Past Forward Volume 1 (21 page)

“Chad would ask if I would buy everything
now to save time.”

She blinked, trying to make sense of
Willow’s words. “I don’t get it.”

A small smile rose on one corner of Willow’s
lips. “He seems to think that you can save time like you do
money—store it up for later. Everything I do he asks why not do it
some other way to ‘save time.’”

Once again, Lee found herself annoyed with
the officer. “Looks like he needs to—hey! I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“Boho Chic in Rockland!” she squealed.

“Bo what?”

“It’s a store,” Lee explained. It’s perfect.
Trust me. You see…”

Willow’s name flashed on Chad’s screen. His
mouth went dry at the thought of why she might call so late. “Are
you alright? Did you get home ok?”

“I’m fine. I just wondered…” Willow’s voice
wavered.

“Wondered what?”

She cleared her throat. “Well, I was
wondering what you were doing Saturday evening.” Willow waited
expectantly for Chad’s answer.

Great. She wants me to take her
somewhere. I knew being friendly would bite me in the end
.
Honesty forced Chad to admit he got off work at ten in the morning
and was free for twenty-four hours. “Why?”

“Well, Saturday Bill is coming to take me to
Rockland—”

Sheesh, she’s getting around a lot!
he groused to himself.

“—
he wanted me to see some
of the museums and the zoo and other things like that, so he’s
taking me to the Pennsylvania Avenue Museum. He also wanted to take
me out to dinner, but I told him I needed to be home early enough
to milk Willie.”

“And?” Chad knew what was coming. He went
from near panic at the idea of turning Willow down for a date to
annoyance that he was the sucker used to make her date with Bill
happen.

“Well Lee was just here, and she—”

Oh no! Now she’s playing matchmaker…
he groaned inwardly.

“—
that there is a store
there that makes clothes to order with the fabrics you like, and
she thought their prints and styles are perfect for me. She called
it ‘Euro Boho.’ Whatever that is.”

“Ok, I’m not following you. What does Lee
and fabric have to do with going to Rockland?”

Willow giggled—something he’d never expected
to hear her do. “I want to talk Bill into taking me to that store,
but if I do that, I think I should make sure we still get to have
sushi, so I thought if you would let me pay you to milk Wilhelmina,
it might not be so bad. If we don’t get to eat there for lunch, we
could do dinner—”

“I’ll milk the goat. You stay and have fun.
But you’re not paying me for anything.”

The protest he expected appeared on cue. “I
can’t keep taking advantage of you.”

“It’s what friends do, Willow. It’s what we
do.” He slid his phone shut and glanced around the station as he
took a swig of his coffee. Friends. Had he just insisted that he
was a friend?
Just suck it up and admit that you’re stuck,
he growled to himself, gulping down the last bit of his coffee. The
dregs of the instant grounds that hadn’t dissolved tickled his
throat.
Friends?
Chad choked.

The first rays of sunrise filtered through
wispy curtains. Her arms stretched overhead as Willow emerged from
sleep. Friday. Cleaning day. She tossed back the sheet and rolled
out of bed. Rifling through her drawers, she grabbed cutoffs and
socks. A cut-off halter-top, tied just below her chest—usual summer
cleaning attire. Perfect.

As she did once a month, Willow rolled each
rug and dragged it down the stairs, through the house, and onto the
back porch. Perspiration poured down her temples and the back of
her neck, pooling in places that drove her crazy. Still, she
managed to rid the upper floors of their coverings.

From the hall closet, she grabbed her bucket
and poured a little “mopping oil” into it. Mother always called it
“Lavender Murphy Oil” after some cleaning product. It had taken
them years to perfect the liquid soap recipe, but at last, Mother
had deemed it perfect. She filled the bucket with water, grabbed
clean rags from the basket on the shelf, and started in the craft
room. With the windows flung open for fresh air, she wiped down
each shelf and gently dusted each book jacket with a dry
cloth—everything received a thorough cleaning. She swept the floor
carefully, trying not to stir the dust again, and then retrieved
the mop.

Made from the bottoms of cutoff jeans, the
mop head looked like any old rag mop—but blue. She wrung it well
and wiped down the floor with it. As she worked, Willow sang—the
songs from Chad’s CD filling her heart as she tackled room after
room.

She stripped the beds, put fresh sheets on
them, picked flowers, and filled the vases by the bedsides and the
little vase in the bathroom windowsill. The laundry, she tossed
down the stairs to the landing. With the other rooms clean, she
grabbed the sugar shaker full of cleanser and a fresh rag and
tackled the bathroom. Tub, sink, toilet, floors—it gleamed by the
time she was done.

Willow frowned at the nearly empty shaker
jar and went to refill it. Two buckets stood at the bottom of the
closet. “One big scoop baking soda, one small scoop borax, one
teaspoon lavender powder…” she dumped them in the jar and shook it
vigorously. “There. All ready for next week.”

Grabbing a mason jar of vinegar and a fresh
rag, Willow went into the bathroom and wiped down the mirror and
windows. She filled the sink with water and dumped a little vinegar
in it. Back on the shelf, she replaced the jar, and went to wipe
down the bathroom floor. Done for another week. Before she started
downstairs, Willow surveyed her work with satisfaction. She had
always been in charge of upstairs clean up on Fridays, and it felt
good to return to a familiar rhythm.

On the landing, she scooped up the dirty
sheets, bath mats, and cleaning rags. The sense of familiarity
ended as she stepped into the living room. Dust played in the
stream of sunlight from the east window. Wilted and dead flowers
crumbled at the bases of mason jars and the mosaic vase. The
windows—dust marred the usual Friday morning shine. She glanced in
the little library, expecting—rather hoping—to hear the strains of
music on the Victrola. Mother hadn’t done her Friday morning
chores—would never do those chores again.

She dropped the laundry in the middle of the
floor, her throat constricting and fighting for breath. For the
first time in several days, Willow collapsed on the chaise and
sobbed. Her natural inclination to choke back her tears almost
overcame her. After several attempts to stamp it down, she allowed
herself full vent of her grief. Work often kept her busy, crowding
out the pain of her loss, but occasionally, the finality of it
overwhelmed her.

How long she cried, she didn’t know, but a
bark at the back door jerked her out of the abyss she felt lost in
and reminded her that Willie was probably ready for relief. A
glance at the clock showed it was just after eight-thirty. “I’m
going to start breakfast first Othello, go wait for me, boy.”

The oatmeal canister was almost empty,
sending Willow into the pantry for a refill. As she bent to fill
it, she saw the last jar of canned cherries and developed an
instant craving for cherry-vanilla ice cream. She carried the jar
with her into the kitchen, humming as she poured boiling water over
her oats. The notes choked in her throat. It wouldn’t work. It
still hurt.

While her breakfast cooked, Willow dragged
herself to the barn with Othello at her heels. The puppy jumped and
yapped, happy to see her as she opened the barn door and went into
the kitchen for the milking pail. In minutes, a pan of water
simmered on the stove, leaving Willow free to milk the goat and
care for the other animals.

After breakfast, Willow tackled the
distasteful job of rug beating. Several attempts to carry the
biggest rug failed until Willow covered the garden cart with an old
sheet and flopped it in there. The smaller ones, she piled on top
of it. She pushed the cart to the poles the Finley women had
erected for dirt eradication purposes and fought to hang the first
rug over it. Some of the rugs were heavy, bulky, and it required
every ounce of Willow’s upper body strength to set them up for
their monthly beating.

Realizing she’d left her beater inside,
Willow strode to the pantry and returned with a battered old broom.
It was hot, sweaty work, but Willow’s cutoff jeans and cropped
halter top, though they covered little, kept her cooler than
anything else could have as she pummeled the dirt from the
rugs.

The first two rugs cleaned with relative
ease. The dirt fell consistently as the broom whacked, until
eventually the clouds of dust and dirt became unnoticeable. She
swept them thoroughly on both sides of the rug and then rolled them
up, allowing the last foot or two to drop onto her shoulders.
Opening the kitchen door to carry them back in was harder than she
remembered. Several times, they rolled to the ground, but she kept
going, always fighting to finish the job.

She dropped the large rug from her room
twice, re-beat it twice, and rolled it up again, twice. At last,
she managed to get it and keep it on her back. It slid off again on
her way up the stairs but she dragged it into her room and unrolled
it at the side of her bed where it had lain since she hooked it ten
years earlier. Surveying it now, Willow realized it had grown faded
and worn.

“It’s probably time to make another one.
I—oh Mother, how did you schedule projects like this? I need to
read more. I know I don’t have time now, but maybe at night…”

Her mother’s voice echoed through her
thoughts, tugging a weak smile from her lips.
Every day needs
its Sabbath.
She’d heard those words every time she tried to
fill her evenings with anything that could be construed as work.
Evenings were for anything but needs—a time to relax and rejuvenate
before the next day.

The final rug slipped easily over the bar.
It belonged at the foot of her bed and was nearly new. The
workmanship was better, and the pattern more suited to Willow’s
current tastes. The folk-art sampler of her early years was pretty,
but having designed her own floral and stylized pattern last
winter, she knew exactly what she wanted the replacement to look
like.

Chad rounded the corner of the house and saw
Willow beating a rug with an old broom. She brushed the surface
with the bristles and then began rolling it off the bar from which
it hung. He tried to reach her before the weight of the rug hit her
shoulders, but was too late.

“Hey, I’ll help you with that.”

Willow, face, arms, and legs streaked with
dirt and sweat, glanced at him gratefully. “Thanks. I’ve only had
to do this alone once before, and it’s not easy.”

“I’d love to ask why you don’t use a vacuum
cleaner, but I have a feeling you’d tell me you wouldn’t know what
to do with the time you’d save or something like that.”

“Mother said vacuums were nasty things. She
said that you could see how inefficient they are just by lifting an
area rug after you vacuumed.”

“I don’t understand.”

Willow shrugged. “Well, I’ve never seen it,
of course, but Mother said that under a freshly vacuumed rug
there’d be a huge layer of dirt on top of wood flooring and that it
destroyed the finish of the floor and the back of the rug. That,”
she continued with half a smile, “and the little part about not
having the electricity on to use one.”

As Willow rolled out the rug at the foot of
her bed, she pointed to the other one. “I’m going to make another
one like this for there. That rug is getting worn and faded.”

He watched as she passed the mirror, her
eyes wide with alarm. “Sorry, Chad. I’m not used to people being
around when I’m working.” Excusing herself, she grabbed a dress
from the closet and dashed into the bathroom, muttering something
about being covered in dirt. The shower burst on less than a minute
later. Chad smiled to himself and glanced around the room. It
smelled wonderful. Clean. The flowers on her nightstand sent a
gentle whiff of lilac and roses across the room with every puff of
wind through the window.