Chapter 5 Willow
five
Willow
Five days later and the dress is still on its hanger, unstained, tag dangling to the side.
It stares at me every time I go into my bedroom.
It watches me sleep. It glistens in the morning, taunting its beauty at me, daring me to return it today, never to be mine again.
So that someone else can look fabulous wearing it.
Every time I look at it, Noah’s words ring in my memory. “It’s nothing. Doesn’t define who you are. Temporary. Totally returnable.” As if marrying Noah, even on paper, could ever feel as shallow.
Enough.
I’ll return it tomorrow.
Thankfully, tonight I have Game Night to change my mind, so I ditch my work clothes for yoga pants and an oversize T-shirt. Before driving the short distance that separates my apartment in Sunrise Farms from town, I go into Kiara and Colt’s apartment one floor below to water their plants.
I took over Colt’s apartment when he moved in with Kiara.
We see each other a lot, and I gained a really cool space to call my own.
As opposed to renting out the furnished studio apartment above Ms. Angela’s garage, complete with doilies and cross-stitched artwork—which I love (being a stitcher myself), but in moderation.
I promised to look after their place while they’re away on their Parisian honeymoon.
Plants watered, I drive down to Cassandra’s lingerie boutique, where the women in Emerald Creek meet on Thursday nights to play games or just gossip.
With the sun setting, the sky is turning all hues of pink.
The air is humid, and dark clouds on the horizon promise rain.
If it’s over by tomorrow, it’ll be a beautiful weekend.
Cassandra’s store is in a cape house in town, with Game Nights taking place in a large back room turned into some sort of modern-day parlor, both comfy and luxurious.
I’m greeted by Cassandra’s warm hug, the hum of conversations, and the scent of vanilla wafting from soy candles. Some of the older women, including Ms. Angela, are sitting at small tables, playing cards and cackling, while my friends are mostly splayed on a white sectional.
“Still preggo?” I tease Alex. I honestly don’t know how she does it.
She rolls her head on the back of the couch. “Still one month to go.”
“Isn’t it cooked at this point?” our friend Chloe jokes. “I hear the last month is just bonus time.”
“Yeah, let’s go on a hike this weekend,” Grace chimes in. “Give the baby a hint. It could speed things up.”
My friends’ playful concern moves me. We even call ourselves the Bitch Brigade, because we help each other out.
Alex moans. “I don’t think I can walk, to be honest.”
I place my hand on Alex’s belly, hoping to feel the baby kicking. “Might need to morph into the Witch Brigade to get things moving.”
In the back, behind the mirrored bar, our friend Haley is pouring a light-colored wine in stem glasses while Cassandra now fusses over the charcuterie board Chloe brought. “Lemon wine?” Haley asks me, and I nod my assent. “Refills, anyone? Alex, I got your mocktail.”
I help Haley with our drinks then squeeze on the couch between Chloe and Grace while Haley sits in front of us, cross-legged on the thick carpet.
“How’s your mom? I heard she really enjoyed herself at the wedding.” Going by her playful smile, she’s not asking about the cancer.
“What’s up with your mom?” Chloe asks.
I laugh. “Kiara’s uncle Bill drove her home after the wedding, but I can’t get anything from her other than ‘it was just a ride.’” I shrug. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“Speaking of gossip,” Ms. Angela says, leaning over from her card game and raising her voice so I can hear her, “I saw you and Noah have a long discussion at the wedding. Anything you’d like to share?”
Well, lay it out thick, why don’t you?
Most of the side conversations die down, women lending an ear without being too obvious about it.
“The dancing was hot,” Alex teases, her hands on her belly.
“You should have seen them at the river!” Haley says.
“You’re blushing, Willow,” Grace says.
“It’s the wine,” I answer a little too fast. “I don’t even remember what we talked about. We were just getting some air. Why d’you ask?”
“He’s been out of sorts at the store.” Ever since she retired as a teacher, Ms. Angela has been making rounds at various shops around town, tidying shelves, helping customers out, and spreading information like wildfire.
It’s obvious we share DNA, and I want to be her when I grow up. I can’t think of a better way to spend my days than to be in everyone’s business in a helpful way. In another life, I would have been a therapist. But this is the hand I’ve been dealt, and I’m quite content with it.
“What do you mean?” Grace asks. Noah is close friends with her husband, Ethan.
“Something’s been eating at him since Mac passed away,” Haley’s mother, Lynn, says, referring to Noah’s dad. “Such a shame about Mac. He really lost touch with reality when Amy died, didn’t he? It was heartbreaking to see Noah take on so much when he was barely an adult himself.”
Ms. Angela nods. “He started raising them.”
“You all did a lot too,” Cassandra says. “The whole town turned up for the Callaways, but they were just too proud to really let us in. At least Noah was.”
I remember those days. Lane had started losing interest in class, and the guidance counselor asked me to help her with homework after school.
He thought we’d be a good fit, and he was right.
Despite our age difference of a few years, we clicked immediately.
Lane even told me at Kiara’s wedding that she believes my tutoring is what got her back on the right track, and ultimately, to where she’s now. Little droplet of grease.
“But that was a while ago. There’s something else,” Ms. Angela insists, looking pointedly at me.
I give her my best poker face.
Haley throws a cheese puff in her mouth and leans over me. “I think he danshed with a hot chick and doeshn’t know how to ashk her out.” The way she looks at me leaves no doubt it’s me she’s talking about.
I give her a friendly shove. “Shut up.”
Thankfully, someone pulls out tarot cards and the focus shifts away from me. The evening goes by real fast, and by the time we’re ready to leave, fat raindrops are falling, with the promise of far more. “Drive me home, will you, sweetheart?” Ms. Angela orders me. “I walked.”
“Of course. Wait right here.” I dash to my car and pull up to the boutique. By the time she’s inside the car, rain is pummeling the roof.
She’s still fumbling with her seat belt when she says, “I heard Noah on the phone with his lawyer. He kept saying he’d meet the condition. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?”
I clench the wheel. So this was a trap. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“M-hm. Your nose pinches when you’re lying. Now tell me what you were talking about at the river.”
Jesus F. Christ. “Absolutely not!”
“Okay then, I suppose it was all a bunch of boloney.”
“What? What do you mean? What was a bunch of boloney?”
She lifts her shoulders. “Nothin’,” she answers with the air of someone who has a lot to say but is miffed and waits to be begged.
“Aunt Angela,” I threaten, reminding her I’m family. “What was it?” I slow down to let Chloe cross. She’s running in the rain, but I’m not offering her a ride. I need to see this conversation through, and she’s almost at her car anyway.
“Oh all right.” Ms. Angela turns in her seat. “Did he tell you about the marriage clause? And don’t lie to me.”
How does she know? I sigh. “Yes, he did.”
“Alright then. I assume he asked you?”
Why would she assume this? Low-key anger mixed with disbelief take hold of me. “I turned him down.” Clenching the wheel, I make the turn on Winooski street, then slow down.
“And why would you do that?” Ms. Angela chirps as if I’d done the silliest thing possible.
I turn into her driveway, stop the car and look ahead, tears pooling.
“I’m not for hire,” I snap.
From the corner of my eye, I see her head jerk back an inch as if I’d slapped her.
When I was young—very young—Mom had a string of so-called boyfriends, who’d spend an hour or two at our apartment in Burlington.
Some were nice and had candy for me, some made her cry.
Some made her scream. When social services took me away, the other kids quickly clued me into the fact that Mom was a sex worker.
Aunt Angela got custody of me, then Mom eventually got married and regained custody. Her husband was worse than her string of ‘boyfriends.’ Long story short, why do I even need to explain this to her?
Softer, I add, “You of all people should understand that.”
She takes my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It was such a long time ago… I didn’t think. I’m sorry,” she repeats.
I turn to look at her. “Why do you even care?” She’s always trying to be helpful to others, and I love her for it. I’m like her in this way. But there are limits.
She grunts. “He didn’t tell you everything, then.
That’s so like him. If only he knew you better, he’d have explained,” she says, almost to herself.
Then, louder, she tells me, “It’ll affect all of Emerald Creek.
If none of the kids are married when one of them turns thirty-two, then Gail, Mac’s widow, takes over as executor. ”
I blink, the words sinking in.
“She’ll sell everything—the mansion, the buildings. Developers are already circling like vultures. There’s even talk of knocking down Lilyvale for vacation cabins.”
My heart pounds harder, while she adds, “As for the store, it automatically becomes the property of the town, and since they can’t run it, they’ll lease it out to a chain.
A new manager will be shipped in, and they’ll have to follow corporate orders.
No more local sourcing. No more of Kiara’s chocolates and Haley’s wines and the Henderson’s ice cream and the King’s maple syrup. ”
My jaw hangs open and my heart beats harder.
“What?” The store was my happy place growing up.
Me and my friends from school would buy candy by the piece from big glass jars, and Mrs. Callaway would always add more, saying things like “I heard you got an A on composition” or “great job scoring that goal” or “thank god for your beautiful smile.” Once, our Art teacher brought us to Lilyvale to teach us about perspective by drawing the mansion.
I was instantly charmed, and I snuck back in several times after that, painting it in secret—my treasured escape.
“In the grand scheme of things, what’s your signature on a marriage certificate?”
I take a deep breath, mulling over what Ms. Angela just said. “How do you know this?”
“I know a lot of things, honey. Believe me, this one is true.” She lets it sink for a beat, then adds, “I know it rings awfully close to it, but no one’s asking you to sleep with the man.”
My cheeks burn at her words.
That’s the worst part. That he’ll never be mine.