Cedar Creek Seasons (10 page)

Print Vote for Willow cards
. Check.
Print flyers
. Check.
Add blurb to brochure
. Check.
Bake and frost chair-shaped cookies
. Check.
Announcement on website
. Check.
Blog post
. Check.
E-mail announcement
. Check.
Twitter
. Not so much.

She’d slashed that last one with red pen. She’d never chirped or cheeped or whatever a person did on that thing and she didn’t have time to start now.
Time
. It was not on her side. She hadn’t paid attention to the fine print when certain people signed her up for this nonsense. But, nonsense or not, she was going to win.

She turned off Sheboygan Road and onto Washington Avenue. A snowflake landed on her nose and she glared up at low, snow-filled clouds. The forecast predicted up to ten inches, but it hadn’t started yet and she had places to go and people to see before it got too deep.

The official Cedarburg website claimed there were eleven thousand, three hundred, and twelve people she needed to talk to in the next eight days. Taking off the three hundred plus on her TLC mailing list and dividing it by the U.S. average family size of 3.14 left approximately three thousand, three hundred, and thirty-five households to visit.

After
she’d hit all the businesses in town. She shifted the strap on her canvas bag to a more comfortable position and headed east. She popped into the Old Mill Antiques and gave a cookie and her rehearsed plea for votes to the clerk. She passed the Settlement Shops, deciding to leave them for last. The Shops were half a block from home and the perfect place to schmooze indoors after the weather got bad.

Leaning into the wind, she charged ahead. At Goldsmith Jewelry Works she just left a brochure. She spent a moment soaking up sparkle and warmth in the pink-and-gray-walled Bangles ‘n’ Bags. Downtown Dough was like her second home, but she pulled her gaze away from the solid wall of cookie cutters and handed two rocking-chair-shaped cookies to her longtime friends behind the counter. “Proof that your products work.” The girls laughed and promised to vote for her.

She bought a cup of coffee at Cozy Cuppa and lingered just a moment over the music boxes at Sweet Sounds. She left cards at the Rivoli Theatre and Washington House Inn. The smell of wool at the Yarn Shop reminded her of the sweater hanging on Wilson’s kitchen chair. She didn’t stay long. At the Chocolate Factory she talked about her business and talked herself out of butterscotch marble ice cream. Massive caramel apples banked the windows at Amy’s Candy Kitchen. Blinking hard, she walked in and gave her little speech.

The snow was up to her ankles when she finally trudged up to the doors of the Settlement Shops. The memory of Wilson’s cold blue eyes and the knowledge that she’d ruined their Valentine’s date was tampering with her zeal. She needed another look at the empty shop space to revive the sense of purpose she’d had while frosting cookies at three in the morning. She thought of Elsa’s spoons.
Love is here. Business is here
.

Wilson’s gorgeous studio was
not
her business. Nor was his income.

She had to apologize. Maybe she’d invite him over and he’d get snowed in and—
Willow!
Her conscience chastened. Her will argued back as she trudged the last few steps. The kids would be home. It’s not like she’d be alone with—

“Wilson!”

The sight before her was as incongruous as picking fresh cherries in a snowstorm. Wilson Woodhaus, the
rich
and famous painter, sat on one of
her
stools, painting flowers on a little girl’s cheek. He looked her way. His face held the expression of a man who’d just walked the required number of paces before turning his dueling pistol on her.

In front of his painting of the millpond with icicles hanging from the top of the dam, stood a woman with a stroller.

You thief! You use
my
stool to lure
my
constituents!
She plunged her hand into her bag and pulled out her last six weapons. Frosted cookie chairs.
Look, little girl, come get a cookie from Willow. Orange orange, raspberry red, lemony lemon, grape-ity grape
. She grinned like the rabbit on a Trix commercial as she walked slowly past the cozy little face-painting scene, cookies spread like a hand of cards. A straight flush.

The little girl turned. A green stem streaked from her cheek to her nose. “Mom-mmmmy! Can I have a cookie?”

Yes! Round one goes to Willow Miles!

Drill in hand, arms folded across his chest, Wilson stared out the window. As it was supposed to, March roared in like a lion. On the other side of the glass, snow blew almost horizontally. Wind whistled around the corner of the barn. They’d had snow almost every day for the past week and a half, piling up to more than fourteen inches on the ground.

He turned away and looked up at the light fixture he’d just installed. He set the drill on the island. It was only noon. He could get in a few more hours of work before heading to the Settlement Shops, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He hadn’t quite recovered from long days of face painting, balloon tying, and hosting a coloring contest—all things that could have been fun if the woman strong-arming customers next to him hadn’t turned into Attila the Hun. A week wasn’t long enough to recover from her.

He shoved the curtain aside, walked into the kitchen, and opened the freezer. Two containers of Willow’s chili called out to him. He ignored them and took out a zippered bag labeled “Saturday” and set it in the microwave. He had a backlog of Fridays and Saturdays, thanks to the woman who’d introduced him to spontaneity and weird chili. The woman who, at the moment, was treating him like he was a carrier of some flesh-eating disease.

He couldn’t think of a thing he’d said wrong on Valentine’s Day between the apple and dinner. They’d had one phone conversation that day—her side profusely sprinkled with words like
wonderful, amazing, special
, and
sweet
—describing him, not the caramel. By dinner you’d think Snow White’s apple had arrived on her doorstep by mistake.

The microwave beeped. He didn’t even know what was in the steaming bag. Whatever it was, he couldn’t stomach it until they hashed this out. He wasn’t going to stand across the room from her at the big reveal. If she won, he wanted to be at her side to pick her up and swing her around and celebrate over dinner. If he won, he wanted a big fat congratulatory kiss right there in front of God and everybody. If they both lost, he wanted to laugh with her … and share a consolation kiss right there in front of God and everybody. He picked up his phone and punched her number.

“Hello?”

“Listen, I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.” His words started fast and picked up speed, like hers often did. “If it’s just that the competition got out of hand, it’s over now and we—”

“Mr. Woodhaus, it’s Star.”

“Oh.”

“Willi’s getting her hair cut.”

He looked at the snow plastering the kitchen window. “She’s out? In this?”

“She walked. She’s stubborn. I guess you know that by now.”

“I’ve had some hints.”

“I don’t really know what’s going on, but I’ve heard her talking to her friends. I think she’s waiting for you to apologize for something.”

He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Wish I knew what.”

“If it helps any, she’s been a mess the past few days. I’ve never seen her like this.” She paused. “She misses you. And so do the boys and me. We were kind of hoping … well, you know.”

He looked at the wrapped package waiting by the door. “Yeah. I know. So was I.”

S
he didn’t feel as good as she looked, but a new outfit and a new haircut never hurt. Willow took a final glance in the mirror in the restroom at the Settlement Shops. A few bold, blond highlights gave her hair a sun-kissed look. Her new stretch jeans sported rhinestones on the pockets and her raspberry-colored blouse was gathered in just the right places and hung loose where it should. Knee-high boots completed the look. Even her old leather jacket took on a classy, shabby chic look combined with everything else.

If only she hadn’t been so nasty that the one person she wanted to care wouldn’t.

She would have made things right a week ago, might even have been able to get beyond his deception if his blatant ploy to lure potential customers away from her hadn’t flipped her ugly switch. But now, instead of satisfaction, all she was left with was regret.

She’d apologize today.

Right after she won.

She walked down the hall and turned left into the room filled with a surprisingly large crowd. She reclaimed her place with Star, Crystal, and Elsa. Against her will, her gaze landed on Wilson. The collar of a blue shirt stuck out of a black sweater she’d never seen on him. It looked soft.

Sharon Goldman stepped to the center of the room that would soon overflow with child-sized furniture. She held an envelope in her hand. The crowd quieted. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a fascinating few weeks. We’ve had some very creative competitors and I’d like to thank them all. This is generally a quieter time of year for all of us here at the Settlement Shops, but this competition has served to …”

“Get on with it already,” Crystal muttered. “Just say Willow Miles won.”

“And now, it is my pleasure to announce that the person who will be occupying this space rent-free for a year …”

Star sighed, long and loud. Willow tucked her hair behind her ear, smoothed her blouse, and cleared her throat.

“… is … Wilson Woodhaus!”

Willow’s breath lodged in her throat as if it had turned to ice.

The crowd, all but the tight knot gathered around her, cheered. All six arms of her support system attempted to hug her at once. She pushed her way through them. Amid a flurry of “I’m sorrys” and “It should have been yous,” she put on her gloves and hat, zipped her jacket, and ran down the stairs.

The snow had stopped. The sun peeked through a crack in the clouds. Willow sludged through slushy snow, walking across Sheboygan Road instead of turning, with no plan in mind other than getting away.

Three blocks from the Settlement, a car pulled to the curb beside her. Her peripheral vision picked up the yellow glow.

Wilson.

He slid across the seat and opened the passenger door. He didn’t say a word.

Willow closed her eyes briefly, let out a tired sigh, and got in. As he drove, she kept her eyes on the rutted road. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” In silence, he headed out of town. Toward his house. Not a particularly good idea. A little far for an angry stomp home. He glanced her way. “Up for a walk?”

Was he eavesdropping on her synapses? “I suppose.”

The covered bridge came into view. Wilson put on the turn signal and parked just off the road.

Snow blanketed the roof of the weathered gray bridge. Drifts formed meringue peaks at its entrance. They wouldn’t be walking on the bridge. Just as well. She didn’t want to be in a place covered with hearts and somebody-loves-somebodys when she was ticked at the somebody she was with.

Wilson got out then reached into the backseat for a bulky black trash bag. Maybe returning empty chili containers. Or full ones. That would make a memorable breakup scene. Willow stepped into a snowbank higher than the boots that complemented the new outfit she’d bought for the somebody who would no longer care. They walked toward the footbridge that arched across the river and made an idyllic place to hold hands and gaze at the covered bridge while whispering sweet nothings. In their case, they’d simply be whispering nothings.

Wilson stopped at the top of the curve, set the bag down, and leaned his elbows on the railing. “Care to tell me what I did wrong?” His voice was lukewarm.

As she opened her mouth to blast him, the irony suddenly smacked her like the heel of a hand on a forehead. A
duh
moment.
I’m so angry at you for not being poor!
“I saw your studio.”

“Oh? What did you think?”

“Very nice.”

“And that has what to do with you being mad at me?”