Blue Willow (41 page)

Hopewell’s angry pounding made the Christmas wreath swing back and forth on Maude’s front door, and red berries flew off sprigs of nandina tucked among the cedar boughs. A lithe form hurried up the hall, making a red-and-gray blur behind the panes of frosted glass. Little Sis slung the door open and stared up at him.

“Why, Happy New Year, Hopewell.” Her eyes were
bright and exasperated, but a little flirtatious, too. Hopewell stared back awkwardly, his mouth working but not saying anything.

Damned woman. She had grandchildren. Ought not to look at him that way. She always looked at him that way.

A clump of plastic holly and red ribbon was tucked rakishly in the knot of gray hair pinned on top of her head. She gave her glittery red sweater a jerk, crossed one blue-jeaned leg over the other, and leaned against the doorjamb. Little pink-quartz crystals jiggled below her pierced earlobes as she shook her head.

“Don’t you beat on our door,” she added. “If you’d let me know you were coming, I’d have gotten out some wine and gingerbread cookies.”

He shoved his fists into the pockets of his ancient coat so hard that the already torn seams gave a little more. “Lily’s not here, is she? I bet you all know where she is. Do y’all take me for a fool? Did you think I’d never hear what she’s been doing all these months? Did you think she could do it right under my nose?”

Little Sis eyed him with fading cordiality. “If you weren’t a grubby old hermit who stays at home watching TV all the time, you’d have figured it out before now.”

“What I do with my life is none of your concern, you prissy old bat I.”

“Somebody ought to be concerned about you! For years you’ve let your store go to hell, your house go to hell, and now you look like a seedy bum! Your life didn’t end when your wife died and Joe went to prison for growing dope!”

“I want to talk about Lily!” He stomped a scuffed cowboy boot on the porch floor. Another nandina berry fell off the wreath. Thrusting his grizzled jaw out, he leaned toward Little Sis menacingly. “She’s been hanging out at the farm since she moved up here last May, huh? Herbert Beatty at the garden center in Victoria told me she came in back in the spring to buy seeds and fertilizer. I knew she hadn’t planted nothing
here
—”

“She’s not hurting anything.”

Little Sis poked him in the chest with a fingertip. “She went out to see her old homeplace one day, and she came back with some of the spunk in her eyes, and she told us the only thing that made her feel better was working there. She knew you wouldn’t approve. So we kept it quiet. Goodness, all she does is drive over there every day with a few of our yard tools and get some exercise.”

“What does she want? I’m not gonna sell the place back to her!”

“She couldn’t buy the place back even if you offered. The bank didn’t leave her with much more than a pickup truck and that ugly dog of hers.”

“Colebrook wants her to have it! I’ll never give that bastard the satisfaction! Not after he had his people sic the law on Joe!”

Little Sis eyed him warily “If you tell her she can’t dabble around the farm anymore, I swear I’ll send so many bad vibrations your way, you’ll feel like an out-of-tune piano.”

“Don’t talk that nonsense to me. I, uh, maybe I
don’t
care if she hangs around at her old place. ’Long as she doesn’t expect to own it again.”

She brightened. “Why, Hopewell, if you leave her alone, I might just send
good
vibrations at you.” Looking at him wistfully, she added, “I’d like to, you know. You and I aren’t too old to—”

“I’ve got no use for a woman who wears pieces of quartz rocks like they were some kind of magic totems and talks like a hippie and runs a store full of books by that Shirley MacLaine.
Are you gonna tell me where to find Lily today
?”

Little Sis straightened like a rocket. “You closed-minded old goat. Go on. She left here a few minutes before you showed up. She was heading out to the farm.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said tersely. Turning on his run-down bootheels, he stomped down the porch steps and strode toward a shabby truck. He heard Little Sis slam the door behind him. He didn’t need her meddling sympathy or her outrageous, girlish hints. He did need revenge
on Artemas Colebrook. Maybe, just maybe, Lily was a means to getting it.

Lily had just finished putting her Christmas ornaments on the small cedar tree that had taken root at the edge of the yard when Mr. Estes drove up the old driveway, now rutted and lined with groves of young pines that had crept into the front pastures.

She tossed a cardboard box into the back of her truck, sat down on the tailgate, and wearily draped an arm around Lupa’s golden neck. A cool breeze crept down from into the hollow as if funneled gently through the hills around it. The cedar tree swayed. A blob of papier-mâché that vaguely resembled an angel—Stephen had made it in kindergarten—bumped against a crystal ornament etched with her and Richard’s wedding date. Starched, crocheted stars made decades ago by Grandma MacKenzie floated like tethered snowflakes. The tree’s stiff needles clung to tiny, brightly painted wooden sleighs and nutcracker men Richard had created in his workshop.

Staring at the tree, she had never felt so lonely in her life. Needing to huddle inside her own skin, she pulled up the collar on her quilted jacket, then wiped a sweaty palm on the thigh of her jeans and watched Mr. Estes park in front of the old farmhouse with its vacant, staring windows and peeling paint. He stalked over to her with a grim expression on his face.

He gaped at the decorated tree. Feeling exposed and foolish, Lily said grimly, “I put the ornaments on it when I’m here, and I take ’em off when I leave. I know Christmas is over, but I just wanted to see ’em one more time before I pack them away.”

She struggled against bitterness. “The least you could have done was block off the road so people wouldn’t dump garbage out here.” She jerked her head toward the overgrown field beyond the creek and the willows, and the village of gravestones at the base of the hills. “You know what I found in my family’s cemetery plot last spring?
Beer
cans and a dildo
. If you don’t know what a dildo is, sir, I’ll explain.”

Mr. Estes shifted from one foot to another. His furious teetering reminded her of an upset R2D2. “You watch your mouth. I’m not here to win no popularity contest.”

She jumped off the tailgate and advanced on him, hands clenched by her sides. Lupa bounded down and circled them, growling softly. “You’ve never had any sympathy for anybody but yourself. I had a son, too, Mr. Estes. I wanted the best for him, just like you want for Joe. He’s gone, and I’ll never get him back. Joe’ll get out of prison someday. You’ve got everything to look forward to. Can’t you leave me alone? Even if I never get this place back, I need to put my hands on it, clean it up, sit under the willows, listen to the creek.” Halting, she shook her fists at him. “Working here has given me a small sense of satisfaction and purpose.”

“Good.
Good!
” Mr. Estes shouted. “Then you stay here and make Colebrook mad as hell.”

She stared at him. The swift, thready racing of her heart made her dizzy with hope. His offer was so unexpected, she blurted, “Are you having a stroke?”

“Don’t argue with me!” He ducked his head and muttered, “If you want to stay,
stay
. All I’m sayin’ is, I’d, uh, rent the place to you.”

She stepped forward eagerly. “I haven’t got enough money to pay rent. But I could work for you. Pay you that way.” He took a step back and looked at her in astonishment. The vague, fragmented ideas she’d been mulling over for so long suddenly crystallized. Lily found herself telling him about them at breakneck speed. A greenhouse. A nursery. For perennials—sweet william and yarrow and columbine and dozens of others—old-fashioned plants that people were starting to favor again.

Mr. Estes began waving his hands. “I don’t have no interest in—”

“You need something to work for, Mr. Estes. So do I. You make an investment, and I’ll manage the place. We can build something out of this mess. Prove to people
around here that neither one of us is ready to lay down and die.”

“I don’t care what nobody thinks. You sayin’ I’m
ashamed
on account of Joe?”

“Yes, sir, and I think you’re eating yourself up with it.”

His head arched like an angry rooster’s. “You don’t want a job, you want to order me around. Pffft. I ain’t got the time or the patience. You’re one of them that’s got all the answers when nobody’s asked you a question. Just like Little Sis.”

“We could call it Blue Willow Nursery.”

His mouth halted in midprotest. His eyes narrowed. He pulled his hat off and ran a leathery hand through a thick shock of white hair that looked as if it had been cut with a pocketknife. “Colebrook’d hate that, wouldn’t he? His whole family would have a fit.”

“The Colebrooks have no legal claim on the name. It came from my family, from the willow my great-grandfather gave the Colebrooks when they built their estate. It’s mine more than theirs.”

“You really want to make a point, don’t you?”

“I want respect and fair treatment.” She shuddered, then walked back to the truck, her hands on her hips. “I won’t run from them. I won’t forget about them. I won’t let what they said about my husband make me hide from the people in my own hometown. If I did that, it’d be as good as saying I’m ashamed of Richard. No. I’m here to stay.”

Lily slumped on the tailgate and rubbed her forehead. Mr. Estes began pacing, twisting his hat, slamming it on top of his head, then taking it off again.

“Just who’s gonna buy these old-fashioned plants you want to sell?”

She smiled thinly. “Nostalgia is big business, Mr. Estes. People’ll come here from Atlanta for the same reason they come to the mountains. Don’t worry. I can make this place a success.”

Mr. Estes stopped pacing and faced her. “All right, it’s a deal. You live here and run things. Work up a plan. I’ll
let you know how much money I can put into it. Maybe ten thousand dollars. That’s all.”

“I warn you, you won’t make your money back right away. It’ll take upward of a year to get set up, and a lot longer than that to build recognition.”

He nodded toward the old house. “I’ll get the electricity turned back on, but I’m not investin’ any money in fixin’ it up.”

“I’ve got a little savings. And I’ve got something I can sell to get a little more. I’ll get by.” She thought of the Colebrook teapot, then lifted her head and looked around, her throat aching with hope. “I’ve got what I need. Thank you.”

A shiny new metal gate hung between two sturdy railroad ties at the end of the driveway. Artemas touched the padlock and took in his surroundings with dismay. The forest seemed to press around him, whispering and brittle with winter. As he’d driven the long, winding dirt lane from the paved road, he’d felt as if he were going back in time.

But time had not paused here.

Fallen hog-wire fences were all that marked the old pasture boundaries, as if struggling valiantly to contain thick groves of waist-high pines. The house and barn sat in the distance, looking abandoned and forlorn. The willows, bare of leaves, stood out against a cold blue sky. Lily’s large red truck was parked in the yard.

He stepped over the crumpled fence and walked swiftly up the drive, a black windbreaker curling back from his sweater and corduroys. He saw the jumble of trash piled in the side yard where Mrs. MacKenzie’s flower beds had flourished. Rusting appliances and tires were piled nearby. White paint was peeling off the house. The barn was a hollow shell, with pieces of tin missing from the roof and gaping holes in the sides. God, how awful she must have felt when she saw the place like this.

Only the willow grove remained beautiful and dignified. Beyond the creek she’d cut a small clearing in the pines. It was scarred with small stumps, charred piles of
debris she’d burned, and mounds of pines waiting to be burned.

He went to the house, pulled the warped front door open, and grimaced at the musty scent of dark, empty rooms. Even in the dim light he saw how Joe Estes had ruined the interior. Cheap paneling covered the walls of the main room. The handsome pine floor was hidden under matted shag carpet. He yelled Lily’s name, his voice ringing with anger—anger at this scene, at the gut-wrenching sympathy he couldn’t indulge, at her for making him so hopelessly eager. The name echoed unpleasantly. He slammed the door and walked across the yard, searching.

She must be in the woods somewhere, walking, exploring, doing what had always meant so much to her. Or hiding? Hiding from him, watching him from some vantage point, the way she’d done the day he’d left here so many years ago. If he tilted his head back and yelled that he loved her, it would change nothing, just as it had changed nothing then.

By God, this time he’d find her. He strode to the creek, crossed its shallows on a path of flat rocks laid down by some long-dead MacKenzie, and skirted the clearing, scowling at the piles of burned timber and the rising hills beyond. The view from the farm’s valley was magnificent, as he lifted his eyes to gaze up to Mount Victory, which poked its bald granite dome into the sky. He angled around a jumble of broken limbs and came to a shocked halt.

Lily sat there, facing the mountain view, her long legs crossed, her mane of red hair flowing around her shoulders, every stitch of her clothes piled beside her.

Indelible images slammed into him. Large, high breasts with wide, dusky red tips. A long, slender back flaring into luscious hips. A flash of red between her thighs. But even more, he reacted to the deep emotional tug of the loneliness and grief in her face. He had not seen her since spring, the day she was preparing to move from her and
Richard’s home. That she had been suffering so harshly since then, and was still in such despair, tormented him.

His hiking shoe snapped a twig. She exploded into action, scrambling to her knees and facing him, her tear-streaked face contorting, one arm rising quickly to shield her breasts, the other snaking across her thighs. She slipped sideways onto one hip. Her eyes were strangely unfocused yet angry “Mine. It’s mine. You can’t ruin it. You’re spying on me. Go ’way.”