Cedar Creek Seasons (7 page)

The lyrical lines of Wilson’s essay jammed her brain as Willow arranged trash bags, rags, disinfectant, and a roll of self-adhesive paper on the kitchen floor. She could never in a million years write like that.
Cushy chairs for children’s bottoms … tiny tables for tea with Tigger … rocking horses in rainbow colors …
Anything she came up with sounded more like a television script for Wonder Pets. She didn’t stand a chance against Mr. So So Good.

Don’t put him on too high a pedestal
. He was, after all, just a human like anyone else. With flaws and weaknesses—unarmored spots in the soft underbelly of his competitive psyche. She dropped to her knees and sneered at the handle of the cupboard under his kitchen sink. “We’ll see just how perfect you are, mister.”

This was the housecleaning polygraph, the spot in every house that told the truth about a person’s character. After years of cleaning houses she’d come to see this spot as symbolic of the inner life of the owner of the house. Here she would find tulip bulbs stashed for transplant a decade ago, newspapers dating back to the Vietnam War, and half-empty, disillusioned cans of petrified Miracle-Gro.

But here she would exercise grace. Here she would ensure Star’s lessons continued. And here, just maybe, she’d give Wilson Woodhaus a hint of what it would be like to have a woman in his life.

“Here goes.” She yanked the handle. And gasped.

Red-and-white-checked shelf paper covered the bottom of the cupboard, and on the paper sat a bottle of dish detergent and an empty wastebasket lined with a plastic grocery bag.

Nothing else.

Wilson Woodhaus was not a stuffer nor a stasher nor a keeper of secrets. He was who he appeared to be.

Twenty minutes later, after giving each cupboard and drawer an inside and outside wipe-down it didn’t really need, she realized something else. Crystal had described Wilson as wealthy, witty, and world savvy. Willow had seen a bit of the wit and she had no clue about the world-savvy part, but one thing she knew as she peered into a nearly bare refrigerator.

Wilson Woodhaus was anything but wealthy.

In the dim glow from the appliance bulb filament, she made a decision.

The man who lived on generic hot dogs and off-brand ketchup didn’t need another competitor. He needed a champion, a person who loved to talk and loved to sell, who knew every person in Cedarburg and had once sold a black-and-white-spotted rocking-cow and a hot-pink potty chair to an eighty-one-year-old bachelor.

She closed the refrigerator door. “Willow Miles, image consultant and PR manager, at your service.”

A
tad more cocoa?”

Willow leaned against the refrigerator as her three biggest critics slurped her latest experiment. “Star?”

“I thought you’d decided on the strawberry one.”

“I had, but Crystal said that one of the chili cook-off judges has diverticulitis and she can’t eat seeds so—”

“What’s a diver’s tickle eye dish?” Ralphy’s nose crinkled.

Star gave an eye-roll performance deserving a 9.8 for creativity and opened the cupboard next to the sink.

“It’s when you get little pockets in your … it’s a stomach problem.”

“Eeewww.”

Star turned around, holding a bag of semisweet chocolate chips. “I think it could handle a few of these. Chocolate makes everything better.”

“Oh yeah?” Del opened the refrigerator. “Chocolate-covered green olives, anyone? How about chocolate herring or—”

“Chores.” Willow defused the gross-out session. “We have an insane two days ahead of us. Right after supper, we have to put the banners on the bed. I want everything done so we can all turn in early. Go lay out your regular clothes and your costumes. Tomorrow I have to get the chili over to the community center by ten forty-five, and before that Wilson’s coming over to help get the bed down to the—”

“He didn’t chicken out yet?” Del popped a green olive in his mouth.

“No. Why would he?”

Willow’s phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?”

“Willow?” An unfamiliar voice spoke her name. “This is Sharon. We close at five, and we’re still waiting on your display.”

Sharon. Sharon who?
Willow looked at the clock. Four forty.
Close what at five? Display? What display?
She looked at the list on the fridge. Only two things remained un-crossed-out for Friday—
make chili
and
finish decorating bed
. “I’m sorry.

Who is this?”

“Sharon Goldman.”

“I’m so sorry.”
Again
. “I just can’t place you.”

“I’m the one who sent the letters about your display.”

“Display?” A cold finger of dread drew a meandering line down her back. Alzheimer’s. This is exactly how it happened to old Mrs. Westerforce at church. The blank stare, the brow wrinkled in confusion. “What display?”

“For the contest.”

“I’m supposed to have a display? All the form said was bring your pot by ten forty-five.”

“Pot?
Ms. Miles, this is not Madison, you know. Just what kind of store are you—”

“Store?” Willow kneaded the expanding muscle bundle at the base of her neck.

“This is Willow Miles, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“And you are planning on participating in the Settlement Shops’ competition, correct?”

“Oh!” An off-key combination of sigh and laugh burst from deep in Willow’s lungs. “No. I thought about it, but I changed my mind.”

“Without letting us know?”

Willow stared at the phone then set it back on her ear. “Why would I let you know I’d changed my mind?”

A huff ricocheted off her eardrum. “You’re one of only four chosen to compete out of more than—”

“Chosen? How could I be chosen if I never entered?”

“Excuse me? I have your application and essay right here. Are you feeling all right? Is there someone else I could speak to? A family member, maybe?”

Family member. As in the girl who’d stuck the stupid application form in Willow’s face every day for two weeks. She thought of the unopened envelopes from the Settlement she’d pitched at the wastebasket with all the other unsolicited mail in the past week.

Willow made a slow turn, narrowing her eyes at the girl who stood in front of the stove shielding herself with a plastic colander.

Star was grinning.

“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Sharon. You’ll recognize our van. It will be the one with a teenager duct taped to the front as a hood ornament.”

Wilson studied his exhibit then sized up the competition in the room that would soon be his. Two women arranged handmade dolls and stuffed animals. In the opposite corner, tables overflowed with candles. Cinnamon, bayberry, lily, lemon, pine. If he closed his eyes he could imagine walking through an open-air market in Paris. Or a compost heap—not all of the scents mingled well. The earthy girl who’d made the candles didn’t look like much of a fighter.

And then there was Willow. And Star. Arranging a veritable explosion of miniature nursery-colored furniture. From where he stood, the vermillion, chartreuse, and aquamarine paint on her pieces brought out pops of color on his canvases. New leaves in a springtime picture of the covered bridge matched a lime-green chair. Pink roses in pots outside the Stagecoach Inn seemed to suddenly bloom brighter with a raspberry-colored rocking horse as backdrop.

We look good together, Willow
. She wouldn’t regret this. No matter who won, they’d all gain from it—business
and
personal gain. He sauntered over to her. “Nice setup.”

“Can’t imagine how it could be with only fifteen minutes warning.”

“Wha—?” He looked at Star, who shrugged. “How did that”—he cleared his throat—“come about?”

“My daughter seemed to think that when I said no I really meant yes and took it upon herself to enter me. Which reminds me … Sharon?” She waved at the woman setting up the voting table. “Do you happen to have my essay handy?”

“Of course. I’ve made two hundred copies of each one.” She reached into a box and handed her a piece of paper.

Willow arched an eyebrow as she read. “Tender Loving Chair Company—child-sized furniture made by tender loving hands. The perfect complement to the Shops at Cedar Creek Settlement.” She eyed Star with more than a little suspicion. “Statistics show that 56 percent of the visitors to Cedarburg are over sixty. We can assume that the vast majority of them are grandparents, and what grandmother could possibly resist a bright pink rocking chair or an exquisitely crafted rocking horse?” Willow tipped her head to one side. “You wrote this?”

Star hesitated. Her eyes darted toward Wilson.

Willow whirled. “
You
wrote this?”

He took a step back. Her eyes looked exceptionally blue when they were open as wide as eyes can open. “It was a collaboration.”

“Why?” The hurt on her face stabbed him. “You needed somebody easy to beat? Somebody who couldn’t hold a candle to ‘depictions of the charm and serenity of historic Cedarburg’ or ‘the covered bridge dusted with snow’ or the ‘nostalgic black-glass facade and lit marquis of the Rivoli …’” Her mouth opened. Her eyes closed.

“You read my essay?” He infused his words with indignation, though he felt not a twinge of it. “Why? You needed to find my weak points? To plan your strategy for beating me? Was this all a ruse, pretending to not be interested when all this time—”

“No! I didn’t read it on purpose. I decided not to enter because I—never mind.” Her face turned a delightful shade somewhere between dusty pink and ash rose.

“Any chance we could call us even?”

“Not until you explain why you entered me in this contest.”

He held up his watch so she could look at it. “We need to let them lock up. If you insist on an explanation, I’m afraid it’ll have to be over dinner.”

Her face darkened to a color even he couldn’t name. Not quite barn red, but close. “Well, I … thank you, but I have to get home for the boys and we need to finish decorating the bed for tomorrow—”

“One thing at a time.” Star stood with a finger in the air. “You two go eat and when you’re done, you can both come and work on the bed.” She held out an upturned palm. “Just fork over the keys and I’ll take care of everything.”

Willow sighed but fished her keys out of her purse and relinquished them. “I think you’ve taken care of enough for today, missy.”

“Oh no.” Star glanced at Wilson. “I’ve only just begun.”

Wilson winked at her. He wasn’t a winker, but it seemed the appropriate gesture for acknowledging an accomplice.

Willow set her napkin on her plate. “And what about you? Kids are my excuse. Why is it you never married?”

“I was close once. Years—” His phone rang. He glanced at it. “Sorry. Another starving artist. This’ll just take me a sec.” He smiled as he answered it. “Hey, Mike. Yep. Thanks for the tip. Begging for their wood scraps was awkward, but who needs pride, right? Hey, I’m in the middle of something, can I call you tomorrow? Okay. Thanks again.”

She couldn’t make eye contact for a moment. The image of Wilson begging for wood froze her.

He set the phone down. “Where was I? Oh yeah, marriage. I was close years ago. Emphasis on the
I
. Thought we had a thing, you know, but then I went and blew it all by proposing.”

“And?”

“She said I was fun to hang out with, but I had an ego the size of Alaska and the only humans I was capable of loving were the ones I created on canvas.”

Willow gasped. “That’s horrible! What did you say to that?”

“I said, ‘I do believe you’re right. Have a nice life.’”

Eyes burning with tears of laughter, Willow shook her head. “But you don’t have a huge ego. I’ve never seen any evidence of it.”

“Thank you. By the grace of God alone. I was quite the intellectual snob before the Lord got a hold of me. Had to go through some really rough times—clay in the hands of the Potter, and all that. You mentioned living in your van. I can relate to that.” He ran his thumb along the edge of the table. “I rented a single room for years and lived on Spam and generic baked beans.” His top lip curled.

She thought of the empty refrigerator and the bedroom closet with only two pairs of pants, five long-sleeved shirts and five short-sleeved. His starving artist days were not past tense. “But now? Are you content?”
To live in a barn?