The old stone building, webbed with dormant ivy vines, rose before her like a promise. Your future awaits, it whispered. The wrought iron arch over Willow’s head proclaimed CEDAR CREEK WINERY. On a snow-blanketed second-story sill, three pudgy earthen crocks huddled beneath a weathered board announcing CEDAR CREEK POTTERY.
And what will I call my shop? She opened the right side of the bright blue double doors. “Cedar Creek Children’s Chair Company” had a nice alliterative ring to it. “Five Cs” for short. She’d have to order a new branding iron.
The old plank floor groaned as she walked through the winery and up a half flight of stairs. Elsa’s shop was straight across the hall. The store was void of customers but filled with rack upon rack of clothes from days gone by. Willow fingered a beaded lace collar on a wasp-waist red velvet gown with leg-of-mutton sleeves.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Elsa peered from between two scantily clad mannequins, a corset and a pair of nylon stockings in one hand and a poofy rainbow-colored slip in the other. “Try it on.”
“The red dress with the twelve-inch waist? Sure. I’ll slip right into that little number.”
Elsa stuck two open safety pins in her mouth and garbled, “You don’t have to zip it.”
“I couldn’t get one thigh into that thing.”
Elsa pinned the corset. “The mirror in your head is warped. You know that, don’t you?” She handed Willow the slip made of layers of tulle. “Put this on.”
“I’m not the cancan type. Now, if you have a size forty poodle skirt …”
“Put it on the dummy.”
“I am the dummy.” Willow lifted the cotton-candy mass over the head and shoulders of the svelte but armless giant Barbie. “I agreed to clean Wilson Woodhaus’s house.” On the last word, her mouth filled with pink netting.
“You agreed to what?”
Pressing her lips together to stop the tickle, Willow straightened the elastic waistband on the plastic, hipless mockery of real womanhood. “I’ll explain all that over crepes. How come you didn’t tell me about the shop space contest?”
“I didn’t think of it. You never said you wanted to open a store.” Elsa handed her a stocking and crouched to put the other one on a stiff celluloid leg.
“I never did, but I never saw the words free and rent used in the same sentence before.”
Elsa nodded toward the glass-sided counter. “Over there.”
Willow hung the stocking on her shoulder and picked up a bright gold flyer like the one on Wilson’s counter. Next to it sat a stack of applications. She scanned the rules. “I have to write an essay? I can’t write an essay.”
“You just have to tell people why your stuff is amazing and why the Settlement needs what you have to offer. Crystal and I can help. It’ll be fun.”
“Where’s the shop space?”
“Upstairs on that end.” Elsa looked up, red-faced from the exertion of straightening a stocking seam, and pointed. “Go look at it. Jan will be here in five minutes and then I can go for lunch.”
The stairs greeted Willow with delightful old-building creaks as she ascended to the third floor. Hand-painted signs on the risers of several steps advertised the upstairs shops. Her logo would fit nicely just above EYELASH ART or right below BROTHER JOHN’S ART WORLD. “Come to Five Cs, Citizens, for the Comfiest Children’s Chairs and Necessities in Cedar Creek Settlement.” Her hand pivoted on the newel post at the top. Her steps echoed as she walked through another doorway, down the hall, and turned right. Maybe she’d have her own tongue-twister contest after she opened shop. A free potty chair to anyone who could say—“Wilson?”
Wilson jumped at the sound of his name, dislodging the end of the tape measure he’d wedged into the mopboard. With a slithering whine it recoiled, slicing along the web between his thumb and forefinger. “Flabberdaster!” He flung the metal snail. It clamored across the hardwood floor. His hand whipped to his mouth, and he tasted the rusty tinge of blood.
The woman to blame stood two feet away with hands upturned and mouth agape. “I’m so sorry. Are you bleeding? Here.” She took a flesh-colored snake off her shoulder and reached for his hand. “Wait.” She dug a tissue out of her pocket without bothering to check it for the obvious and pressed it to his wound.
“I’ve got it.” He tried to pull his hand free.
“Just be patient.” She wound what he now realized was an old nylon stocking around … and around … and around his hand. “That should do it.”
“Thank you.” I think.
“What are you doing in here? Wait … I know what you’re doing here. The same thing I’m doing, only I didn’t know I could actually get into this space to actually do it, but now that …” Her lips blurred as her words picked up speed. “Look at this. It’s way bigger than I dreamed.” She paced off the wood floor. “And light! Look at these win—” She came to a dead stop. Slowly she turned. Inch by inch. She lasered him with a burning look that suddenly cooled in a fit of laughter. “We’re enemies!”
“Say what?”
“You’re entering the contest, right?”
“Yes.”
“So am I, so we’re fighting over the same plot of land—like the French and the Indians or the Mexicans and Americans. You and I are in mortal combat.” Hands balled into raised fists, she grinned. “Is that going to create a problem with you giving my daughter art lessons?”
He refrained from correcting her misconception about the French being at war with the Indians. Afraid of encouraging her absurdity, he covered an unexplainable smile with his stockinged hand. “I’ll do my utmost to remain neutral when it comes to your daughter. However …” Now where was that lead-in leading to? His mouth seemed intent on engaging without consulting his brain. “I make no concessions when it comes to my students’ mothers. The gloves are off, so to speak.”
“Fun. What are you doing for supper tomorrow night?”
“I thought we were enemies.”
“We are. Romans 12, you know. If your enemy is hungry, give him chili. Extra spicy. Pardon the paraphrasing. So, are you busy?”
“N–no.”
“It’s strawberry chili night at Miles’s Mansion.” One eyebrow wiggled. Her voice undulated as if she were luring him into something lascivious. “You know you want to.”
He cleared his throat and tried to loosen his tie. He wasn’t wearing one. “Will the children be home?”
“My kids, my friends’ kids, and an odd assortment of other Cedarburgians.”
“Well, that sounds delightfu—did you say strawberry chili?”
Wilson closed the basement door. Star had just given him the five-second tour of the TLC shop. He looked at Willow with a knowing nod. “I understand your motivation.”
Crystal pulled her away from the sympathetic eyes with a hand on her arm. “Willi, this is incredible.” She took another bite and pulled the plastic spoon slowly out of her mouth.
“I’ll second that.” Wilson filled another cup with chili. His third helping.
“Thank you. This might just be it.”
“It? Ah … your entry for the Winterfest chili cook-off. You do have a thirst for competition, don’t you? What’s in it?”
“It’s pretty basic. I just substituted pureed strawberries for half the tomatoes.”
The back door banged open. Ralphy stomped in, splattering a six-foot radius with wet snow. His grin lifted blotchy cheeks framed by snow-crusted hair. “Hill’s ready! Come on!”
The pile of boots by the back door dwindled in the ensuing scramble until only one pair remained. Wilson’s. Willow knew that because he was the only man left. “Well?” She nodded toward the boots.
“I thought sledding was optional.”
“This is Wisconsin. How could sledding be optional?”
He stared out the kitchen window in the direction of the iced-over creek and the newly glazed path leading to it, his face as tight as the canvases he was famous for.
“When’s the last time you were on a sled?”
His Adam’s apple rose and fell. “Thirty years ago.”
She repressed the “Seeeeeriously?” rising in her throat. “Guess we’d better fix that ASAP.”
“It’s dark out there.”
“Look at that moon. Besides, once we start moving it’s best to close your eyes and just go with it.” She gave an uncomforting laugh.
“Are you sure the creek’s solid enough?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Wilson gave a curt nod and put on boots and a well-broken-in leather jacket. “Lead the way.”
As she walked through the door ahead of him, she looked over her shoulder. “I’ll go down with you.”
“Do you doubt my skill or my courage, Ms. Miles?”
“Neither. I intend to shove you off when we catch air off the ramp.” She chose a yellow plastic sled from the pile just off the deck and stepped in line. When Wilson hesitated, she grabbed his hand. “The gloves are off, as you say.”
It wasn’t until she’d positioned herself in the center of the sled that it dawned on her how much of a contact sport this was. Wilson would need to wrap not only his arms, but also his legs around her. Were his arms long enough? Did the thought repel him? She glanced up jean-clad legs, past the leather jacket, all the way to scared-looking eyes. “If you’d rather grab your own sled that’s fine with—”
Plunk. The plastic skiff quaked as he sat behind her. She squeezed her thighs, but there was no way she could diminish their girth. His legs overlapped hers. His hands laced over her middle.
“Ready?” Star appeared beside them. “I’ll give you a push.”
For a brief, suspended-in-time moment, Willow closed her eyes and let herself feel small in the circle of his arms.
And then they flew as one down the bank, up the ramp, into the air, and onto the glassy surface of Cedar Creek.
Sideways.
The sled stopped. They didn’t. In slow motion it might have been pretty. Wilson’s arms remained clamped at Willow’s waist as they slid on their sides, spoon-fashion, across the ice and into a snowbank. By the time they stopped, his fingers were still laced—this time around her neck. “Are you all right?” she gasped.
Seconds passed. His fingers didn’t move. She felt a rumble but couldn’t identify it until a gut-level laugh erupted from the man who held her life in his hands. “I’m fine.” He released his hold on her neck and tipped her chin so she had no choice but to look up at the man silhouetted against a moonlit sky. “In fact, I haven’t been this fine in a very long time.” He shifted and helped her sit up. “Ms. Miles, I’m going to thoroughly enjoy being at war with you.”