Tilting at Windmills (33 page)

E
PILOGUE

S
easons came and seasons went until countless years had passed and the men who had crafted her, labored in the hot sun to build the magnificent windmill, were like the wind itself, blown into the past, into the memories we coin as history. As for the windmill, it was allowed to fall into disrepair for too long a time, and the once-heralded landmark—a classic token to a lost era—became nothing more than an eyesore to a generation that no longer embraced its ancestry. There was talk, and not just once, of tearing down the old windmill.

Until she came along, the girl who loved the windmill, and restored it to its former beauty, and grace. Again the wind would pass through its spinning sails, a familiar friend returned to once again define an otherwise lost landscape. She thought it sacrilegious to deprive the windmill of its true purpose, and by instilling within the building a spirit all its own, she breathed vibrant new life into the community around it. She could never know, never imagine, though, that her love for the creaky old structure would inspire a sense of mutual caring and nurturing—even love—among the townsfolk. But it would, even in the face of awful tragedy and sorrow. The windmill would generate an invisible power of healing and would bring together two most unlikely souls.

Just as the mother had revered the windmill, so, too, did the daughter.

“
B
rian, come on, bring the rakes. We’ve got work to do!”

Janey stood at the top of the hill behind the farmhouse, dressed in blue jeans and a purple turtleneck, her windbreaker wrapped around her waist. Her hands were positioned on her hips and exasperation was written on her face. That and the hint of a smile.

“Yes, ma’am—here I come.”

I emerged from the barn, huge wooden rakes in each hand. For a second I held a pose, looking like the male half of a contemporary version of
American Gothic,
but now I was a single parent as opposed to part of an elderly couple. Janey came running up to me and grabbed one of the rakes.

“Let’s go,” she said, and began to dash down the hill and across the leaf-strewn lawn.

A month had passed, summer departing and autumn officially rushing in with a breath of cold air blowing down from the north. Everywhere in the Hudson River Valley were signs of the coming winter: Trees were ablaze with orange and yellow and brown leaves; the wind cradled the delicate branches, and the dying leaves fluttered to the ground.

Today, a crisp October day, was the annual leaf raking. It was also Janey’s eighth birthday, and we’d planned a quiet celebration. The wounds from Annie’s death were still fresh for all of us, especially Janey. Many a night had passed when Janey’s sleep was peppered with tears, and I would sit by her side until she’d fall asleep. Sometimes I sat by her the whole night long, there if she needed me. But together, we were persevering.

Today, I hoped we could find some joy. We needed some.

From the lawn, I saw a familiar car drive up, saw Gerta Connors step out, a wicker picnic basket on her arm and a smile brightening her face. She, too, was ready to build new memories, eager to share in the annual tradition of the raking of the leaves.

“Gerta, thank you for being here, for sharing this day with us,” I said, then pecked her cheek. “Here, give me that. Let me carry it.”

“Nonsense,” Gerta said. “I can handle it just fine. You and Janey get cleaned up. I’ll set up—by the windmill, right?”

“Absolutely. We’ll join you in a few moments.”

I called a halt to the raking. Huge piles of leaves were gathered in various locations on the giant lawn, and Janey was already busy jumping off a small ladder and landing in the soft mounds of leaves, all the time laughing, laughing, laughing. Her joy was infectious. The wind picked it up and whirled around me and Gerta until we were all feeling that anything, even happiness, was possible.

Gerta spread a thick flannel blanket on the cool ground, and I secured its corners with heavy stones. Placing the basket on the checkered blanket, Gerta then settled down, tucking her legs beneath her. She urged little Janey to her side. I joined them, and together we made an unlikely threesome, one that had known too much genuine sorrow this past year. But we were a determined group, determined to head toward the future, fueled by memories of happier times, filled with hope for tomorrow.

And so our feast began, and we dined on sandwiches and soda and, yes, Gerta’s strawberry pie for the adults, chocolate cupcakes dotted with sprinkles for Janey. I took a moment to light a single candle atop one of the cupcakes, which burned brightly until Janey blew it out. Then she ate the cake with relish.

A strong breeze suddenly blew across the land, ruffling Janey’s hair, tickling her nose. She let out an exclamation of surprise and then turned to stare up at the windmill. Its sails turned, then turned more, an endless revolution that drew her up from the blanket and into a twirl all her own, her face wide and bright and electric.

“That was Momma,” she said, dancing. “Momma came to wish me a happy birthday. And now it is, it truly is!”

I went to her, hugged her, wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. This girl, how she inspired me with her bravery and hope. She missed her mother; she always would. But she would be fine—because Annie lived inside Janey, in the memories she had created with her, and in the memories Janey and I would share.

Ultimately, Annie lived each day through the sheer power of the newly restored windmill, and no one could ever silence her spirit or silence the great and giant windmill that once again spun its magic—today, tomorrow, and forever.

We hope you enjoyed this tale of a man, a woman, a young girl, a windmill . . . and the terrible storm that forever changed their lives. If you are wondering what happened next, you are cordially invited to celebrate the holidays with Brian, Janey, and the rest of the Linden Corners family. Turn the page for a special preview of Joseph Pittman’s inspiring new novel:

A Christmas Wish

A Linden Corners Novel

A Kensington paperback on sale in October 2011.

PROLOGUE

T
heirs was a seemingly unbreakable bond, one that had been built by the power of the wind and by the presence of the mighty windmill. Today the windmill spun its special brand of magic, even as the harsh cold of winter approached and nature readied to hibernate for the long, dark months ahead. On this Wednesday afternoon in November, he found himself walking through the light coating of snow that covered the ground, venturing beneath the turning sails. It was here, on this eve of the holiday season, he sought inspiration and knowledge and strength, all of which he would need to navigate his way through the memories of a past tinged with sadness, one that threatened to undo their fragile happiness. Because as wonderful as they were together, the days and especially the nights hadn’t always been easy, and the coming holiday season would prove to be the most trying time yet, a test of that bond.

“Annie, sweet Annie, can you hear me?” he asked, his voice a hint above a whisper. He hoped the swirling wind would carry his words forward, upward. “I need your help, Annie. Janey needs your help, and I know you’re the only one who can show me—who can show us—the way through this difficult time. Thanksgiving is just around the corner, Annie, and how I wish you were here to celebrate with us. It would have been our first—yours and mine, with Janey. The three of us together, trimmings complimenting the bounty of our love. But that’s not how things worked out. We are two only, and we both miss you. Before long, Christmas will be upon us, and if we can get through a holiday based on joy, on celebration, I think we’ll be fine, just fine. Until then, Annie, I just can’t predict how Janey will react to certain situations. Can you help me, can you show me the way to make this holiday a special one for your precious daughter? She’s only eight and she’s alone, except for me and sometimes I wonder, Annie, am I enough for her?”

There was no answer, not today. Snowflakes fell lightly all around him, the wind was gentle, and the sails of the windmill spun slowly. It was as though the old mill could reach out with those giant arms and embrace the quiet soon to descend on the tiny village of Linden Corners, on its residents, and on its treasured way of life. On a Christmas wrapped in tragedy, somehow able to transport them beyond their grief.

For this man, a kind but broken man named Brian Duncan, this coming season would be a new experience, knowing the success of the holidays rested solely on his weighted shoulders. And as much as he looked forward to celebrations, of joys, of shopping, and of gift-giving, there were times when his warm heart was frozen with fear. Uncertainty could stop him in his step at a moment’s notice. Now was one of those moments.

As they prepared to journey beyond the comfort of Linden Corners—he and Janey taking their first official trip out of town—panic once again seized him, a feeling he usually sensed only after Janey had gone to sleep. A time when the night awakened his insecurities. Often he went to where he could feel Annie’s presence the most, seeking her wisdom. Standing now in the shadow of windmill—of Annie’s windmill—he began to realize she couldn’t always be there for him. Some decisions he had to make on his own.

“I told my mother, Annie, that I wasn’t coming for Thanksgiving unless she made peach pie,” Brian said with a touch of levity he thought was needed. He had been introduced to the sweet, gooey pastry just this past summer on a picnic high above the lazy Hudson River, on a rocky bluff he had subsequently named for her. “Mother claimed never to have heard of such a thing. I had to search your recipe box, and even after I found it I doubted it would taste the same. Sweet it would be, but missing that special ingredient you sprinkled into the mix—love. A piece of that pie for Janey was crucial, knowing it’s a piece of you. To make her feel at home even when she’s not.”

There were more questions, more requests. Brian spoke and he listened. And still there was no answer, just gentle, flowing wind and falling snowflakes and the languid spin of the sails. Nothing was different, no sign came to him that he’d been heard. Just then Brian smiled, perhaps interpreting this calm silence as an acknowledgment that if the wind didn’t see fit to shift its direction, neither should he. Steady the course, follow your instinct. Trust your heart.

“Okay, Annie, I think I hear you now,” he said with a wry smile.

She was like that, mysterious, elusive, even when she’d been in his arms.

He removed his glove and placed a bare hand on the windmill’s wooden door, as though searching for a pulse from inside. Its touch was cold. Then, turning back toward the farmhouse, he saw young Janey emerging from over the hill, her fingers laced through those of Gerta Connors, neighbor and friend, honorary grandmother. They both waved at him, with Janey suddenly breaking free of her hold. Janey began to run down the hill, her boots making faint impressions on the snow, as though she was barely touching the ground.

“Brian, Brian, I’m ready for our trip, come on, let’s go. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us,” she said with easy glee, conjured from her redoubtable spirit. Where a small girl stored such energy, Brian didn’t know. Then she wrapped herself around his waist and held him tight.

“I was just making sure everything was secure,” he said. “I see now that it is.”

Together, they made their way back up the hill where Gerta waited patiently. Gerta, who had invited them to spend Thanksgiving with her and her four grown daughters, Gerta who had herself faced terrible loss this past year and persevered, just like them all. It was a Linden Corners trait. Brian had politely declined her invitation. Maybe they both needed this first holiday with their own families, he explained. Holidays are about families. She should be with hers and he, his.

“My mother, she needs her family during these times more so than any other time of year,” Brian stated with little explanation. He didn’t often speak of his family. They hadn’t shared his recent journey, didn’t understand his new life. “It’s a time of year when the Duncan family remembers what we have and what we lost. Maybe the only time we do remember. We so rarely understand each other.”

In every family there were both treasures lost and found, Gerta had said with her customary grace and understanding.

Back at the farmhouse, Brian Duncan and Janey Sullivan said their good-byes to Gerta with quiet hugs and heartfelt emotions, and then piled into Brian’s car. Suitcases were already stored in the trunk, ready to travel. Was he? Brian wondered.

“Ready?” Brian asked Janey. Just to be sure.

“I already said so,” she replied, not without a sense of exasperation that reminded him of the young girl he’d met at the start of summer, before anything had happened. Of the time they had first met that sweet summer day, right here, at the base of the windmill. “Why, did you change your mind?”

Brian realized she was giving him a chance to change his mind. He grinned at her maturity, her intuitiveness. Sometimes he wondered which of them was the adult, which the child.

“The open road awaits us,” he said.

Soon they were tucked in their seats and then they had pulled out of the driveway, tires crunching on the small amount of snow in the driveway. Then the winding road captured them, taking them out of Linden Corners, passing the windmill one last time as the car rounded a curve. Janey waved to it, while Brian, smiling nonetheless, kept his eyes on the road. Because he’d already made his wish upon the wind, and it was up to nature now to send his message to that special place where all his wishes belonged.