”

He glared at her and took a step toward the
fabric. “That’s what you think.”

“By the time I got done with you, I’d have
to call for that ambulance again,” she said calmly. Too calmly.

A shiver tried to crawl down his spine, but
Chad chased it away. “I’ll set it on your recliner thing.”

“Chaise. I’ll be there as soon as I’m done
with this paisley.”

Just as he stepped into the dining room,
Chad thought of something and turned, trying to catch her eye.
“That’d be a good name for that poor dog of yours.”

Willow stood. At the sight of her
paintbrush, he tried to shuffle into the living room with as much
nonchalance as he could muster. Between bites of food, he heard her
rinsing the brush, moving something around, and the distinct clink
of silverware on a dish. Willow joined him a minute later, carrying
a small platter with two thin slices of birthday cake on it.
Instinctively, Chad knew she’d pulled a piece out of the freezer
for her own dessert and had simply cut it in half to share.

“Thanks. I think I forgot dinner—I remember
thinking about it and then nothing. Maybe lunch too.”

“Maybe?” Chad questioned wryly.

“I can’t imagine forgetting two meals, but I
don’t remember lunch. Maybe I ate watermelon— no, that was still in
the icebox.”

“You have watermelon?”

With a glance at his empty plate and bowl,
Willow took them from him and retreated into the kitchen. Chad
scooted to the edge of his chair and examined the maze of fabric,
pins, and pattern pieces. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he
remembered his Aunt Libby’s living room looking similar every
summer.

A plate of watermelon broke his line of
vision. “Oh, thank you. Did you bring salt?”

“Salt? On watermelon?” Willow stared at
him.

“So I like salt on my melon. Is that
bad?”

She retrieved the salt, curled up on the
chaise with her dinner, and watched Chad, as he salted his melon.
“So what do you think of my combination? Will it look alright?”

“What are you making?”

“I started to make a little girl’s jumper,
but I didn’t know any little girls who would like it. Then I
remembered those little girls at your uncle’s house, but you can’t
give twins just one dress so…”

“So you spent hours hand painting the
perfect fabric in order to use up scraps for little girls you’ve
seen once.”

A cocked eyebrow was her only response.

November 2, 1992-

The alfalfa was a success. It took me a
while, but I finally mastered the swing of the scythe. Willow raked
the cut and dried hay into piles and wheeled each pile into the
barn while I cut new sections. We make a fine team.

I gave her a journal for her birthday and
some colored pens. She has taken to copying quotes from books in
it. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but at least she’s
practicing proper grammar. More free education without actual
instruction. It works.

This is the first winter that I finally feel
prepared for. We have the cow and chickens in the freezer,
vegetables canned and frozen, and the cellar is stocked to
overflowing. I hope I didn’t over-plant potatoes. We just eat so
much more than I ever imagined. This life requires an obscene
amount of food and calories. We work so hard. I think that’s
good.

We’re almost never sick. I can trace nearly
every illness to visits to town. It is tempting to get a phone so
we can have things delivered without that walk, but I suppose we
have the equivalent of a bubble here. Those forays into germ-city
are probably good.

November 18, 1992-

We were in town today. I should have
remembered to see who won the elections. I could have talked about
it with Willow and explained the legislative process. Oh well,
maybe when she’s ten. She’ll be old enough to stay home alone
then.

Alone. What is a good age for that? There is
nothing stamped on a child that says, “Do not leave unattended
until the age of ten.” Is eight too young? Should I be practicing
now? Leave her for a while but take the binoculars and watch to see
that she’s safe? If we had a phone, I could call when I got to town
and keep tabs on her while I was gone.

Ma Ingalls didn’t have that option and she
managed. Then again, Laura had Mary and vice versa. I have to
practice, though. There have been times that Mr. Burke needed me in
Rockland, but I am not taking Willow there. Ever. I hope she never
develops a desire to go.

Desire. Will she desire this life I’ve
created? I need to be prepared for a rejection of it. She’s likely
to be just as fascinated by what I left as I was by what I sought.
Will I continue alone when she is grown and gone?

Will I go crazy watching a man come into her
life? I try not to show my distaste of men in general. I make sure
I speak well of my father and Winston Burke. I must not pass on
this warped view of mine, but how can I stand to trust someone with
her? She’s so sweet and endearing.

I hear her outside. She’s playing with
Bumpkin. She throws the stick down the driveway and hides. Bumpkin
always finds her, of course. He’s a sweet dog, but I must remember
not to get another short-legged howler. Basset hounds aren’t good
for sleep or for guard dog duty. No matter how cute the puppy is,
the answer is no.

The hooking supplies arrived yesterday.
We’ll start on rugs for the house soon. I think it’ll help keep our
floors warmer and our rooms better insulated. I can hope anyway. I
think Willow is old enough to be significantly helpful on this
project as well. She knows when I’m making up things for her to do.
Children aren’t stupid. Why do we always underestimate them?

“I’m hooking a rug this winter too, Mother,”
Willow whispered as she closed the journal. The rain slowed. It had
battered the house from what seemed like every angle but now fell
gently. Softly.

She opened the windows wide. With a large
towel, she dried the front and back doors leaving them opened to
allow the fresh air to breeze through the house. If the rain
stopped soon, she’d be able to let the chickens out for a few hours
before dark.

Sighing, she sat at the sewing machine and
worked the treadle, spinning a new bobbin. She’d be finished soon.
The fabric looked perfect. Just before she’d cut into the fabrics,
the idea to make the jumpers mirror images of each other occurred
to her. She knew little about children, but the idea of easily
discernible clothing appealed to her when she remembered how
exactly alike the girls were.

Jill McIntyre’s large truck sloshed through
the puddles in her drive and parked next to the house. Willow
called for her to enter as she finished a seam. “I’ll be right
there. I’m so glad you could use the veggies. I had no idea the
storm would last this long, or I wouldn’t have picked them.”

“Well, I couldn’t use what I normally take,
but what you described sounds perfect for the store.” Jill surveyed
Willow’s room interestedly. “What are you making?”

“Chad’s cousin knows these twin little
girls. I had some left over fabric from my new dress, so I made
them jumpers.”

“That’s a jumper?” Jill removed the
completed jumper from a hanger and examined it. “So she wears a
shirt under it?”

Willow paused, staring at the hanger for a
moment. “Oh. That’s a good point. I didn’t think about that. They
might not have something to match...”

“
No…well I suppose. I just
wanted to make sure we had the same definition of jumper. I’ve
never seen anything like that. It’s so cute! I bet you could sell
those.”

Willow snipped the final threads of the
second jumper and stood shaking her head. “I doubt it. And even if
I could, I can’t afford that many hours making fabric.”

As they loaded her pick up, Jill quizzed
Willow about the design process and the fabric making comment. In
short, she insisted on a play-by-play of how Willow had made the
jumpers. By the time she left, Willow wasn’t sure if Jill liked,
hated, or was simply amused with Willow’s garments.

After a wave at Jill’s retreating truck,
Willow walked to the chicken coop, dodging the biggest puddles. The
rain slowed and patches of blue dotted the skies, while shafts of
sunlight streamed across the glistening meadows. It was a perfect
Saturday summer evening.

Sunday morning Willow tried to walk to the
highway, but the ground was far too muddy. She considered
attempting to ride the bicycle but cringed at the thought of
sinking the wheels into the mud. “Well Lord, it’s just you and me
again…”

She grabbed her tackle box, the pole, and
two buckets and tied a sandwich and water bottle to her belt. The
pup tried to follow, but Willow shut her in the barn and as a last
minute thought, moved Wilhelmina out into the pen. As she crossed
the meadow, she opened the gate to the cow pen and then made her
way to the stream by the pool. Fish always congregated there after
a good rainstorm.