Chapter 53 Willow
fifty-three
Willow
Noah twines our hands together as we walk the short distance to the store. Elm street is decorated in full fall glory now, with cornstalks on lampposts, autumn wreaths on front doors, porches overflowing with pumpkins, and window boxes brightened by mums.
“Busses already?” I mutter as I notice a group in front of the store.
“Nuh-huh,” Noah says. “That’s Nathaniel, and Cheryl, and Sophie, and even Louise. These are people from Emerald Creek.”
They’re talking among themselves and pointing at… “Ohmygod it’s the windows!” My heart flutters as we quicken our pace, emotion seizing me just by the looks on people’s faces.
We stand in the back of the small group, but they part ways to let us stand in front. “Ohmygod, Noah, look what they did!”
“That’s my momma when she worked here before she got married,” someone says, pointing at a photo.
For a moment I get lost in the contemplation of these long-gone times, the people in the pictures becoming alive to me.
I recognize family names and buildings that have hardly changed over time.
Here, men are cutting chunks of frozen ice at the lake.
There, skinny children pose in ill-fitting one-piece bathing suits, girls and boys alike.
I imagine this is what looking through a family album must feel like.
A sense of familiarity yet difference, that awkward clash between past and present, the measure of time passing, yet so much being the same—emotions, hopes, dreams. All painted in the children’s timid smiles, the men and women’s stares as the camera captures their everyday lives.
And all intertwined with newspaper articles about the store’s expansion and yellowed advertisements with prices in the cents.
“Oh that’s me!” I can’t help but shriek. At the very bottom right, a picture that’s been edited to old-timey sepia tones shows me opening the store, looking back on the street with a huge grin on my face.
In front of the pictures, as planned, local pottery, quilts, leather bags, mittens and more are artfully arranged on haystacks and apple crates. The names of the makers are inked on a hand-drawn map of Vermont pinned at the center of the photo display.
“I didn’t know Freya sold her candles here!” someone says. “She’s my second cousin.”
Noah kisses the top of my head and pulls me to the other window.
There, meats and produce are advertised in chalk on slate signs, while Dutch ovens, table linen, and locally made plates and mugs yield an invitation for a laid back, comfortable dinner scene.
Mini jack-o-lanterns, a doll-size scarecrow, a row of locally made barbecue sauces, jams and chutney complete the homey feel.
But the star of the show is in the back. The theme of this photo display is the store. A historical timeline runs on three sides, from its creation at the end of the nineteenth century to today. Photos of staff and Callaways in work and formal attire make for a fun and varied collage.
The center? It’s entirely occupied by a photo of Noah and us on our wedding day, laughing and looking each other in the eye. We look happy. Carefree. Triumphant.
But my silly heart thumps like crazy in my ribcage. Wiping a tear, I turn to Noah. We never talked about ordering wedding photos.
He wraps a strong arm across me, pulling my back to his front. “We look good, right? After this is over, we’re hanging this photo at Lilyvale.”
I nod, silenced by my emotions. “We did it,” Noah reminds me in a whisper—the words we had said to each other when this picture was taken, in Vegas. “And so much more, my love.”
That evening, town hall is packed when we arrive—and we thought we were early. Noah gives me a quick kiss and heads up to the stage, where the rest of the select board is assembling. I find Lane, Beck, and Griff near the front.
On the other side, standing next to a projector, Gail stares straight ahead. She’s flanked by two men in suits. An older one and a younger one. The younger one turns slightly, and I recognize Jake.
Lane goes rigid beside me. Her color drains so fast, my stomach clenches.
I place a hand on her bunched fists and give her a gentle squeeze. “You okay?”
She blinks without looking at me. “Fine.”
Beck’s jaw tightens, eyes locked on the same man.
“Lanie,” Griff says, “there’s food back there if your sugar is low,” he says, pointing to the back of the room where food is piling up—cakes made by Kiara, finger food by Lazy’s and Chloe’s Nook.
Residents are loading paper plates and assembling for what, for them, might be the peak of the entertainment season. “Want me to get you som’thin’?”
“She’s not hungry,” Beck growls, his eyes locked on Jake, his fists balled up as well.
“Beck, please,” Lane whispers.
Beck clenches his jaw. “It’s him, right?”
“Not now,” Lane says, pointing in front of us. As secretary of the board, Ms. Angela is taking her spot at the high end of the table where the select board assembles, shuffling papers and plugging in a laptop.
Owen, Cassandra, Lynn, Colton and Noah take their customary seats on the long side of the table, facing us.
While Ms. Angela tells them something we can’t hear, I struggle to return my attention back to the meeting about to start.
Is Jake the father, and if he is and they’re not talking, what does this mean?
But then Colton, as chair of the select board, raps his gavel and calls for silence, and my attention is back on this moment, crucial for the Callaways and Emerald Creek.
“Alright, guys,” he says in his casual manner that just puts everyone at ease, “just a reminder that this meeting is informational. No decisions will be made. There will be no vote as there’s nothing to vote on. Let’s—”
“Sorry,” Owen interrupts, and a general sigh rises from the audience. Owen loves to interrupt Colton. “I just think Noah should recuse himself.”
Noah locks eyes with me, smirks, and imperceptibly shakes his head. I roll my eyes at him in understanding. Effing Owen.
Colton clears his throat. “There’s nothing for him to recuse himself from. We’re not voting.”
“Right, but-but-but he could be exercising an undue influence, given his position.”
Colton shakes his head. “You wanna make a motion, Owen, please go ahead.”
Owen puffs his torso at the easy win. “I move for Noah to be excluded from the debate.”
That makes no sense at all.
“Who seconds that?” Colton asks.
He’s met by silence. Lynn is picking at something on her sweater, Cass is shaking her head at Owen, Noah is just staring ahead at the audience.
“No one?” Colton looks around the table.
More silence.
“Motion dismissed. Alright, Mrs. Callaway?” He turns his attention to Gail.
“Someone get her a mic. Great, thanks. Mrs. Callaway, please explain why you called this meeting, in a few words. I think everyone’s read your arguments in ECHoes, but for the sake of this meeting, and in case anyone’s missed your point,” he says, and this is met by scattered laughter from the audience, “please recap the reason we’re all here tonight—apart from the food, of course,” he adds, his gaze softening as he pointedly looks at Kiara.
Clenching the mic, Gail turns to the audience. “Good evening,” she says, a tight smile on her face. “Five years ago, I married a wonderful man—”
“Gail—ma’am, please?” Colton says. “Just the point of this meeting.”
“Oh right, okay. Well, this person,” she says, pointing her finger at me, “is trying to rob Emerald Creek from what’s rightfully yours.”
The room stays silent. “Hand me the pecan pie,” someone mumbles in the back.
“Maybe backtrack a bit, sweetheart,” Cassandra intervenes. “Give us some context.”
Owen clears his throat. “I think what Mrs. Callaway is getting at, is that the Callaway estate is governed by rules that are currently being bent to the detriment of the town. You see,” he says, addressing the audience, “it was the intention of the founders that the store and other assets be managed only if the executor was married, because of the burden of such an endeavor.”
“By founders, you mean Noah Callaway The First,” Noah interrupts him.
Owen nods quickly.
“My ancestor,” Noah adds.
Owen ignores him. “The founders expressly stipulated that if that condition wasn’t met, if the successor wasn’t married by age thirty-two, then the store should go to the town. Because ultimately the store is essential to the town, and it can’t be run by just one individual.”
“That’s boloney!” someone in the back shouts.
“What do you care, Owen?”
“Is it true you’re working with a chain to take over the store?” someone else asks.
“Who are these people with the missus?”
Colton drops his gavel. “Guys, please. Let’s do this in order. Gail, now would be a good time to bring up your particular point. I believe there’s a presentation planned?”
“Thank you,” Gail says and turns her face to a rectangle of light that materialized on the wall, above the select board.
“Someone please kill the lights,” Colton says. “Alright, the room is yours.”
Grabbing a clicker, Gail starts. The first slide shows Noah on the left, frowning slightly behind his glasses, his arms folded, standing in front of the general store, wearing a freshly pressed white button-down shirt, the creases of his khakis clearly visible.
The image is split in half by a torn paper effect, and the right side of it is a picture of…
Is that me? That is me. Yup. I’m at karaoke at Lazy’s, holding the mic right against my wide-open mouth like I’m about to give head, my eyes droopy by too many beers, runny mascara giving me the racoon look, big hair like I just got electrocuted, short skirt looking even shorter because of the angle of the picture.
Pretty sure if Gail zoomed in you could see my panties.
“These two individuals would like you to believe that they are married, and we’re here to prove that just because an Elvis impersonator signed a piece of paper doesn’t mean they can take away what should be yours.”