Wishing on Willows: A Novel (12 page)

She tapped the back of her head against the bark. Why did Micah have to die? Why did life have to be so hard without him? Why did the pain have to return now?

The
whys
came without warning. They came without relief, or answers.

I miss having a mother, Lord. I miss having a husband
.

Robin closed her eyes and let herself soak in the memories—Micah’s strong arms wrapping her in a hug. The smell of his cologne pressed into the collar of his work shirts. Running her fingers through the thickness of his hair. The warmth of his skin when they made love on lazy Saturday mornings. His kisses. His laughter. The deepness of his voice. It had been over
four years since she’d experienced any of them, yet at times like these, the memories were so clear and crystal she felt like she could reach out and gather them in her hands.

She blotted her eyes with the back of her wrist. This was silly. The troubles with her café had her turned around. Everything was fine until Ian showed up. His untimely disruption disturbed the rhythm of her life like a poorly placed note in the middle of a song, making her feel, more than ever, like an Israelite wandering in the desert. Because where was God in all of this?

Lord, You want me to fight for the café, don’t You?

Robin tried to imagine life without Willow Tree, but the picture left a gaping hole in her heart. She loved serving Chief Bergman and his wife red velvet hot chocolate with whipped cream every year on Valentine’s Day. She loved playing hostess to the Fiction Junkies book club on the third Thursday of every month. She loved serving coffee to the ladies who met for Bible study every Monday afternoon and she loved playing her piano for the Crammers every Saturday evening. Somehow she had turned a run-down flower shop into the dream she and Micah shared all those years ago. Bringing the place to life had brought her back to life. She couldn’t let it go now.

Robin stood and brushed bits of grass from her jeans. She slid the ring back on her finger, picked up a smooth rock, and skipped it across the surface of the pond. It gave two pathetic hops and sank into the water.

Caleb looked at her with amazement, then picked up a smaller rock and imitated her throw, but the pebble only plunked near the bank and disappeared. He frowned at the ring of spreading ripples.

“You’ll get the hang of it, buddy. It’s in your blood. Your dad used to be the world champion rock skipper.”

He smiled like he knew. Like he remembered.

“C’mon. It’s time for the park.”

Their joined palms swung as they walked along the pockmarked bike path.

“Grandpa’s coming to visit,” she said.

He smiled a big smile, one that showed all of his baby teeth. “Papa!”

“Do you remember Miss Donna?”

He scrunched up his brow. November was a long way back for a three-year-old.

“She was at Papa’s for Thanksgiving. She’s coming too.”

“Why?”

“She and Papa are friends.”

“Why?”

Robin chewed her lip. “Well, Papa loves Miss Donna.”

“And she loves Papa too?”

Robin stopped, and so did their swinging hands. She peered down at her boy. “I think she likes him a whole lot.”

The divot in his brow grew deeper. “Do you like somebody a whole lot?”

“I like you a whole lot.” She tapped his nose, then poked his belly. “There’s nobody in the world I like more than you.”

He giggled and buried his face in her hip. She tickled his ribs, his laughter balm to her chapped soul. They fell to the ground, Caleb panting for air. Robin stopped her tickling and pulled him to her in a tight hug.

“I love you.” His words patted her cheek with hot dog and ketchup breath.

“I love you too, Buggerboo.”

“Mommy?”

“Yeah?”

He took her cheeks with his palms, his nose not more than an inch from her own, and gave her his most serious look. The kind she wore whenever she talked to him about strangers. “Is it time for me to have another daddy yet?”

His innocent question felt like barbed wire. It snagged and tore and scraped. “Do you want another daddy?”

Caleb’s bobbing head fractured Robin’s heart. It broke for Micah, because his son didn’t know him. And it broke for Caleb, because giving him what he wanted felt utterly impossible.

My mother was a sucker for holidays—especially the overlooked ones. Because of her, I know that St. Nicholas Day is on December 6 and Flag Day is on June 14. Because of her, I can’t get through April 1 without playing at least one harmless prank on somebody I love. Because of her, the first thing I do every second day of February is turn on the television to see whether or not Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow. Because of her, I still get up early every single May Day and check my front porch.

Of all the neglected holidays, May Day was my favorite. We’d spend the night before weaving together small paper baskets, filling them with pastel-wrapped candies left over from Easter. The next morning, we’d wake up early, and as a special treat, Mom would let me have a cup of coffee—more hazelnut cream than anything else. Still, the warmth and the bitter aftertaste and the birds chirping outside the opened window turned the tradition into something magical.

When we finished our coffee, we’d race up the block, hanging the baskets on our neighbors’ doors before the sun could make its full appearance over the horizon. Mom would start on one side of the street. I’d start on the other. Until every doorknob on our block had a special treat waiting for its owner. I remember every single May Day since I was five. They are catalogued inside my memories, tucked away in a file marked with a smiley face.

But there is one in particular that I remember more clearly than all the others. And that was in third grade. Spring came early that year. The leaves had long since budded and the once-barren branches overflowed with green. Flowers had grown up from the ground. The world had come back to life.
Dad tracked bits of freshly mowed grass into the kitchen while Mom and I wove baskets in the dining room. Anticipation and excitement kept me up late. I spent at least an hour lying in bed, hands folded behind my head, eyes squeezed tight, as if slumber might be more willing to take me if I wasn’t looking. When my mom poked her head into my room the next morning, I sprang out of bed like an overeager jack-in-the-box.

Mom held her finger by her lips because Dad was still sleeping. She grabbed my hand and whispered, “You have to see this.”

She led me through the hallway, into the kitchen, where the coffee was brewing, and out onto the back porch. My mouth fell open and the tiniest of gasps tumbled out. A fresh blanket of snow covered the very grass Dad had just mowed. The whiteness clung to the green leaves on our pear tree. A fascinating contradiction.

I looked at my mom, my eyes wide with wonder. Of course, we saw snow all the time. We lived in the Midwest. Snow and I were not only well acquainted, we were good friends. I just wasn’t used to seeing it in May. We stood there, hand in hand, looking at our backyard, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell if the green poking up through the whiteness was beautiful or disconcerting.

“I don’t like it,” I finally said.

“No?”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“Winter is supposed to be over.”

Mom squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t last.”

She was right. By the time we drank our coffee and gathered our baskets and raced up and down the block, the snow was already starting to melt.

An undercurrent of desperation swirled in the conference room. Ian’s gum had lost its flavor twenty minutes ago, the moment his father sat down at the head of the table. Ian had hoped to swoop into the meeting like Santa Claus in May, with the Peaks project wrapped in a bow. He’d wanted to share a gift that would wipe away everyone’s worry. Surely the news would make people forget, for a second, that he was the boss’s divorced son. But his hopes had derailed—all thanks to a woman named Robin Price.

He spun a pencil around the tip of his thumb and tried to listen as one of the project managers shared updates and ideas. He pretended not to notice Dad’s glances every time the conversation paused.

McKay’s newest intern passed a second round of drinks around the table, then opened a can of ginger ale and set it near Ian’s elbow. He scooted it toward his father.

Dad brought the green can of ginger ale to his mouth. “You’re next, Ian.”

All eyes turned in his direction.

He traced the condensation beading along the plastic of his bottled water. “Mayor Ford definitely wants us for the job.”

There seemed to be a collective exhale of breath.

“That’s excellent news,” Dad said.

“I’ve checked zoning restraints. Switching from business to residential won’t be a problem. Not on the south end of town anyway. I’ve been making some phone calls and have several early investors lined up. It’s going to be a very lucrative project, just as we suspected.”

The desperation settled. Eyes brightened and several smiles were exchanged. If only Ian could make the brightness stay. If only he could figure out a way to fan the pride in his father’s eyes into something so much more than a flicker.

“Next steps?”

“I have a meeting on Friday with the town council, which will make our plans official. Then we’ll have to win the support of Peaks. I’m hoping that won’t be too hard, since the condominiums will be good for local business.”

The hope grew into something palpable.

“And what about the businesses we’ll have to buy out? Any problems there?”

Ian took a deep breath and let his answer escape on the exhale. “Potentially.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of the owners doesn’t want to sell.”

The hope swooshed away. Its sudden departure had everyone in the room fidgeting in their seats.

Dad set his elbows on the conference table and rubbed his eyes with his pointer finger and thumb. “How reluctant are we talking here?”

“Substantially reluctant.”

Dad seemed to consider Ian’s news, as if it were a morsel he could roll around on his tongue. When he finished rolling, he clasped his hands beneath his chin. “What if we offer more money?”

“It’s hard to say. She won’t listen to my initial offer.”

“Then you’ll have to make her listen.” Jim Harley stopped short of pounding his fist on the table. He had a gray mustache and a paunch and glasses that were always sliding down his nose. He also had four kids at home, a girl who was starting college in the fall, and a wife with multiple sclerosis. Without this deal, his territory would most likely be the first to go.

“I know,” Ian said.

“There are ways you can pressure her.” Jim looked around the table, as if waiting for somebody to jump in. “Who’s her lender?”

“She owns the business outright.”

“Well, does she have a line of credit? That might be a place to start.”

Ian’s grip tightened around his water bottle, the plastic crackling in the aftermath of Jim’s suggestion. Ian had always taken pride in Dad’s integrity. He refused to conduct business like so many of their competitors. It was one of the many reasons Ian harbored so much respect for his father. “I understand we’re all feeling uneasy. But I don’t think I like what you’re suggesting.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Jim said.

“Making underhanded deals would turn us all into a walking cliché.”

“I’ll take cliché over unemployed any day.”

Heat stirred in Ian’s chest. “Look, I understand what’s at stake. But I’m not going to do anything underhanded.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a wife and children to take care of.”

Jim’s words were like a sucker punch to the gut.

Dad cleared his throat, effectively collecting the room’s attention, giving Ian a moment to recover. “Is her business doing well?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“If she’s a smart woman, she’s not going to hold on to a sinking ship. Especially not if Ian can get the town on his side.”

Dad motioned for a notepad. The intern slid one over along with her pen. He jotted some numbers and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Fixtel opens next spring. We need these condos up before then.” He scratched a few more notes on the paper. “In order for this investment to work in our favor, we should have everything squared away soon. Mid-July at the latest.”

Jim coughed.

“The timing is tight, especially with a reluctant seller. But Ian’s up for the challenge.” Dad picked up his ginger ale and studied Ian over the top of his can, fire burning in his eyes.

For the rest of the meeting, while two more managers relayed updates with much smaller projects, Ian jotted ideas onto sheets of paper. The first of which was to hightail it back to Peaks so he could get moving. Dad was
right. The timing was tight. Somehow, he’d have to find a way to get Robin to see reason. Maybe if he spoke with her husband. Surely he had some clout over the decision, even if he wasn’t listed on the title. He ignored the shards of guilt slivering his chest. Robin had a full life to invest in: a husband, a son, her music, and her church. She’d survive without a café. He, on the other hand, had no spouse, no kids, a sick mother, a disappointed father, and a company that was counting on him. She might love her café, but he had so much more at stake.

When the meeting ended, Ian stacked the papers in front of him as the rest of the development team filed out of the office.

Dad stood by the door. “I hope the deadline didn’t rattle you.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Do you have a game plan?”

“Go back to Peaks, for starters. Stay there and make some waves.”

“You think staying in Peaks is the way to go?”

“It’ll be hard to get the town’s support without being there.” Never mind how much he enjoyed the time away from his house and the empty rooms and a past he couldn’t quite bury. “To be honest, Dad, sometimes I think relocating permanently wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

Dad laughed, like Ian had told a joke.

“Not all the project managers work out of Peoria.”

“Not all the project managers are my son—the future president of McKay Development and Construction. I need you here. Especially now.” Dad picked up his briefcase. “And don’t forget your mother. I’m not sure she’d ever forgive me if I let you go.”