Cedar Creek Seasons (9 page)

She pointed at the framed scripture on the wall. B
E
S
TILL, AND
K
NOW
T
HAT
I
AM
G
OD
. She thought of the words circling her kitchen.
This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it
. She’d made a conscious effort to fill her days with rejoicing. She needed to learn to be still. “We balance each other.”

His arm tightened around her shoulders. “You are a beautiful woman, Willow Miles.”

She jerked away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t tell you you’re beautiful?”

She nodded. A tear spilled onto his hand.

“Why?” He whispered it, knowing she felt the flutter of his breath on her cheek.

“Because I’m not. It’s enough—no—it’s way, way more than enough that you said you like me. I never in a million years thought I’d have a chance at something that feels this good. I gave up praying for it long ago and figured God had given me a family and that was more than I could have hoped for.” She nodded toward the entertainment center. “I thought the true ‘force of destiny’ had planned for me to raise those kids, and I’ve tried so hard not to want more. So this”—she slid her hand over his—“
you
are an answer to prayers I never uttered. You don’t need to say I’m—”

“Beautiful.” He lifted her chin. He couldn’t let her miss the sincerity of his next words. “I’m not a flatterer, Willow. I don’t say things I don’t mean. Your eyes, your skin, your hair, your generous heart and caring spirit, all combine into an exceedingly attractive package. You may have noticed I refuse to call you Willi.”

She nodded. “Why?”

“Because, whether you believe it or not, you are as lovelyand free flowing as the tree you’re named for.”

“But I’m—”

He laid two fingers over her lips. “Don’t insult my taste by saying negative things about the woman I’m about to ask to dance with me.”

“To this?” She gestured toward a speaker.

Wilson picked up a remote and flipped to an oldies radio station. Bon Jovi sang “Livin’ on a Prayer.” He stood and reached for her hand. “To
this
.“

Valentine’s Day began with an apple.

A Granny Smith apple. Dipped in thick, rich caramel. Smothered in Belgian dark chocolate. Garnished with a ribbon of pink. Pink
chocolate
.

Willow leaned her elbows on the table for three at the Vintage Café as she described each decadent layer and the pink bow tied to the stick with A
MY’S
G
OURMET
A
PPLES
lettered in gold. Elsa appeared close to tears. Crystal sighed. “And tonight?”

“I don’t know. It’s a surprise. But I have orders to dress up.”

“Isn’t it awkward competing against the guy you’re falling for?”

Elsa set her napkin on the table. “Which one of you is going to win the free rent? Are you workin’ it, girl?”

“How can we help?”

“I’m telling everyone to vote for you.”

“Don’t.” Willow stared up at gold and purple walls. How to explain?

“Huh?”

“Wilson needs it way more than I do.”

“Willi! Are you kidding?” Crystal’s coffee cup halted sixinches from her mouth. “You’re overworked and underspaced. You need this. You deserve it. If the guy hasn’t made any money on his work after all this time, he’s not going to be able to support a store.”

“I have as much business as I can handle through my website and craft fairs.”

“That’s just the point. You can’t handle any more because you need to hire someone so you can grow, and you can’t hire anyone because you work in a shoe box.”

Willow looped the handle of her purse over her shoulder. “But you should see his work space. An artist needs a beautiful place to create and display his work and—”

“Stop!” Elsa held a spoon in each hand. “Look.” She set one spoon on the table. “Love is here.” The other spoon slammed down a foot and a half away. “And business is here. You have to keep them separate. Have. To. Keep. Them. Separate. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I. Un. Der. Stand.” Willow copied Elsa’s insulting cadence. “But I disagree. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to clean Wilson’s apartment. And if you two want to help me, you’ll vote for Wilson. Daily.” She shoved a two-dollar tip and Wilson’s business card under her saucer and stood. “Happy Valentine’s Day, ladies.”

Their whispers followed her out the door. “If she doesn’t figure out how to separate her business and her love life …”

Even though Wilson wasn’t home, just being in his living room banished all traces of her bad mood.

“Ohh-ohhh livin’ on a prayer …” She waltzed across the wood floor with Wilson’s dust mop and stopped at a painting on an easel in the corner. It hadn’t been there last week.

It was a painting of the barn she stood in. She’d never seen it from this angle. Wilson must have sat out by the creek to capture it. She imagined sitting beside him while he painted this summer setting—reading a book or simply gazing at the riot of wild columbine and purple coneflower carpeting the hill that sloped up to the stone foundation.

She counted the tall windows in the painting. Nine. She stood back. There were only four in the living room. She looked at the dark blue curtain hanging on the south wall. No light seeped through, meaning it didn’t cover a window. She touched the bottom with the dust mop, feeling like a six-year-old waiting for the bogeyman to jump out of the closet.

A tiny puff of sawdust landed on her clean floor. She pulled the heavy blue corduroy aside. And gasped.

Like Lucy walking through the back of the wardrobe, she stood in a completely different world. An enormous, light-filled, white-walled room. Old, hand-hewn timbers on the slanted walls met at a massive beam a good twenty feet over her head. On the far wall, a fieldstone chimney rose above a large open hearth.

Everything else in the unfinished and unfurnished room was brand spanking new. A black granite island, walnut flooring still with stickers on some of the boards, banks of cupboards and a whole wall of empty shelves all in walnut, just a shade darker than the floors. Recessed lighting everywhere, but hardly even needed at this time of day, not with sunlight pouring through giant west-facing windows.

Willow walked over to the island where the sparkling granite was partially concealed by blueprints with
Woodhaus Studio
printed along the top in perfect block letters. An invoice lay to one side. An electrician’s bill—in five figures. An ostentatious red
Paid
covered half of it.

“And all this time he’s made me think he was poverty stricken!” Her fingers curled into her palms. New wood whined under her feet as she stomped toward the deceptive blue curtain and flung it open. Back in the tiny, dark living room, she pulled out her phone and made a call.

Voice mail.

She took a deep breath. “Elsa, I’m so sorry for everything I said and for not listening to you. I’ve changed my mind. I do need your help because I do want to win.
Boy-oh-boy
do I want to win!”

W
illow’s dangly emerald earrings caught the light from the candle flickering on the white linen tablecloth between them as she bent over her open purse. She wore a dress of the same verdant shade. How was it that the green made her eyes bluer? Wilson had once thought he knew everything there was to know about color.

She fumbled the purse and two of her business cards sailed out. One landed at the feet of a well-dressed woman who retrieved the card and held it out.

“Please. Keep it,” Willow answered with an adorable smile. The lady examined the card. “Are you Willow?”

“In the flesh.”

“My daughter’s looking for a sixteen-inch shelf for my grand …”

The woman chattered on. Willow opened her trifold brochure, and Wilson took advantage of the opportunity to study the curve of her chin and the way her nose tilted up just the slightest bit. She’d been a little reserved all evening. She wasn’t used to dressing up, she’d said, and there was something endearing about her self-consciousness.

“Thank you.” Willow nodded to the lady who’d just promised to vote for her.

Wilson gave her a thumbs-up. “You’re good.”

She shrugged and took a sip of coffee. Silence hung like a blank canvas, and he couldn’t think of a thing to fill it. He’d already complimented everything green—and blue—at least twice. He swiped his hand to include all the interior of Galioto’s Grille. “Don’t you love what they’ve done to the place?”

Willow nodded. “You sound like you’ve had some experience with remodeling.”

“I have, actually. My dad was a contractor. I learned at his knee—er—hammer, I guess.”

“Must come in handy.”

More than you know
. He raised his cup. “Would you like more coffee?”

“No.” She refolded her napkin and set it back on her lap.

He waited for her to resume eye contact. She didn’t. “Did I say Happy Valentine’s Day?”

“A few times.” A hint of irritation tinged her voice.

The hostess approached. “How is everything?”

Willow squinted at the woman’s uniform. “Gloria. Do you have children, Gloria?”

The woman grinned. “An eight-month-old girl. Tabatha.”

“Beautiful name. Wouldn’t you love to see it stenciled on a little chair …” The brochure reappeared as she launched into her spiel. Three minutes later, their hostess walked away promising to “Vote for Willow.”

“Very … smooth.”
And tacky. What part of romantic dinner for two don’t you understand?

“Thank you.” She snapped her purse shut. “So. We never did discuss strategy last week.”

Had she really taken him seriously on that one? They’ddiscussed all the strategy he cared to. Lip to lip. “Okay, well, I’ve spent a few hours at the Shops every day.” If she was doing the same, their paths hadn’t crossed. “I’ve sent out e-mails, texts, and tweets and blogged about it on my site. How is it going for you?”

“Wonderful. Great. Yeah. Only two and half weeks left.”

“Until we get the results, but voting ends next Friday.”

“Right. Yes.” He heard her swallow. “Ten days.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that was fresh news to her. “No matter who wins, we celebrate together, okay? Something really special. If you win I’ll send you to a spa for a day of pampering and then we can—”

Their waiter approached. “Can I tempt you with some dessert?”

Willow smiled. “Do you have children”—her chin jutted forward and she squinted—“Brian?”

“One, and one on the way.” The young man’s chest broadened.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“A boy. That makes two. We …”

Wilson excused himself and went to the men’s room. He turned on the water. As he reached toward the soap dispenser, his gaze fell on a stack of business cards sitting on the sink.

Vote for Willow
.

“Unbelievable.” He yanked a paper towel and ripped it. The dispenser popped open, sending paper rolling across the floor. “If that’s the way you want to play it, lady, you got yourself a fight.” He slammed the wadded paper at the wastebasket, missed, and marched out the door.

Her to-do list flapped in an ice-laden gust as Willow slammed her front door and stepped off the porch.