Cedar Creek Seasons (5 page)

“I am not.” She lifted her chin. Both of them. And marched back to the phone.

One date. She didn’t want to offend him. After all, he might be the key to Star’s future. “I can do this. I can be scintillating for one date.” It probably wouldn’t go anywhere anyway. What did it matter if she exhausted her entire repertoire of social brilliance in one evening? He’d move on after one night. He probably had women tucked away in Mediterranean villas and artsy East Coast brownstones. That would explain the never-been-married part. She pushed the little green icon next to his name.

“Hello,” he said. “Willow?”

“Hi. Sorry to be rude like that.” She stared at her reflection in the microwave and fluffed her hair. “What was it you wanted to ask?”

“Yes, well. I hope you don’t consider me impertinent.”

Honey, at forty impertinent might be a compliment
. She plucked a stray eyebrow hair and waited.

“Something you said the other day got me thinking, and I was wondering if maybe the two of us could talk about an arrangement that would be mutually beneficial.”

An arrangement?

“My house isn’t large, but there are times when it’s just a bit too much for me to handle alone.”

It sounded like dialogue from a prairie romance. Only it was usually a father left with a passel of kids who offered the woman a roof over her head in exchange for raising his kids, running his house, and warming his bed. The back of her neck prickled. She opened her mouth but didn’t know what should come out of it.

“And I’m sure with all those kids you could use a little extra help.”

Prickles turned to the feel of fiberglass insulation against her skin. The man’s audacity was triggering the mother of all hot flashes. In four strides she reached the front door and opened it wide.

“So I thought maybe we could barter.”

Barter. The word had a few meanings. Trade. Swap. Negotiate. What was the man saying? His house was small, but he’d help her raise her kids if … if
what?
“Mr. Woodhaus”—
Wilson
was way too personal—“I’m afraid I’m not interested in that kind of arrangement.”

Silence. A sigh. “I didn’t mean to offend you. When you mentioned you cleaned houses, I just thought maybe it would help us both if you came and cleaned for me in exchange for—”

As her finger zeroed in on the red button, she heard him say “art lessons.”

Willow sat in the van and stared at the old stone barn. Snow dusted the red roof and gathered in the crevices between the round fieldstones. Ancient trees surrounded the building. An artist’s haven. She pictured the interior. Scandinavian, maybe. She’d once met a woman in Door County who’d turned the farm her father had built into an artists’ retreat, complete with a round fireplace room at the base of the silo. She could envision one huge, airy, vault-ceilinged loft space, filled with paintings and sculptures from all over the world, all lit with multifaceted LED lights hanging from invisible cords. On one end would be an efficient but lush studio apartment. If his car was any indication, it would be ripe with color. Wilson wasn’t home and she couldn’t wait to explore his digs.

She turned off the car and the music that had turned her thoughts heavenward. The wipers stopped. Icy beads scudded across the windshield. The wind had picked up and leaden clouds promised more snow. She zipped her jacket to the top, flipped up her hood, and grabbed her cleaning bucket. Head down, she walked up the flight of stone steps leading to a red-painted door. A wrought iron handle creaked as she turned it and stepped in—to a galley kitchen the size of her laundry room.

He’d said his place wasn’t big, but she’d assumed, when he said he owned a barn, that he meant not big compared to the Milwaukee Art Museum or the Louvre. She took in white walls, off-white cupboards, and almond-colored appliances. Efficient, yes. Lush, not so much. She walked toward the next doorway, prepared to gasp.

She did.

The room was about the same size as Del and Ralphy’s. Nice for a bedroom—nowhere near big enough for a living room that doubled as a studio. Paintings took up every available nook, but nothing decorated the walls except a framed Bible verse. The room did have one redeeming feature. A drab, blue curtain hung on the far end, but no window coverings blocked a wall of tall windows framing an art-inspiring view of heavily wooded hilly acres divided by a creek.

Three medium steps took her to a stark neutral-walled bathroom where a person could do one’s business while simultaneously washing hands in the sink and soaking feet in the tub.
Efficient
.

In the bedroom, a high antique bed was pushed against one wall. A carved highboy dresser and a ladder-backed chair left just enough room for one person to walk sideways to the head of the bed. Very cozy. But then, she’d never been claustrophobic. Put Elsa in this room and she’d jump out the window.

And that was that. It would take her all of about twenty-eight minutes for a thorough cleaning. She took off her jacket and rolled up her sleeves as she walked back to the kitchen.

A bold font on a neon gold flyer balancing precariously on a stack of magazines caught her eye.

W
IN
O
NE
Y
EAR’S
F
REE
R
ENT
—
P
RIME
RE
TAIL
L
OCATION

“Sponsored by the shopkeepers of Cedar Creek Settlement.” If anyone needed business space, it was Wilson Woodhaus.

She scanned the fine print. A committee would narrow entries down to four. The winner would be decided by the public. Whoever got the most votes would have a twelve-hundred-square-foot shop rent-free for a year.

Twelve hundred square feet? Cedar Creek Settlement?
Are you kidding?
“Forget him.
I
want this.”

T
he old stone building, webbed with dormant ivy vines, rose before her like a promise.
Your future awaits
, it whispered. The wrought iron arch over Willow’s head proclaimed C
EDAR
C
REEK
W
INERY
. On a snow-blanketed second-story sill, three pudgy earthen crocks huddled beneath a weathered board announcing C
EDAR
C
REEK
P
OTTERY
.

And what will I call my shop?
She opened the right side of the bright blue double doors. “Cedar Creek Children’s Chair Company” had a nice alliterative ring to it. “Five Cs” for short. She’d have to order a new branding iron.

The old plank floor groaned as she walked through the winery and up a half flight of stairs. Elsa’s shop was straight across the hall. The store was void of customers but filled with rack upon rack of clothes from days gone by. Willow fingered a beaded lace collar on a wasp-waist red velvet gown with leg-of-mutton sleeves.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Elsa peered from between two scantily clad mannequins, a corset and a pair of nylon stockings in one hand and a poofy rainbow-colored slip in the other. “Try it on.”

“The red dress with the twelve-inch waist? Sure. I’ll slip right into that little number.”

Elsa stuck two open safety pins in her mouth and garbled, “You don’t have to zip it.”

“I couldn’t get one thigh into that thing.”

Elsa pinned the corset. “The mirror in your head is warped. You know that, don’t you?” She handed Willow the slip made of layers of tulle. “Put this on.”

“I’m not the cancan type. Now, if you have a size forty poodle skirt …”

“Put it on the dummy.”

“I am the dummy.” Willow lifted the cotton-candy mass over the head and shoulders of the svelte but armless giant Barbie. “I agreed to clean Wilson Woodhaus’s house.” On the last word, her mouth filled with pink netting.

“You agreed to what?”

Pressing her lips together to stop the tickle, Willow straightened the elastic waistband on the plastic, hipless mockery of real womanhood. “I’ll explain all that over crepes. How come you didn’t tell me about the shop space contest?”

“I didn’t think of it. You never said you wanted to open a store.” Elsa handed her a stocking and crouched to put the other one on a stiff celluloid leg.

“I never did, but I never saw the words
free
and
rent
used in the same sentence before.”

Elsa nodded toward the glass-sided counter. “Over there.”

Willow hung the stocking on her shoulder and picked up a bright gold flyer like the one on Wilson’s counter. Next to it sat a stack of applications. She scanned the rules. “I have to write an essay? I can’t write an essay.”

“You just have to tell people why your stuff is amazing and why the Settlement needs what you have to offer. Crystal and I can help. It’ll be fun.”

“Where’s the shop space?”

“Upstairs on that end.” Elsa looked up, red-faced from the exertion of straightening a stocking seam, and pointed. “Go look at it. Jan will be here in five minutes and then I can go for lunch.”

The stairs greeted Willow with delightful old-building creaks as she ascended to the third floor. Hand-painted signs on the risers of several steps advertised the upstairs shops. Her logo would fit nicely just above E
YELASH
A
RT
or right below B
ROTHER
J
OHN’S
A
RT
W
ORLD
. “Come to Five Cs, Citizens, for the Comfiest Children’s Chairs and Necessities in Cedar Creek Settlement.” Her hand pivoted on the newel post at the top. Her steps echoed as she walked through another doorway, down the hall, and turned right. Maybe she’d have her own tongue-twister contest after she opened shop. A free potty chair to anyone who could say—
“Wilson?”

Wilson jumped at the sound of his name, dislodging the end of the tape measure he’d wedged into the mopboard. With a slithering whine it recoiled, slicing along the web between his thumb and forefinger. “Flabberdaster!” He flung the metal snail. It clamored across the hardwood floor. His hand whipped to his mouth, and he tasted the rusty tinge of blood.

The woman to blame stood two feet away with hands upturned and mouth agape. “I’m so sorry. Are you bleeding? Here.” She took a flesh-colored snake off her shoulder and reached for his hand. “Wait.” She dug a tissue out of her pocket without bothering to check it for the obvious and pressed it to his wound.

“I’ve got it.” He tried to pull his hand free.

“Just be patient.” She wound what he now realized was an old nylon stocking around … and around … and around his hand. “That should do it.”

“Thank you.”
I think
.

“What are you doing in here? Wait … I know what you’re doing here. The same thing I’m doing, only I didn’t know I could actually get into this space to actually do it, but now that …” Her lips blurred as her words picked up speed. “Look at this. It’s way bigger than I dreamed.” She paced off the wood floor. “And light! Look at these win—” She came to a dead stop. Slowly she turned.
Inch by inch
. She lasered him with a burning look that suddenly cooled in a fit of laughter. “We’re enemies!”

“Say what?”

“You’re entering the contest, right?”

“Yes.”

“So am I, so we’re fighting over the same plot of land—like the French and the Indians or the Mexicans and Americans. You and I are in mortal combat.” Hands balled into raised fists, she grinned. “Is that going to create a problem with you giving my daughter art lessons?”

He refrained from correcting her misconception about the French being at war with the Indians. Afraid of encouraging her absurdity, he covered an unexplainable smile with his stockinged hand. “I’ll do my utmost to remain neutral when it comes to your daughter. However …” Now where was that lead-in leading to? His mouth seemed intent on engaging without consulting his brain. “I make no concessions when it comes to my students’ mothers. The gloves are off, so to speak.”

“Fun. What are you doing for supper tomorrow night?”

“I thought we were enemies.”

“We are. Romans 12, you know. If your enemy is hungry, give him chili. Extra spicy. Pardon the paraphrasing. So, are you busy?”