Past Forward Volume 1 (30 page)

“Hey!” Bill cried, rushing to ensure she
wasn’t injured. “Don’t do that without warning me. I thought I
pushed you out at first.”

Willow’s laughter brought the shadow of a
smile to his face. He looked vulnerable in the faint light
reflected by the moon. “Come on, let’s have a honeysuckle
feast.”

A sense of rising panic crept into his heart
as Bill followed her through moonlit trees and along the rustic
fence to the other side of the house. Any beauty or romance that
the occasion should have provided dissipated under the heavy
footprint of unease and discomfort as they wandered through ankle
to calf-high grasses—in the dark. Was this how she felt in the
city? No wonder she couldn’t wait to get home—home was all he could
think of. It took every ounce of self-control to hide the hesitant
steps he made until they reached the first blossoms.

“That is fragrant! I’ve never smelled
anything like it—well, not when it wasn’t in a bottle.” At least
his voice sounded normal. Bill couldn’t vouch for anything
else.

“Here, try this,” Willow urged, dropping
several delicate blossoms in his hand. “Just suck the nectar from
the center.”

“Without washing them?”

It was too late. Willow had already plucked
another blossom. “Come on, try it. They’re so good.”

Bill raised the tiny flower to his lips but
lowered it quickly. “What if there’s a bug on it? In this light you
couldn’t see—”

“There are no bugs on it.”

He had to admit, the nectar was delicious.
“You really put this in sherbet?”

“Isn’t it wonderful? It makes me thirsty
though. Would you like some water?”

As tasty as the honeysuckle was, Bill was
eager for any excuse to avoid more blossoms. However, he tucked the
others she’d given him in his shirt pocket as she turned to lead
him back to the house. A few steps later, he caught her hand in his
and laced their fingers together.

“How can you stand it? It’s so dark out
here. You could step in a hole, get bitten by whatever lives in
this grass—anything.”

“City boy.”

He gave her hand a slight squeeze and
grinned. “And not ashamed of it either.”

Willow paused, mid-path, and looked for
Bill’s eyes. She shifted in a semi-circle until she found whatever
she sought. “Are you truly nervous out here like this, or is it
just an excuse to hold my hand?”

Busted.
“Both. Well, nervous is
putting it lightly. I’m positively terrified, if you want the
truth. I’d rather face the subway carrying a wad of cash in plain
sight.”

“But…”

No use hiding it now.
“But I’ll take
any excuse to hold your hand.”

He saw her glance at their hands before she
turned and continued toward the house. “Well, I appreciate your
honesty anyway.”

They sat in the swing on the dark front
porch, sipping ice water, and talking—what about, he couldn’t
remember. His heart sank a little as she stood. She’d send him
home, and he wasn’t ready to go.

Sure enough, Willow grabbed their glasses
and said, “I have no idea what time it is, but it’s late. Chad
needs help with something at church tomorrow, and you have a long
drive ahead of you. Go home, Bill.”

Her tone and the light touch of her fingers
on his arm softened the brusqueness of her dismissal. At the newel,
Bill reached tentatively for her face, but Willow turned aside and
walked to the screen door. “Don’t get silly on me. Goodnight.”

Darkness shrouded the house. Would she go
straight to bed without lighting anything? How could she brush her
teeth without a light? The moon wasn’t bright enough, what little
of it existed. A flicker in the window told him she’d lit
something. Bill turned, hands in his pockets, and strolled back to
his car. Resting his forearms on the steering wheel, he wondered if
her rebuff was due to exasperation or if she was simply amused.
Time will tell, I suppose.

Bill started his car and backed around the
corner of the house. The once-grassy yard now showed signs of dead
grass where Chad’s truck and likely the one belonging to the
vegetable woman had worn a parking area already. The grassy lane,
sparse as it always was, was now nearly free of any grass at
all—smoothed by whatever Chad had done to save their vehicles.
Should thank him for that.

He followed the directions on his GPS until
he pulled up in front of Chad’s house. The building was large—more
like a Victorian row house than an apartment, but Chad should know
what to call his home. Several yards up the street, Chad’s truck
sat as a testament to the accuracy of his trusty GPS, so Bill
climbed from his vehicle, grabbed his duffle bag, and crept quietly
up the walk.

At the door, a brass plate showed the names
of four tenants and their apartment letter. Apartment C
conveniently listed Tesdall as the tenant. He followed the stairs
to the second floor and knocked gently on Chad’s door. When no
reply came, he knocked a little harder, jumping as the door across
the hall opened.

“Are you here for Chad?” the pot-bellied man
asked suspiciously.

“Yes. I’m Bill Franklin. I was
supposed—”

“Oh, he gave me a key earlier for you. Ben
Franklin. Your parents had a sense of humor didn’t they?”

“Well actually—” Bill finished as the man
disappeared into his apartment, “The name is Bill. Like
William.”

“What was that?” Mr. Pot-belly passed Bill
Chad’s key and watched—was it with curiosity or suspicion—as Bill
unlocked the door.

“I said thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Ben. Anytime.”

Inside Chad’s apartment, he flipped on the
light and glanced around the room. Nothing. It was the sparsest
place he’d ever seen. While his apartment was deliberately devoid
of excess, Chad’s was devoid of existence. No clothes, dishes, not
even a remote on the TV—nothing. It seemed as if Chad had either
cleaned up for Bill’s visit or the officer was also a neat freak. A
closet door at one end of the room tempted him. He shouldn’t—not
really—it was wrong. Bill turned, determined not to poke into
another man’s privacy, but couldn’t resist. His hand twisted the
doorknob and jerked open the door. A jumble of unrelated items
threatened to fall if he didn’t shut the door quickly. A box
shifted, seemingly without provocation. He shoved the door shut and
leaned against it.
So much for a neat freak.

He found a sticky-note, clinging to the back
of the couch. “
Air mattress on my bed if you’d prefer. Sheets
next to it. I’ll be in at two.”

Bill glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even
midnight yet. A door to the left of the bedroom seemed to lead to a
bathroom. He grabbed his duffel and carried it inside. Shorts,
t-shirt, the comforts of a good night’s sleep. He pulled out his
toothbrush and slid a streak of toothpaste across the bristles.
Scrub each quadrant thoroughly—dry the brush, replace. All in a
night’s routine.

He grabbed the pillow lying on the couch and
tried to make himself comfortable but the lumps were too much.
Dragging himself up again, he retrieved the mattress, jerked it
from the never-opened packaging, and began the tedious task of
stomping on the air pump.
Did he have to get a queen-sized one?
How big does he think I am?

The darkness of the room surprised him. He
was in town—why no street lights? There had been one outside… he
tried to remember how far down the street. Clearly, it was far
enough not to leave him with any residual illumination.
Relax.
Breathe. Don’t think. Calm.

His tongue slid across the surface of his
teeth. Bill jumped nearly upright in one swift movement; grabbing
his toiletries bag from the duffel, he dashed for the bathroom
again. A liberal amount of toothpaste barely hit the bristles
before he shoved it in his mouth and scrubbed again. And again.
Despite several minutes of vigorous scrubbing, he simply could not
rid himself of the feeling that there were bug intestines streaked
across his teeth.

Bill forced open his eyes, glancing around
the dark, unfamiliar room. A glow of light hovered around what must
be windows—Chad’s windows. Fairbury—Willow’s birthday.

A snore startled him, his head whipping
around before he realized it must be Chad’s. The movement sent him
sliding off the semi-deflated mattress and onto the floor. Somehow,
he stifled a groan as his head connected with hardwood.
Starving.

Bill shuffled across the living room and
pulled Chad’s door shut. His mouth felt dry—nasty. Eyes wide, he
made a mad dash for the bathroom, grabbing for his toothbrush and
filling it with toothpaste. Three seconds into the scrub, he jerked
it out of his mouth, gagging. Chad’s toothbrush—his was in his
duffel with the rest of his toiletries.

It took longer to get ready than it had ever
taken him. Bill brushed his teeth, got dressed, brushed his teeth,
brushed his hair, brushed his teeth, packed his stuff, brushed his
teeth, unpacked his toothbrush, and brushed his teeth. Twice. He
still felt like gagging every time his tongue touched his teeth.
His tongue refused
not
to touch his teeth.

Though he considered shoving the mattress in
the closet, visions of tumbling possessions crashing to the floor
stopped him. Waking a man who wore a gun daily didn’t seem wise.
Besides, if he stayed in the apartment much longer, he’d have to
brush his teeth. Again.

He stuffed his wallet and keys in his
pockets and locked the door behind him, before jogging down the
steps. Breakfast. If he could put visions of bugs and Chad’s
toothbrush out of his mind, he might be able to choke down
food.

The trip to the center of town took little
time, something he could learn to appreciate. On the other hand,
Market Street was packed with vendor booths all along the town
square. Several tents were scattered around the lawn by the gazebo,
making Bill nervous. Would they be gone by the time Chad’s sister
needed to decorate? Would Chad manage to get Willow there in the
first place?

Chad zipped along the highway, turning into
Willow’s driveway exactly at two o’clock. The sight of her out on
the porch—apparently waiting for him—surprised and dismayed him. It
was too early! Then again, it looked like she was
sanding—something. As he jogged up the steps, an involuntary sigh
of relief escaped. Working—whew. She wasn’t ready. They still had
time.

“Hey, whatcha doing?”

“Shredding zucchini. Why are you here so
soon? You said four.”

“I just thought I’d come help with anything
you’re doing. I feel bad about chopping up your day like this, but
it’s all we could think of.”

“You need me to convince someone to go to
the park. Why me?”

“If anyone else tries, Lily Allen will
suspect, but she’d never suspect you.”

Willow protested that didn’t understand the
nuances of carefully orchestrated surprise parties. “I agreed to
help. So we call.”

Chad punched in Lily Allen’s phone number
and handed the phone to Willow. She held up hands covered with
grated zucchini and with panicked eyes, shook her head. Undaunted,
Chad held the phone up to her ear and waited. He wasn’t
disappointed.

“Mrs. Allen? Hello, this is Willow Finley. I
have a few things I could really use some advice on. I wondered if
you…”

Chad barely kept a straight face as Lily
demurred before she finally capitulated, agreeing to meet at the
church at four-thirty. The relief on Willow’s face and in her voice
almost sent him over the edge. “Good job,” he said as he slid his
phone closed.

She grabbed another zucchini and attacked it
with the grater. “I still don’t see how getting her to go to the
church is going to help. She’ll see all the cars and know something
is afoot.”

Amused at the choice of the word, “afoot,”
Chad sat next to her on the swing. “Well it’ll be hot when you guys
get in there. If I know Lily, she’ll suggest a walk to the park.
She loves the park. If she doesn’t, all you have to do is suggest
it yourself. You’ll cross the street, come around that corner hedge
of juniper, and we all jump out and yell, ‘Surprise!’”