Cedar Creek Seasons (4 page)

Burritos, or his sister’s stuffed peppers for lunch? Neither would be very kind to his gastrointestinal system, but eating Monday’s chicken soup today would throw his whole week off kilter. He set the peppers on the counter to thaw for supper.

Burritos in hand, he stared at the blank canvas of the refrigerator door. One lone magnet broke the stark whiteness—a souvenir of his sister and brother-in-law’s summer visit to Door County. Charlotte and Harvey traveled three hours north and brought him a lighthouse magnet. Wilson traveled to France and Italy and brought them original works of art. Yet he was the one eternally indebted to their generosity.

He picked up the goldenrod flyer that had come in the morning mail and secured it with the magnet. A spot of needed color.

As he waited for the microwave to call him to lunch, he studied the icicles hanging from the eaves trough, blocking his view of Charlotte and Harvey’s century-old farmhouse. How to capture the light that glistened at the tip of the ice?

The microwave dinged. He carried his plate and glass of milk to the table in the alcove, set them next to his day planner, and slipped into the sweater hanging on the back of the chair. A hug of hand-knit merino wool warmed him. He bowed his head and thanked God for frozen burritos and a sister who gave him magnets, knit sweaters, and a barn.

As he ate, he looked over the next day’s schedule. He had a group lesson at four, a class at seven, and two hours in between to fill with a frozen meal labeled “Wednesday” and C. S. Lewis. Only one white space interrupted tomorrow’s flow of back-to-back classes.

He put his finger on the five-thirty slot he hoped to fill. Would his offer offend Willow? How should he word it? He pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket, found the number he’d added to his contacts list on Sunday … and set the phone down.

“You could have had a serial killer sitting right in your kitchen!”

An unflattering grimace showcased Elsa’s capped teeth. Crystal’s curls bobbed in agreement like a bouncing Slinky toy.

Willow arced her gaze up one side of the eight-foot blacksmith billows mounted on the restaurant wall behind Elsa. “In my kitchen”—her gaze slid down the other side—“Ralphy’s the only cereal killer. This morning he went through three bowls of—”

“Be serious!” Crystal jabbed the air with a half-peeled straw. “Why didn’t you call one of us? We were right there. When the kids told me how you got in the car with a complete stranger, I just—”

“Now he knows you never lock your doors,” Elsa added.

“And he knows the layout of your house.”

“And he knows your
children
.”

“Whoa.” Willow lifted her purse. “Did my children happen to tell you the man wasn’t really a stranger?”

“You knew him?”

“No.” Amid stereo questions, she pulled out a postcard. She set the watercolor picture of Advent Lutheran Church on the table.

Crystal’s brow ridged like a potato chip. “He’s a pastor?”

Their waitress refilled coffee cups then tapped a pink-painted nail on the postcard. “I love his work.”

Elsa flipped the card over. “Wilson Woodhaus.
He’s
your knight in shining armor?”

Crystal giggled. “Did you see him at the Polar Dip? He was wearing a hat with a propeller on top.”

“So he could
fly
to her rescue.”

They giggled in harmony.

“He has a booth at all the festivals. I’ve stopped and talked to him a few times. He’s a nice man. One of those still-waters types.”

Elsa nodded. Neither looked at Willow. “I sat in on one of his lectures once. Fascinating guy. He’s traveled all over the world. He’s nice. And single. And not bad looking.”

“He’s not exactly hunky, but I’d call him handsome.” Crystal aimed her critique at Elsa, not Willow. “Definitely worth pursuing.”

“Definitely. And just the fact that he accepted a supper invitation means he wasn’t repulsed, you know? I mean,
she’s
not bad looking, either. For her age. But a girl would have to know what to talk about to engage a guy like that in conversation.”

“Right. Might take a little studying to develop some common ground, but if the girl were already kind of artsy …”

Of all the times she’d wished she could be a fly on the wall, this really wasn’t one of them.
Hey guys, look! My antennae are still wiggling. I can hear you
. She cleared her throat.

Crystal stopped her monologue. “Did you want to get in on this?”

Willow grabbed the partially naked straw and blew through the end of it, slamming a paper projectile into the freshly waxed space between Crystal’s eyebrows. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“So what do you think a girl would have to do to sustain the interest of a wealthy, witty, world-savvy artist?”

“Well, for starters, for their first dinner together she would fix him something other than Project Chili Number Twenty-Four.”

“Nooo.” Crystal stretched out the
O
on a shocked sigh. “You didn’t. The guy probably has his own gourmet chef and you fed him a chili experiment?”

“I did.” Willow took a slurp of water. “And then, a girl in pursuit of the rich painter probably wouldn’t blurt out her entire life story within two hours of meeting him.”

Gasps echoed off the high stone walls of the converted blacksmith shop. Crystal cringed. Elsa’s eyes protruded like a bullfrog in a breath-holding contest. “How can I say this delicately, sweetie? I’m afraid you—”

“Botched it?”

“Blew it?”

“Messed up big-time?”

Willow stacked the stainless steel saltshaker on top of the pepper. “There was a moment, though, after I told him about getting arrested for literally sleeping on the job, when he said he should take me to Real Chili in Milwaukee sometime.”

“Really?”

Two pairs of eyes lit like coals in a blacksmith’s furnace.

“I think maybe he was saying I should go somewhere and taste what chili’s supposed to taste like.” The salt toppled off the pepper. “This is silly. I have no business entertaining such a crazy thought even for a minute. I have a good life. I’m totally content being single. And forty. And chunky and poor and—”

Her phone rang. She looked down at an unfamiliar number. Probably a sales call. She shut the ringer off. “And dateless and pathetic and …”

Wilson set his phone down without leaving a message. The words he’d rehearsed needed a human voice on the other end. He had to read her tone, to know if she interpreted his suggestion as pity.

Her story had touched him in a way he hadn’t fully processed. She’d gotten teary eyed as she told about the woman who had invited her in, mentored her, and introduced her to Jesus, then died suddenly of a prescription drug reaction. “Raising her kids was the least I could do,” she’d said, as matter-of-factly as if she’d agreed to water the woman’s plants.

He’d never met anyone quite like her. When he worked up the courage to call her again he just might add something to his proposition.

Wilson washed his plate, silverware, and glass and set them in the dish drainer. He turned toward the gold flyer, asking himself if forty-two was too old to start a new life chapter. He smoothed the paper and ran his fingertip under the largest font then pulled the paper out from under the lighthouse magnet. Did he really want to clutter his life with people who weren’t assigned to slots in his day planner? “Should I do this?”

The refrigerator stared blankly and offered not a single word of wisdom.

H
e waited three more days then called again, pacing a sawdust-covered floor while he waited for her to answer.

“Hello?” Willow sounded completely out of breath. Had she run up the stairs to answer the phone, or did she have some kind of problem? Asthma? A heart condition?

“Hello. Willow.” He was supposed to call her Willi-with-an-
I
, but that was silly. His uncle Gus had called him Willy instead of Wilson until he turned thirty. He absolutely hated the name. “This is Wilson Woodhaus.”

“Oh. Hi. Wil … son.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Sorry. Kickboxing.”

His well-honed imagination failed him. He couldn’t make the picture come together in his head. “You’re a kickboxer?”

She laughed. It was a sound he couldn’t quite describe. It made him uncomfortable, as if she knew something he should be privy to, but wasn’t.

“Kickboxing is what Del calls my shipping method. I haul the boxes up from the basement, line them up like a choo-choo train, and shove them to the door with my feet.”

Choo-choo train? “What do you ship?”

“I didn’t tell you? How is it I told you about my homeless days but never got around to what I do for a living?”

“You said you clean houses.”

“I do. But I also make children’s furniture.”

“Really?”

“Really. Not the most feminine job, but I love it.”

Wilson stopped pacing in front of an unframed painting of the not-covered footbridge at Covered Bridge Park. Purple foxglove graced the banks of Cedar Creek. She was a carpenter. He painted flowers. Weird. “I was wondering if you were free tomorrow night at five thirty and if we could—”

“Oh! The UPS guy is here. Can I call you back in just a couple of minutes?”

“Yes. Of course.”

The phone went dead. And so did his nerve.

Willow shivered in the open door as Frank hauled her boxes into his brown truck.

“It’s freezing out here, Ms. Miles.”

“I know. Just w–wanted a l–little fresh air.”
And a whole lot of stalling
. What was she going to say to Wilson Woodhaus? And why was he asking her out after all she’d told him? “How’s your wife, Frank? Is she done with her chemo yet?”

“Yup. Last tests showed the tumor was gone.”

“I’m so happy to hear that. You tell her hello for me.”

“I sure will.” He talked over his shoulder. “She feels like she knows you after all the cards you’ve sent with me.”

“Oh! That reminds me. I made something for her.” Willow ran down the basement stairs and retrieved a box about a foot. She ran back up and handed it to Frank. “It’s a wig stand.”

“Ms. Miles, you are about the most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. Erma will love this.” He handed her a metal clipboard.

She signed the form, said good-bye, and went back inside. Leaning against the door, she hugged her thin blouse to her goose-bumped belly. “You’re acting like a child.”

Saying it out loud didn’t end the polka party in her gut.

Wilson Woodhaus was just a man. A rich, famous, worldly-wise man, but nevertheless, he was still human. And if, after all she’d told him, he was still calling to ask her out, the least she could do was give him a courteous answer. And a chance.

She let her fingers do the walking across the kitchen table to her phone. As she picked it up, the string from a black Mylar balloon drifted across her ear. She looked up at the annoying reminder of yesterday’s milestone and set the phone down.

“This is ridiculous. Fair, fat, and forty people get gallstones, not dates.”

Snagging the black orb hovering over her head, she headed for the basement stairs. There were potty step-ups to be painted and rocking horses waiting for tails. As she passed the fridge, the Polar Bear Dip picture slid out of its frame and sailed to her feet. Elsa and Crystal glared up at her. “Fair, fat, forty, and
afraid
,” they yelled.