Past Forward Volume 1 (16 page)

Outside, Bill looked around him. Several
apartment buildings, an office building, a parking garage, and a
gym surrounded him. A quick glance at the entrance to the Roark
Building gave him a perspective he’d never seen. Sixteen floors
towered above him in a mass of steel, concrete, and glass. The
modernist style contrasted sharply with the royal blue and gold
canvas doorway awning that seemed more suited for older
architecture.

Security cameras and personnel were such a
part of his life that Bill had never questioned them. He did now.
He pictured Willow in her farmhouse surrounded by fields of grass,
wildflowers, and windows that probably didn’t even lock. Security
measures that prevented him from entering his own home without
proper identification seemed extreme in light of Willow’s
world.

The corridors and elevators were spotless.
The walls and trim were clean and the paint unmarred. As he entered
his own apartment, closed the door, and locked it, he stared at the
lock, deadbolt, and safety bar. Three locking apparatus, a security
card entrance downstairs, a camera monitored lobby, and a security
doorman seemed a bit excessive, even to Bill. The idea of living
without them seemed terrifying.

Designed in the loft style, Bill’s apartment
was open, airy, and tastefully decorated. Only his bedroom and
bathroom had actual walls. The rest of the space was separated by
furniture, screens, and sliding walls used to create privacy when
desired. He loved his home, but seen through Willow’s eyes, it
looked sterile and empty.

The Finley women made an art of beautifying
everything around them. He’d made an art of minimizing and
stripping everything to its barest core. His walls held no art—his
windows, no coverings. His bed, covered with a thick black down
comforter boasted nothing more. There were no rugs on the highly
polished floors and no pillows on the sleek leather couches. The
coffee table held no books, no vase, no sculpture—nothing.

Lin Chen had already left for the day. The
six singles on floors five and six paid Lin well to keep their
apartments clean. It was an easy job for Lin—most of her clients
ate meals out and sent out their laundry. Bill was no exception. He
liked the arrangement, but after twenty-four hours with Willow, it
seemed lazy.

Frustrated, he moved to his closet,
stripping off his shirt and tie as he went. He left his clothes in
a heap on the floor, and clad in shorts and a t-shirt, he tied on
his athletic shoes and started up the treadmill. His usual workout
at the gym across the street—not happening.

Friday night. He’d assumed he had a date.
With Willow. Bill punched the speed arrow twice and went from a
speed walk to a jog. The more he ruminated, the more disconcerted
he became. His index finger jabbed at the up arrow again. Again.
Now he ran. His feet pounded on the belt as it spun on rollers.
Sweat poured over him as though a rain cloud hovered above the
treadmill.

Twenty minutes later, he collapsed on his
exercise mat exhausted. Bill lifted one knee to his chest, then the
other. He did a few stomach crunches and then, as though to punish
himself for some undeclared sin, began push-ups. After fifty, he
dropped face down on the mat—cleansed.

As he lay there, he realized that Willow too
worked her muscles until they refused to do any more. She was in
excellent shape. Her arms were tan and the muscles well defined
from hard and consistent work. Work. That was the difference. Bill
worked with his mind. To keep his body healthy and physically fit,
he had to manufacture work for it. Treadmills, rowing machines,
rock walls—the trappings of a modern lifestyle devoid of physical
exertion to sustain life.

Willow had that. Perhaps— Bill stood, and
putting the thought of her from his mind, dragged himself to his
shower. Three showerheads spraying filled the bathroom with steam.
He wondered if she even had one. Growling at himself for turning
his thoughts back to her yet again, Bill hurried out of the shower,
into clean clothes, and out of his apartment. His city—he loved it.
He’d enjoy himself without any more false guilt.

Alone in the Sushi Garden, Bill bit into his
favorite eel and seaweed wrap. Immediately he thought,
I wonder
if Willow has ever had sushi.

The server watched concerned as Bill threw
down a few bills and strode from the restaurant. Frantic Japanese
flew between the manager and the chef, followed by an order to the
server to follow him. Several patrons looked at their plates
nervously as their servers arrived with their plates.

The young woman grabbed Bill’s money and
raced after him. Several patrons watched through the window as she
offered Bill his money back and apologized profusely. The silent
scene played out before them as if a moment in an old movie. Bill
waved the money back at her and made apologetic gestures. A look of
sympathy crossed over the young woman’s face as she laid her hand
on his arm. He shook his head as she gestured, inviting him to
return. Bill walked away, shoulders slumped.

The server entered the restaurant and found
all eyes on her. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “He said the
food was fine, but his heart isn’t. It sounds like he got dumped
today.”

Willow, unaware of the turmoil she’d left
churning in Bill, stepped off the bus in Fairbury, smiling. Home.
She’d often noted that many songs and poems were written about
home. Now she knew why—understood it in a deeper way than she’d
ever imagined. All she could think of was Othello, Wilhelmina, her
porch, the lamp by the chaise in the living room, and her mother’s
journals.

She walked along Elm to Market Street to the
convenience store, shifting the suitcase between her hands from
time to time. In their restrooms, she switched her shoes to
athletic shoes and swiftly braided her hair. Inside the store, she
purchased a bottle of water and a tube of Chapstick, waving
cheerily as she left.

Cars slowed, but she waved them on, ignoring
the invitations for a ride. Perspiration cooled her, drying stiff
on her clothes. The familiarity of it—so comforting.

Halfway down the driveway, Othello raced to
meet her. Her arms encircled the collie and held on tight. She
glanced at the porch to see if Mother waited for her return, but
the sight of Chad’s truck hit her in the gut. Her mother would
never stand on the porch, hand shielding her eyes, and wait for
Willow to arrive with flowers, fish, or rabbit again.

As she neared the house, the gentle strum of
a guitar reached her ears. Willow recognized the plaintive strains
of country music as she rounded the corner to the back porch. Her
mother had despised the genre, but Willow loved the stories, the
heart, and the down-to-earth themes of the songs. Once inside the
back door, she paused and listened to the beautiful harmony of a
western ballad sung by a man and woman accompanied by a simple
acoustic guitar.

Chad strode into the kitchen, empty plate in
hand and stopped frozen at the sight of her. “How— I thought you
were coming home tomorrow.”

“I’m sure that’s what Bill arranged, but I
wanted to come home.”

“How did you get here?”

Willow saw irritation flash in his eyes even
before she spoke. “I walked, of course.”

“Of course.”

He put his plate in the sink and rinsed the
crumbs down the drain. Everything about him, his posture, his short
jerky movements, and of course, the mask of anger descending over
his face told her he was upset with her, but Willow didn’t know
why. Without a word, Chad grabbed the handle of her suitcase and
disappeared through the doorway.

Minutes later, he reappeared with a duffel
bag slung over one shoulder and found her sitting in a chair at the
kitchen table, head cupped in her hands, listening to his Argosy
Junction CD. “What a hauntingly beautiful song! Who are they? Where
do I order a CD?”

“I got mine from their concert in New
Cheltenham, but you can probably get it from their website or
Amazon.”

“Is there a catalog I can write for? Oh,
listen!” Her eyes filled with tears as the young man in the song
sang of someone waiting at home for him. She crumbled emotionally
as the song progressed, causing Chad to hesitate. He dropped his
bag at his feet and pulled the other chair around straddling it
with his arms draped across the back.

“Rough time in Rockland?”

She shook her head and reached for a napkin
from a basket to one side of the table. “Mother wasn’t waiting for
me when I got home.”

“
What?”

“She wasn’t here. It was the worst feeling
of my life. Mother always waited on the porch for me.”

Chad’s mellow voice soothed her as he nodded
sympathetically and said, “And I’m sure the song doesn’t help.”

“But it does. Someone somewhere wrote a song
about something that has always been special to me. I just never
knew it. This will probably become my favorite song.”

Before Chad could reply, his cell phone rang
on the kitchen windowsill. He snatched the phone and answered it,
slipping out the back door and away from the music. Trying to be
considerate, Willow punched the power button on the CD player,
gathered the dishes in the sink into the dishpan, and carried them
to the summer kitchen.

Chad found her there singing fragments of
the chorus of the song as she rinsed the dishes he’d dirtied that
day. “…light shining bright… tonight… somebody’s waiting for
me.”

“Did you call Bill when you got in?”

Willow didn’t turn around, but she shook her
head. “No. Should I have?”

“He might sleep better knowing you got home
safely. Want me to call him?”

She turned and smiled sheepishly through her
tears. “That would be nice.” Her voice cracked. “I should myself
but—” Willow, unable to finish, raced from the barn and into the
house.

Chad scrolled through his phone looking for
Bill’s number. “Hey Bill? Chad Tesdall here. I just wanted you to
know that Willow made it home a little while ago.”

Bill’s flat voice told Chad something more
had happened in Rockland than Willow knew or was willing to share.
As Chad started to say goodbye, Bill stopped him. “Wait, did you
say
just
got home? It’s almost seven!”

“She walked home.”

“Why weren’t you there to pick her up? I
hate that she walks along that road. She had a suitcase!” Bill’s
outraged voice irritated Chad.

“Well, because the memo I got, from you I
might add, was that you were bringing her home tomorrow afternoon.
Had anyone bothered to tell me the plans changed, I would have been
there.”

“Why didn’t she call for a ride? I don’t
und—”

“Because it’s not what the Finley women do.
They do for themselves. It never occurred to her to call for a
ride. If she wants to do something, she walks. Period. It is who
Willow Finley is.” Why he bothered to explain, Chad didn’t
know.

“That I am beginning to discover.” A sigh
followed. “Just like her mother. Why did I think she would be any
different?” Chad started to disconnect the call but one more
question from Bill stopped him. “Hey, Tesdall?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind calling me when you leave
Willow’s place?”

The sight of Willow setting up the Chinese
checkers on the kitchen table brought an involuntary smile to his
face. “It could be pretty late…”

A trace of irritation entered Bill’s voice
as he replied, “I don’t care how late it is; I’d appreciate
it.”

“Will do. Anything I should tell her?”

“No,” Bill sighed. “I’ll just get it over
with all at once. Say, Tesdall?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever make plans for Willow. I keep
forgetting how backward they are in some ways.”

Confused, Chad stared at the phone before he
queried, “What do you mean?”

“Don’t make plans to do stuff with her. She
may show up, she may not.”

“Bill, did you make plans
with
Willow
or
for
her? I’ve found her very conscientious about anything
she plans.”

Bill stammered and sputtered for a minute.
“Well she was coming here so I—”

“Let me ask you this. If you made the same
plans for another one of your clients without asking their input,
how would they react? Willow may be inexperienced in the world and
a tad naïve at times, but she’s not a child. She’s accustomed to
making her own decisions.”

Silence hung in the air subtracting minutes
from Chad’s cell plan mercilessly.
He couldn’t wait until the
free night minutes took effect,
he complained inwardly.

At last, Bill’s voice, humbled and quiet,
said, “Ouch.”

Filled with a sense that all was right with
the world, and not a little satisfaction of three games won, Willow
lay on her chaise reading her mother’s journal when the phone rang.
She didn’t move. Her eyes scrolled back and forth across the page
until she finished it. Her bookmark, frayed from years of constant
use, noted her place, and she pushed herself up off the chaise,
into the other room to retrieve it.