Wishing on Willows: A Novel (37 page)

The buildings lining Main Street corralled the sunlight. Yellow rays tunneled down the road, reflecting off storefront windows, making Ian squint. He shook his head, forcing himself to wake up. The short hand barely crept past five—not even dinnertime—yet he felt as if he’d lived an entire life in a single day.

His foot tapped the brake as his car rolled past Willow Tree. A man stood on a ladder, nailing boards over one of the windows. Two others wheeled Robin’s damaged piano down the lawn toward a bay truck. Ian pulled over to the curb and hopped out of the car. There were a lot of things he couldn’t fix, a lot of things he couldn’t change, but this wasn’t one of them.

The two men grunted and strained as they wheeled the piano onto a metal loading dock.

“Excuse me, fellas.”

The men stopped.

“Where are you taking this?”

One guy mopped sweat from his brow. “Junkyard.”

“Can I have it?”

“Why?” The guy kicked at a half-broken leg. “It’s a hunk of junk.”

“A really heavy hunk of junk,” the other said.

Ian ran his hand along the charred surface. Some of it had to be restorable. He thought of the instrument repair shop across the street from his office in Peoria. Surely they could do something. “I’d like to have it.”

The two men exchanged looks.

Ian reached into his back pocket and pulled out his debit card. “How about I pay you two hundred bucks apiece and you help me get this hunk of junk to a repair shop?”

Their suspicion melted. They turned to Ian with matching grins. “Lead the way.”

Two months after we moved to Peaks, Dad had to go away on business and Mom decided to get rid of his recliner. I invited Bethany over after school and as soon as we stepped inside, we caught sight of Mom grunting and straining, trying to shove the mammoth chair toward the door. She swiped at the beads of sweat forming across her brow and blew strands of hair out of her eyes. “Oh, hi, girls,” she said.

Bethany and I exchanged looks.

“Wanna give me a hand?”

“Where are we moving it?” Bethany set her backpack by the door.

“To the curb.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open. Dad loved that recliner. So much, in fact, that he lovingly referred to it as Old Pete. I have no idea where the name came from. Regardless, Old Pete was the centerpiece of almost all of their arguments. Mom wanted the recliner to go. Dad was adamant that it stay, even though it smelled like feet and showcased several unidentifiable stains. Old Pete had been a part of our family for as long as I could remember.

I looked out the large picture window. Swollen storm clouds rolled overhead. The forecast called for severe thunderstorms, possibly even flash flooding. If Mom got Old Pete out on the curb and the sky unleashed, there would be no going back. The thing would never survive. “Mom?”

“Come on, Bethy, you grab that end and I’ll grab this end. A couple of strong women like ourselves ought to be able to lift this thing.”

Bethany grabbed underneath the left armrest.

“Make sure to lift with your legs. On the count of three. One … two …”

“Mom?” I said again.

She stopped counting. “Yes, dear?”

I pointed at the clouds. “It’s going to rain.”

“Which is precisely why I want to get this thing outside.”

“Dad’s going to kill you.”

“Your father might be many things, but a violent man he is not.” She rubbed her hands together. “Now, are you going to help us?”

I stared at Old Pete. Sad, pathetic Old Pete. I think maybe he used to be blue, but time had worn him into a faded gray. Nothing about him matched our new furniture. Nothing about him fit in with the rest of our house.

“Your father has had this abomination since college. Trust me, the parting is long overdue.”

“Okay, but if he gets mad …”

“I shall take the brunt of his wrath. Now come on, my darling daughter.”

It took the three of us forty-five minutes to drag that thing to the curb. As soon as we finished, the sky unzipped and buckets of rain soaked us straight through. We laughed like maniacs and sprinted up the long driveway. I tore open the door and we spilled inside. Burger, our bulldog, lifted his head from his spot near the piano but didn’t bother getting up.

Once we finished wringing ourselves out, Mom fed us peanut butter and honey sandwiches while thunder crashed outside and wind pummeled the side of the house. It was a fierce storm, but short-lived. When the rain stopped, Old Pete’s ruin was complete.

Mom clapped. “Who wants to go to Sofa Mart?”

Bethany and I raised our hands.

We piled inside Mom’s van and spent two hours trying out new chairs. When Dad came home three days later, the garbage man had taken Old Pete away and a nice new leather recliner sat in his place. I waited for Dad’s face to turn red. I waited for an explosion. Instead, Dad set his briefcase down and scratched his chin. He gave Mom one of those arched-eyebrow looks.

“It was time, babe.”

He sat down and reclined back, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I couldn’t believe it. Dad liked the new chair.

Mom bent over and gave him a kiss. “I promise not to say I told you so.”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the chair with him. She giggled and that was that. Old Pete was a thing of the past.

Dr. Dotts removed the last stitch and patted Robin’s elbow. She held her hand in front of her, fingers splayed. The wound looked tender—more red than pink.

“I’d still wait a good week or so before playing that piano of yours,” he said.

That shouldn’t be a problem, seeing as she no longer had one to play.

“I want you to be gentle with it for a while, and make sure to clean it every night.”

“Thanks.” She mustered a smile and blinked at his bow tie. He had always worn one, even when she was a teenager and he still gave her safety pops. Something about the tie’s familiarity—its consistency—bolstered her spirit. Some things did stay the same.

“How’s Caleb doing?”

“Great.” A genuine smile tugged at her lips. With her café in disrepair, they would have a lot of time to spend together. The one silver lining to this fiasco.

“He’s healthy?”

“As a horse.”

“When does he get his cast off?”

“A couple more weeks.”

“And how’s your gentleman friend? The one who brought you in when you cut your finger.”

Her stomach knotted. “Ian?”

“He was a nice fellow. Seemed to treat you well. How’s he doing?”

Robin bit her lip. She wouldn’t know. She hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning, when she cried into his chest. “I think he’s okay.”

“That’s good.” Dr. Dotts patted her knee. “You take care of that finger. If it gives you any trouble, come on back and I’ll give it a proper scolding.”

Robin slid off the table and brought her purse strap over her shoulder. She waved farewell and left the office, digging for her keys as she went. Halfway to her car, she found them and something else too. Her fingers slid over the smooth surface of the letter. She pulled it out of her purse and unfolded the note with great delicacy—as if it were an ancient relic about to fall apart—and stared, for the hundredth time, at Ian’s handwriting.

She’d found the note in her mailbox last night, after returning from a very long day at the café. A patch of clouds glided past the sun, dimming the paper in her hand, but she didn’t need the sunlight to read the words. She didn’t even need to open her eyes.

Dear Robin, I’ll be away taking care of some business. I’m not sure how long it will take. Would you call me, please?
Below, he’d jotted his number and signed his name. Something about the neat, slanted shape of his letters made her stomach quiver. Robin’s arm fell to her side. She hadn’t made any phone calls, at least not to him.

What good would it do? He wasn’t going to quit. And even if she wanted to give in, One Life depended on her.

Ian pushed the door open to the smell of varnish and pine. He followed Mom inside the piano restoration shop and ignored the question twinkling in her eyes.

A tall woman with flyaway hair met them at the door. “May I help you?”

“I’m Ian McKay. I brought in a piano a week and a half ago.”

The woman clapped her hands together. “Ah yes, Ian. How are you doing?”

“I wanted to stop by and check on the progress.”

“We’ve been working on it day and night and nothing else. It’s a gorgeous instrument. Do you mind if I ask how old it is?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Mom stepped closer and looped her arm through his. He could feel her staring at the side of his face.

“Is it almost finished?” he asked.

The lady laughed. “Oh, goodness, no. Even with everybody working on it, it will still take us another couple weeks, at the very least. We’ve had to replace some of the wood, but we’re trying our best to keep it as uncompromised as possible.”

“Could you make sure it gets delivered to this address when it’s finished?” He handed her a folded slip of paper with Willow Tree Café’s address and Robin’s phone number scrawled inside. “I’d sure appreciate it.”

“Yes, of course. We’ll call as soon as we’re done.”

“No need to call me. You can call that number, there.” He pointed at the paper. “And charge the bill to my credit card, please.”

“We most certainly will. Thanks for your business, Mr. McKay.”

Ian tipped his head and led Mom out of the shop, counting backward from ten. He’d be shocked if he reached one before she voiced the questions flickering in her eyes. He didn’t even get to five.

“That was an odd little detour.”

He nodded and helped her over the curb.

“Whose piano are you fixing?”

“Robin’s. Where do you want to go for lunch?”

He escorted her to the passenger side of his car and opened the door. She squinted at him before slipping inside and pulling the seat belt across her chest. Ian shut her in. He’d just returned from a business trip to Wahlberg. Rather than hightail it to Peaks and force Robin to speak with him like his heart begged, he’d opted to take Mom out for a bite to eat. See how she was feeling. Checking on the piano was a temptation he couldn’t resist, and now he needed to answer her questions. He got in the car and started the ignition.

“Robin’s the owner of the café.”

He nodded.

“Why are you fixing her piano?”

“The fire ruined it and it’s important to her.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “How about that new Italian restaurant downtown?”

Mom rolled down the window. Her bandana rippled as she tilted her head back and smiled at the sunlight. “How long are you staying in Peoria?” she asked.

“I have to help Jim close the deal in Wahlberg. Then I have to go to Peaks for a couple days to wrap up some stuff before the town meeting in two weeks.” He needed to return the mayor’s phone calls. Iron out the details. He told Dad he was leaving the company at the end of July and was determined to show his father that he could, in fact, finish strong. But focusing was hard, especially when all he really wanted to do was knock down Robin’s door and ask her why she hadn’t called.

“Your father’s proud of you, you know.”

Ian gave Mom a look. “He’s disappointed.”

“Sad, yes. Disappointed, no.”

He brought his foot to the brake as his car approached a set of stoplights.

“Don’t forget, Ian, that your father didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps either. He admires you for stepping out to find your own way.”

“Yeah, well, what if I fall flat on my face?” The restaurant business was a risky one, especially when he had no idea where he would start.

“You won’t, honey. I’ve tasted your cooking.”

“But what if I do?”

“Then you do. And you take heart that failure doesn’t define you. Neither does your past or your divorce.” Mom fingered the silver cross hanging around her neck. “When that truth sinks in, you dust yourself off and get back up again.”

The light turned green. Ian pressed the gas. Mom rested her head against the headrest and closed her eyes.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

Ian dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. “What do you think about this condemnation thing?”