Chapter 26
twenty-six
Willow
Once I take care of the ghosts, I sleep like a baby and wake up refreshed to a hot cup of coffee—but no husband. Good. I don’t need the reminder of how good he looked last night, bare-chested in the dark hallway.
Encouraged by my success with the other residents of Lilyvale, I’m ready to tackle my next task: making the store’s display windows more appealing. Beyond being the placeholder wife, I want to add tangible value. Create something that would make me proud.
Because honestly, the store looks sad. It used to be a fun place to shop or just browse around. It’s become… utilitarian. For obvious reasons, I’ve always had butterflies in my stomach when I came here, but it had nothing to do with the store and everything to do with its owner.
Now that I’m looking at it with a more critical eye… Yeah, I’m totally going to have fun with it.
This time, instead of stripping the windows bare of their current displays and working in front of the entire town for hours, I’ll paper the windows with something more interesting to gape at than my ass up in the air while I work inside.
I pop into Noah’s office. “Where can I find old photos of the store?” I ask him.
His gaze seems to take inventory of me, and suddenly it gets very hot in this small space. “The attic at Lilyvale.” He removes his glasses. “I could show you. What’s this for?”
I wet my lips. Images of Noah and me in yet another dark and secluded area dance in front of my eyes. I know what’s under his T-shirt. I know how strong his arms are and how his bare skin smells.
“The windows?” I answer.
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, amusement in his eyes. “What about the windows?” His lips twitch, and the heat pooling in my center becomes untenable.
I pull myself together. “Just wanted to ask if it was okay to cover them with photos?” Something in his body language makes me lose my composure, and I continue in a mumble.
“I’ll just go to the library. I’m sure their local history section will have all I need.
And they can print… and… I’ll see you later. ”
What am I—a teenager? Jesus, Willow.
Get.
A.
Grip.
I rush out of the store, struggling to tame the visions of Noah in a dark attic.
Once at the library I skim through history books, snapping photos of the general store through the years with my cellphone.
“I just want something fun, nothing artistic,” I explain to Sophie, the librarian, as we figure out a way for me to transfer all the photos to her for printing.
“Let me check the newspaper archives,” she says, typing quickly on her desktop. “There. Look at all that!”
Joining her behind her desk, I look at historical photos of the store that I’ve never seen. Dozens of them. “Awesome.”
“I’ll print all of those as well, and in A3 format,” Sophie suggests.
“Would you? That would look great. Hopefully my displays turn out okay. The store has so much to offer. It just needs a little magic to make it happen.”
“It can’t look worse than it already does, honey,” Sophie tells me with an eye roll while my pictures download to her printer app. “You’re a godsend.”
“Thanks,” I say, unsure if I really am until I see the result.
“There. Ooh, you have some good ones,” Sophie says. “It’ll take me about half an hour. This thing sometimes jams.”
“Can I help?”
“Nah, I’m good. We have some really good new books that just came in.”
That sounds really tempting, but I’d like to do something nice for Sophie instead, as a thank-you. “I’ll head over to Easy Monday. What can I get you?”
***
As I exit the library, my attention is drawn to a sleek red car parked on the other side of The Green.
A driver is inside—I can’t make out who—engine idling as if they’re waiting for someone.
Who could it be? I wonder how long it will take for someone to post about that on ECHoes, and smile inwardly at my town’s nosiness as I hasten my steps.
Easy Monday is Emerald Creek’s coffee shop.
Set right in a sturdy stone building overlooking the river, it’s everyone’s favorite hangout place from morning until it’s time to head to Lazy’s.
The owner, Millie, has a romance book lending system there that guarantees high occupancy of her comfy couches and reading nooks.
She also displays local artists. And of course, she crafts ah-mazing coffees (as stated on her sign).
“Two Roads to Heaven please,” I ask.
“Willow! One for you and one for the lucky groom?” Millie asks.
I feel myself blush. “No, actually the other one is for Sophie.”
“Oh—good to know. She likes oat milk in hers,” Millie says as she writes Sophie’s name on a to-go mug. “Why don’t you choose a mug for yourself, sweetie.” She points to her display shelf of travel mugs. “My little wedding gift,” she adds with a wink.
“That’s so sweet of you.” I settle for the deep-blue mug with a sprinkling of stars. Millie takes her permanent gold marker and writes my name on it with a flourish, Willow Callaway.
It’s the first time I see my married name written down. It gives me a little shock. Like the earth has moved or something shifted and will never be quite the same.
“We could talk about making those for the store, you know,” she says, mistaking my emotion for something entirely different. She’s been partnering with businesses around town to create their own signature mugs, promoting herself and the business at the same time.
“That’s a great idea,” I say. “Though to be honest, the coffee we have at the store is an insult. I think Noah doesn’t want to change it because of you. Like, the only good coffee should be here.”
Millie laughs. “I have a better idea. Why don’t I sell you the coffee, wholesale, don’t make a profit, but you package it in Easy Monday cups and have a list of the offerings we have here in store?”
I can see it and smell it already, and I gasp. “That sounds perfect! I’ll talk to Noah about it.”
“You don’t need to talk to Noah about it,” Cassandra says, startling me.
I turn to face her, wondering how to thank her for the sage without revealing too much. But she continues. “It’s your shop, too, now. And he needs you to bring in these ideas and implement them.”
“Oh! I’ve been telling him so many times that the store needs a little something-something,” Ms. Angela calls out from the back of the line. “But does he listen?”
I give my aunt a warm smile. I’ve occasionally been a witness to her loud opinion-sharing in the middle of the store and can see where a lighter touch might have worked better on Noah.
“Speaking of which, I should go,” I say as I pay for Sophie’s coffee—mine is on the house, Millie says as she hands it to me in my gorgeous new travel mug.
“Yup, Sophie’s all ready for you,” Ms. Angela says. “Just came from there. Love what you’re doing.”
“What are you doing?” Millie and Cassandra ask.
Ms. Angela waves me away. “You go on, I’ll fill them in. You got your work cut out for yourself.”
I can’t help but laugh at that as I thank her. I dash out of Easy Monday, hearing Ms. Angela explaining my whole plan to everyone who wants to hear.
As I pull the bright yellow door shut behind me, the rear lights of a red Mercedes flash as the car pulls out of the parking lot. An uneasy feeling spreads through me, but I shrug off the goosebumps. It’s a small town. Bumping into the same people comes with the territory.
When I get back to the library, the stack of photographs is ready. Sophie also printed a bunch of little stars with the words, “Willow Callaway is working her magic”.
She thanks me for the coffee. “I wish I could take a break with you, but it’s story time,” she says, pointing to a group of toddlers sitting cross-legged in the mezzanine, quietly waiting for her—the poster image of adorableness.
I hurry to the store with a smile on my lips, eager to get to work. But first, I go straight to Noah’s office to run my plan by him.
“Close the door,” he says once I’m done talking, his tone stern.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking a sip from my coffee for countenance.
He frowns. “What’s that?” His gaze is narrowed on the mug. More specifically, on the words Willow Callaway.
I feel myself blush. Well, this is embarrassing. “I-it’s a gift from Millie. Obviously, I couldn’t say no…”
“Why would you say no? It’s…” His words trail off. “Did you choose it?”
Why is he asking me that? “Well, yes, but then she wrote my name on it… well, that name and uh…”
“It’s your name. You don’t like it?” he asks.
Willow Callaway. Of course I like it. I love it.
It runs over my tongue like a brook in spring.
It’s-it’s-it’s… But I don’t know what to say to him.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. There will be a real Mrs. Noah Callaway, someday, and in all likelihood her first name will not be Willow. So in a sense, this feels like a fraud.
But I like it.
“You like it,” he states, as if I’d spoken out loud, which I definitely did not. “Now, onto the other thing.”
What other thing?
“You do not ask me for permission to do anything, Willow. My wife doesn’t need my permission.
If my wife thinks the window displays need to be changed, then they do.
If my wife decides she’s doing it, then she is.
” I’m pretty sure half the store heard this, on account of the wooden walls that enclose his office space.
His voice softens when he adds, “Are we good?”
I’m burning up right now with all his “my wife” statements.
It’s hot. It’s possessive. Even when he’s telling me I don’t need his permission, it feels like I belong to him in a way I can’t explain.
But of course, that’s just what’s going on in my mind right now.
Because what he’s doing is making sure we project the image of the perfect couple, and in what perfect couple in this century does the wife ask her husband for permission to do anything?
“Are we good?” he repeats even softer, and I swear I feel something hot going from his gaze straight through my center.
I lower my voice so only he can hear me. “What if your wife wants to sleep on the couch?”