Wishing on Willows: A Novel (4 page)

His uncertainty grew, sticking to his insides like a heavy meal of pancakes and syrup. “Can I take a rain check on that tea?”

“Sure. Just tell whoever’s working that Amanda spilled coffee all over you and she promised you a free drink.” She cupped one hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “I don’t think anybody will be surprised.”

His chuckle returned. “Great, thanks.” He gave the counter a knock and walked toward the door. Hopefully this Robin would be as eager to help as Amanda.

Forty-five minutes inside Sybil’s Antique Shoppe and Caleb finally found the perfect birthday present for Uncle Evan—a model John Deere tractor with a missing front wheel. As they stepped away from the cash register, Caleb held it over his head. “Can we get dinosaur paper?”

“I’m sure Aunt Bethy has wrapping paper we can use at the farm.”

“Did Daddy love dinosaurs like me?”

The thick cloud of incense Sybil insisted on burning made Robin’s eyes itch and her brain fuzzy. She hurried her son toward the exit, eager for fresh air and sunlight. They couldn’t have ordered more perfect weather for Evan’s birthday, and the promise of an entire day spent with family sounded glorious. “Grandma says they were his favorite toy when he was your age.”

“And tractors too?”

“Tractors and dinosaurs. Just like you.” Threading her fingers with his, she batted aside the strings of beads that hung like cobwebs in the entrance, ushered Caleb outside, and almost plowed into a wall. Scratch that. A
person. She stepped back and shielded her eyes from the low-hanging sun silhouetting the man in front of her.

He was a stranger. With dark blond hair and light brown eyes and a giant stain on his shirtfront. Fresh, by the looks of it.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come barreling out of the door like that.”

“No worries.” He stepped out of the way and motioned to his shirt. “I’m starting to suspect I’m the problem.”

“I’m not used to anyone coming into Sybil’s.” Her cheeks flushed. Hopefully the combination of distance and age would keep Sybil from hearing the thoughtless words. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the store. It’s just … out of the way. I guess.”

The man’s smile crinkled his eyes and showcased teeth that were white and straight—a walking advertisement for orthodontia.

It was the kind of smile that made her stomach dip, like she accidentally skipped that final stair leading down to her basement. The silly feeling left her flustered. “She’ll be glad you’re here. There’s, um, lots of great stuff.”

“I’m sure there is.” He removed one of his hands from his pocket and stuck it out. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tan forearms and a nice-looking watch. “I’m Ian.”

She hesitated long enough for Caleb to tug on her arm. “C’mon, Mommy. Let’s go.”

Quite often her son made carrying on a conversation impossible. At times, his impatience crawled under her skin. Today was not one of those times. She let herself be tugged away from the man’s outstretched hand. “He’s right. We’re late. It was nice meeting you.”

“Don’t I get to know your name? Or will I forever have to refer to you as the woman who almost knocked me over outside the pawn shop?”

“Antique.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s an antique shop.” She pointed to the sign.

“Oh, right.” He stood with his hands in the front pockets of his slacks, thumbs out, completely at ease, his eyes still crinkled as Caleb pulled her farther away. “So do you have a name?”

Robin batted away her discomfort. There was no harm in sharing her name with a stranger. So why did she have the silly urge to lie? Maybe it was the way the man’s attention kept flitting to her son. “My name’s … Janet.”

Caleb stopped tugging, his forehead scrunching in massive confusion. She squeezed his hand and stepped toward the car before he could blow her cover.

“Nice meeting you, Janet.”

“You too.” She gave him a halfhearted wave and turned around. “Take a deep breath before you go inside,” she muttered.

“What did you say, Mommy?”

“Oh, nothing. It was nothing.” She ushered Caleb toward her car and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.

Caleb sprinted toward the John Deere tractor parked outside the machine shed, Spider-Man tennis shoes kicking up droplets of mud from the soggy ground.

“Don’t climb on that tractor,” Robin called after him. She looped her fingers through the handle of a plastic bag in the backseat of her car, tucked her free arm beneath a platter of fruit and cheese, and emerged from her vehicle. She checked that Caleb wasn’t climbing and walked along the gravel path toward the farmhouse when the smell of smoke curled up her nose.

She jogged the last several paces and struggled to open the screen door with both of her hands already occupied. She fumbled with the handle, then nudged the door the rest of the way with her foot. Its hinges squealed and the door slammed shut behind her. Smoke decorated the ceiling while Bethany stared morosely at the charred cake smoking on the countertop, her long hair tied up in a messy knot. “How is it that I can design buildings, but making a cake is a complete stumper?”

Robin set down the cheese tray and flapped the black haze out the opened window. “How in the world did you burn it so badly?”

“I was preoccupied.”

“With what? Plowing a field?”

“Trying to squeeze an entire day’s worth of work into an unpredictable nap time.”

Robin plucked the cake mix box from the counter and held it away from her like a dirty sock. “You’ll accept Betty Crocker’s help but not mine?”

“I’m his wife. I bake the cake.”

Right. So where did that leave Robin? Cakeless, that’s where. She feigned interest in a nearby spatula and manipulated her features into something less conflicted. “So because you’re Evan’s wife, we all have to suffer?”

“I baked one last year.”

Robin’s lips twitched. “Is that what that was?”

“Evan said he loved it.”

“That’s because Evan loves you. And you were pregnant.”

“How am I supposed to do anything when I’m getting two hours of sleep at night?” Bethany plopped her elbows on the counter and rubbed her eyes. “Evan is already talking about having more. Four, Robin. Last night he actually said he wanted four kids.”

“Elyse isn’t sleeping any better?”

“She’s three months. Caleb slept through the night when he was three weeks.”

“Every kid is different.” And Caleb had come into Robin’s life like a bundle of grace. Back then, during the days of Desitin and Johnson’s baby shampoo, her grief was still so jagged. If God had given her a colicky baby, she might have curled up on the floor and cried them both to insanity. “I promise it won’t last forever.”

If God had taught her anything over the past four years, it was that life came in seasons. Elyse’s poor sleeping habits were no different. Robin peeked out the kitchen window and spotted Caleb sitting in the dirt by one of the tractor tires, making explosion noises as he rammed his toy combine into the treaded rubber.

“Maybe I should go wake her up. Do you think I let her sleep too much during the day?”

Robin threw the box in the trash and handed Bethany the plastic bag of groceries she’d brought. “You let Elyse sleep and I’ll go check on Caleb. When I get back, we can bake a real cake.”

Bethany pulled out eggs and flour and other various cake ingredients, the plastic crinkling. “I should be insulted.”

“You should be thankful.” Robin set the smoldering cake outside in the mulch and made her way toward Caleb. “Hey, Bugs, why don’t you come inside with Mommy and Aunt Bethy?”

He raced to her side and placed his chin against her hip, his large hazel eyes pleading through dark, thick lashes. “Can I play by the tractor? Please, Mommy?”

Robin feathered her fingers through his hair. “I thought you wanted to wrap Uncle Evan’s birthday present.”

He eyed the green machine with such longing that she had to laugh. The boy was tractor-obsessed. “Make sure you stay where you can see me through the window.” She held up her finger and gave her little man a stern look. “And no climbing.”

He bobbed his head and raced away. Robin returned to the kitchen, where Bethany had lined up all the ingredients on the counter and was drying out a steel mixing bowl. “In case I forget to tell you, thanks for doing this. You know how much Evan loves his cake.”

“Thanks for agreeing to help me with the meet and greet tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“And thanks for not asking about last night.”

“Amanda already warned me.” Bethany gave Robin a sympathetic smile and ruffled through the empty bag. “So where’s the recipe?”

“Now it’s my turn to be insulted.” Robin took the bag and tossed it in the garbage can. “You know I hate asking, but do you think you could work a couple short swing shifts this week?”

As a freelance architect, Bethany had the flexibility to work a few odd shifts at Willow Tree whenever Robin found herself short-staffed. They set up a Pack ’N Play in the back room for Elyse, who would either sleep or enjoy some tummy time. Not something they could do once Baby Girl got older and more mobile.

Bethany scratched at an imaginary stain on the counter. “This week might be tough. I received two phone calls from potential clients yesterday. One for a home renovation and the other for a new restaurant in Le Claire.
The restaurant will be my first big project post-baby. I’m hoping it’ll get me back into the swing of things.”

“That’s great.”

Bethany gave her a look—one that said she wasn’t buying it. “Great for me, but what about you? You can’t be at your café 24/7. It’s not healthy.”

Robin rolled up her sleeves and spooned flour into a measuring cup. “Maybe I can beg Amanda to help.”

The screen door shut behind them. “Help with what?”

Robin looked over her shoulder. Amanda stood in the doorway with a six-pack of pop.

“Picking up a couple shifts this week.”

“I do have a real job, you know. I’m the one who balances your café’s bank account.” Amanda slid a can from a plastic ring and cracked it open. “And anyway, I think your café works better without me. I shouldn’t be allowed to carry drinks.”

Robin’s hand froze, the cup of flour poised in midair. “What happened?”

“You always jump to the worst conclusion.”

“Amanda.”

“I spilled coffee on a customer.” Amanda took a sip and scrunched one of her eyes. “No,
customer
can’t be the right word. He didn’t actually buy anything.”

Robin pictured the gentleman with the tan forearms and the mischievous smile and the giant coffee stain down his front, the one she’d met outside Sybil’s Antique Shoppe. He’d been in her café? Bethany reached out and overturned Robin’s hand. The flour plopped into the mixing bowl, kicking up a puff of white.

“Don’t freak out. I offered him anything he wanted from the menu for free.” The pop cans clanked as Amanda set them on the kitchen table. “Have you ever considered your financial problems with Willow Tree might have something to do with your tendency to give things away for free?”

“There’s nothing wrong with generosity.”

“Well, Miss Generous, he seemed very interested in meeting you.”

Robin’s brow puckered. “I think I already met him.”

“Where?”

“I ran into a guy with a big coffee stain on his shirt outside Sybil’s. A little shorter than Evan? Blond hair?”

“A total hunk?”

Robin rolled her eyes. “He’s probably an auditor.”

“He was way too cute to be an auditor. And polite.” Amanda poked her finger into Robin’s arm and wagged her eyebrows. “And he was asking about you.”

Robin dipped the measuring cup into the flour bag. She liked that Amanda was coming back to her jocular self, but she did not want her playing Cupid. Cecile Arton had that position covered and Robin didn’t need two in her life. She didn’t even need one. Last night was proof. “Like I said, he was probably an auditor. And you spilled coffee on him.”

“Well, I promised the auditor something for free. He took a rain check, which means he’s coming back. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Why would I need to be war—”

A high-pitched scream sliced off the end of her question. A horrifying sound capped with a sickening thud. Robin’s nerve endings shot through her skin. Everything seized. Her heart. Her lungs and mind. It all halted in a painful standstill. Until her son’s cry sliced through the frozen imbalance and hurled Robin into fast-forward. She tossed the measuring cup aside, and with a thousand horrendous thoughts spiraling through her mind, sprinted toward her son crumpled in the grass.

The large Victorian home sat back from the road, peeking over a squat insurance building and an old-fashioned barber shop. Pale blue siding wrapped around a front-facing gable and climbed toward a steeply pitched roof. Ian shaded his eyes from the sun and squinted at the sign near the walkway.

Bernie’s Bed-and-Breakfast. His sister would appreciate the alliteration.

He slammed his trunk shut and wheeled his travel suitcase up a shaded walkway lined with ugly garden gnomes. A chime jingled as Ian stepped into the dimly lit foyer, wide enough to accommodate a tall cherry desk with a computer, upon which sat a chipped mug and a silver bell. Behind the desk a plant grew out of an actual toilet bowl, porcelain painted the color of butter, and a wide-set staircase climbed to the second floor. Muted voices from a television filtered down the steps. He wiped his shoes on the welcome mat and stepped forward, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath him. “Hello?”