Chapter
Seventeen
Willow was waiting outside for Corbin when he pulled up at Bradfordwood.
Darkness had fallen, yet he could see her well in the glow cast by the mansion’s exterior lights. She was standing on the bricks that paved the driveway, wearing a puffy silver coat. Corbin shut his car door and closed the distance between them.
Willow’s face, a face that had been captured in a thousand photographs, regarded him with compassion as he approached. She was a listener and naturally sympathetic. Many people were too blinded by their own emotions to understand the emotions of others. Not Willow.
He wrapped her tightly in his arms, bent his head, and pressed a kiss against her temple. Her arms banded around him. She rested the side of her face against his chest.
Slowly, as he concentrated on the sensation of holding her in his arms and he lost himself in his fierce love for her, the dark chaos that had been drowning him since the doctor’s call began to still. He filled his lungs with her clean, fresh scent, and eventually his world stopped spinning too fast.
He almost wanted to cry, which was ridiculous. He never cried.
She threaded her fingers through his and guided him toward the line of trees next to the house.
“You’re taking me into the woods?” he asked.
“I am. Tell me what the doctor said.”
As they walked, he related his conversation with the doctor in a flat, emotionless voice.
She drew him to a stop. He squinted, but it was so black that he could only make out a faint shadow stretching between two tree trunks.
Willow let go of his hand and bent. Moments later he heard the rasp of a lighter. She touched the flame to a thick, white candle set inside a lantern, then closed the lantern’s glass door.
The patch of forest that surrounded them came into focus. Towering trees, a carpet of leaves. The shadow he’d seen was a hammock.
“When I was growing up, this is where I used to come on bad days,” she said. “I’d rock and think and pray . . . and look up at the trees. It seemed to help.” She climbed onto the hammock first. “Be very careful of your shoulder,” she warned as he climbed on after her.
His heavy weight tipped the thing so suddenly that it almost bounced her off. His hand shot out to steady her. “You okay?”
She giggled. “Yes.”
It required a few moves a contortionist would have been proud of, but they got themselves straightened out and balanced in the center of the hammock. His whole side, from shoulder to calf, pressed against her side. The line of contact glowed.
“After I got off the phone with the doctor, I talked with my dad. I can’t understand why he won’t even consider one of the clinical trials.”
Her hand found his again. “What would being a part of one of the trials involve?”
“Relocating, for starters, since one is being held in Chicago and the other in Boston. Beyond that, he’d have to submit to new treatments and medicines. New doctors. Tests.”
“What part of that does he object to?”
“All of it. He refuses to move. And he refuses to go through any more treatments. I’m going to talk with him about it again. And again, if I have to, until I can get him to see it my way.” He waited for her response. When none came he said, “Go on. Tell me what you’re not saying.”
“I’m just wondering whether you’re willing to spend the final stage of your dad’s life fighting with him.”
“I only expect to spend the next few days fighting with him until I can convince him to apply for a trial.” He gave the ground a push and set them into motion. “This doesn’t have to be the final stage of my dad’s life.”
“And if you can’t convince him to participate in a trial?”
“I’m not ready to think about that yet.”
“This is all very new. I mean, you just got the call. Over the next few days, though, maybe you should at least consider what your dad’s saying. It’s possible that the route your dad wants to take might be what’s best for him.”
“Dying? How can dying be best for him?” He gave the ground another push. “When I was eleven and the Lions were playing the Packers in the playoffs, I was on my feet the whole second half, yelling at the TV.”
“Yelling what?”
“That they better not give up. And also, telling them what they needed to do to have a chance at winning. I couldn’t accept that they were going to lose. Even after the game, for days, I couldn’t accept that they’d lost. I’m nothing like those people who leave before the fourth quarter is over. No fight is ever over until it’s over.”
“Which is probably one of the reasons why your dad has done as well as he has for the past three years. I’m just wondering out loud whether your competitiveness is something that’s beneficial to you or your dad at this particular point.”
She sounded reasonable, but she was flat-out crazy. After the conversation he’d just had with his dad, he had to wonder if he was the only sane person. “If I was the one with multiple myeloma, I’d be on a plane to Chicago. I can’t accept any less for my dad. I’m responsible for him. I can’t lose him, Willow. He’s the only immediate family I have.”
“I know,” she said simply.
After some time had passed with no sound between them but the creaking of the hammock, she said, “My door is open anytime you want to talk about it.”
He supposed he should feel grateful for her offer. But he didn’t want Willow to be available to him in the way that she meant. As a friend. A supporter.
She’d said over and over that they weren’t together. She was determined to keep a wall between them. So much so, that he felt fortunate to have gotten their relationship to the place it was currently.
That said, he wanted much, much more.
It was not going to be okay, her leaving after Thanksgiving. He needed to be near her. Here. Or wherever she was going.
“How old is your dad?” she asked.
“Sixty-six. People live till eighty-five or ninety all the time. I’m going to be mad if I don’t get eighty-five years out of him, at least.”
“He’s had a serious form of cancer for years. I’m guessing a lot of people with his condition don’t get as many years as he’s already received.”
“I can’t lose him,” Corbin repeated with conviction. He just couldn’t . . .
He couldn’t lose his dad.
He twisted on the hammock to face her. Willow turned to him, and they stared at each other. Powerful desire existed between them. But so did things that were a lot more rare. So rare they’d only happened to him with her.
Love. Fate. Devotion.
Looking into her eyes on a hammock surrounded by dark woods with stars watching over them, he knew with certainty that she was the one for him.
The two of them were meant to be.
He couldn’t lose his dad, and he couldn’t lose Willow.
“I come bearing borscht.” Willow staggered into Nora’s Bookish Cottage the next evening carrying a huge pot.
Valentina’s borscht-cooking binges always left Willow feeling two ways. One, comforted, because she loved borscht. Valentina had been making the hearty Russian stew for the Bradford family for as long as Willow could remember. Two, anxious, because Willow hated to waste food and she was, at present, the only resident of Bradfordwood. Even at the best of times she had what could be classified as a moderate appetite. Thus, when she’d caught a telltale whiff of vegetables and bacon in the air earlier today, she’d texted Nora and Britt and made plans to meet them at Nora’s as soon as they got off work.
“Did she make enough to feed twenty, as usual?” Britt asked.
“Yep.”
Nora helped lift the pot onto her stove top, then lit the burner beneath.
Britt studied Willow with interest. “We ordinarily hear from you a lot during the week.”
“That’s because I’m living alone and doing a part-time job that only takes up five hours of my day.”
“So how come you’ve been unusually quiet this week?” Britt asked.
“You heard from me today. I’m the one who invited you to eat borscht.” She was stalling.
“She’s stalling,” Britt said. “Can you see it on her face, Nora?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Oh, good gracious. She was not going to push nervously at her cuticles like she had the urge to do. She’d given up pushing her cuticles when she started modeling.
“Is there something you’d like to tell us?” Britt asked with a shrewd smile.
“Fine. I’ve been quieter than usual this past week because Corbin and I have been out on a few—not many—dates. Just for fun.”
Nora and Britt waited expectantly for more information.
“After I turned him down for a date, I found out that he went and donated the check to Benevolence plus a lot more. Then he asked me out again and knowing what I knew about his donation, it seemed really petty to say no. So I said yes.”
“Let’s discuss this further over appetizers.” Nora opened her fridge and extracted a platter bearing three kinds of cheese, a selection of raw veggies, and a bowl of French onion sour cream dip. She handed the platter to Britt. Willow filled glasses with sparkling water, and Nora carried napkins and baskets of tortilla chips and crackers into her living room.
Nora’s already small house was made tinier by all the books it contained. Despite its diminutive size, every time Willow walked in the front door she felt at home.
They arranged the food on the ottoman and the drinks on side tables. Nora took the chair she sat in when watching her beloved BBC historical dramas. Willow chose the remaining chair, Britt the floor.
“Well?” Britt said. “How did your first date with him go?”
“It went very well.”
“Too vague,” Britt said. “I’m going to need a lot more information. Where did you guys go on your first date?”
“And on the subsequent dates?” Nora asked.
Willow filled them in on their past week’s itinerary.
“Wow.” Britt cocked her head speculatively. “Picnics overlooking the lake. Sushi. Kite flying. Sounds to me like he’s bringing his A game.”
“Corbin only has an A game.”
“When we talked about him last, you were concerned about going on a date with him because you didn’t trust him or yourself,” Nora said.
Willow nibbled a baby carrot. “That hasn’t changed. I still feel very wary.”
“Yet you agreed to more dates,” Britt said.
“I did, because I had a wonderful time on our first date.”
“You were afraid of the path that one date might set you on,” Nora said. “But it sounds to me like the path that your first date set you on has turned out to be a good thing.”
Willow nodded. “That’s true, so far. It has.”
“I assume these dates have included kisses?” Britt asked.
“Britt!” Nora squawked. “That’s none of our business.”
“Not technically, no. But in case you’ve forgotten, that’s never stopped me from asking questions before.” She winked at Nora and popped a square of cheese in her mouth.
“The dates have included kisses,” Willow said carefully.
“A-game kisses?” Britt asked.
“A-game kisses,” Willow verified. “But respectful A-game kisses.” That made the kisses sound as boring as cardboard when they were anything but. Willow balanced a slice of cheese in the center of her cracker, then took a bite. Sharp cheese. Crispy, salty cracker. “What is this?” she asked once she’d swallowed. “It’s delicious.”
“Manchego,” Britt replied, even though Nora was the one who’d assembled the appetizers. Her youngest sister recognized the cheese by taste because Britt was a food savant. Even as a child she’d been able to concoct delicacies armed with nothing more than their family kitchen, a whisk, and a bowl.
Nora dragged the corner of a tortilla chip through the dip. “Do you think you’ll continue to go out with Corbin until you leave in a few weeks?”
“I think so.”
“Then what will happen between you two?” Britt asked.
“I’ve made it clear to him that we’re not a couple in any serious kind of way, so maybe nothing.”
“Nothing?” Nora asked.
“I have bookings on my calendar I committed to months ago. One’s in New York. Another’s in St. Barts. Another’s in Paris. And he can’t leave here because his dad’s health is shaky. It wouldn’t be smart for either of us to expect our relationship to progress after I go.”
“You could give long-distance dating a try,” Britt said.
“Long-distance dating is tough.” The last time around, she and Corbin had maintained their romance while living in two different cities and traveling for work. They’d done their best to deal with the logistical challenges, but it had been a struggle. She’d missed him every day they were apart. The travel to and from Dallas had drained her. The phone calls never seemed like enough. Even their reunions had been tinged with desperation because she’d always known the next departure was looming. “Anyway.” Willow gave an industrious sigh. “Corbin and I are keeping things very casual. Very.”
“Uh-huh.” Britt’s tone indicated that she wasn’t convinced.
“The topic of my love life is giving me a headache,” Willow said.
“Really? It’s curing my headache,” Britt stated. “I’m loving this conversation.”
“Easy there,” Nora said to Britt. “We have to be nice to Willow. She brought us borscht.” She tucked her feet under her on the chair. “How’s the search for Josephine coming?”
Willow balanced her glass on the arm of her chair. “The age-progression portrait of Josephine that Corbin commissioned has been posted in Laguna Beach and in Breckenridge. A few tips have come in, but none of them have led to anything. We’re out of ideas. We don’t know what else to do.”
“You’ve already searched for articles that mention Josephine or Stan Markum or Senator Holt, right?” Nora asked.
“Right.”
“Online?”
“Yes. We’ve read everything we were able to find online, and we’ve read the clippings that were inside the wooden box of mementos that Josephine’s sister, Melinda, kept.”
“Many of the articles and newspaper stories written in the ’70s,” Nora said, “especially for local papers or small publications, have never been digitized, so there’s no way you’d be able to find them online. They’re only available on microfiche or through physical copies stored in local libraries, that kind of thing. If you’d like, I can do some additional digging for you in those places to see if I can come up with anything new.”
“Thank you, that would be great.”
“My pleasure.”
Willow angled toward Britt. “What have you heard from Zander lately?”
“He emailed a few days ago. He’s doing well—and, Nora, you’ll be pleased to know he’s developed an appreciation for tea.”
“I knew travel would be good for him,” Nora said.
“Good for him, yes,” Britt said. “Sad for me. His absence is even worse than I expected. I’m irritated with him for leaving, but I’m keeping that secret because I’m an unselfish person.”
“You’re not doing a terribly good job of keeping it a secret,” Willow said wryly.
“Tristan’s still here,” Nora pointed out.
“The things I found appealing about Tristan are beginning to get on my nerves.”
Willow and Nora exchanged a look.
“I don’t want to break up with him or anything,” Britt hurried to say. “I like Tristan. It’s just that he’s sort of . . . replaceable. You know? Zander’s not.”
Text message from Corbin to Willow:
Corbin
What’re you up to?
Willow
I just returned home after dinner with my sisters at Nora’s house.
Corbin
Want to meet me at Fleming’s for dessert?
Willow
Yes and no.
?
Willow
Yes, I’d like to meet you. No, I don’t want to meet you at Fleming’s for dessert. I’m stuffed.
Corbin
Where can I meet you, then?
Willow
Here at Bradfordwood. Since you’re in the market for dessert, I’ll make you brownies.