Cedar Creek Seasons (2 page)

“Willi! Wait!” A duet of voices slowed her steps. She grinned at the boys she’d done a passable job of raising for eight years. Reddened cheeks peeked from matching Green Bay Packer jackets.

“Let’s go, troops.”

“Can we go home with Elsa?
Puh
-lease?” Ralphy blasted her with bionic nine-year-old charm. “They’re going for pizza.”

“Sorry. Family night. New Year’s Eve was all the fun you’re getting for the weekend.” Willow kept walking, chunky knees stiffening with each chill-wracked step. Rigor mortis setting in. Would people pay to gawk when she became an ice sculpture? What would they call her? The Chunky Chilly Chick?

Chili
. She turned to the pouters. “I have chili on the stove, and after a three-hour hot bath, I’m not going out again to pick you up.”

“But after pizza they’re going to the Chocolate Factory for brownie fudge sundaes.”

Of course they were. “Elsa has money. Elsa has a real job and a husband with a job.”
Elsa started life with a plan she’s actually following. Elsa didn’t wake up one morning to a sheriff telling her she had three kids
.

“But …” This from Del, whose monosyllabic vocabulary foreshadowed the approaching teen years.

“The only ‘but’ I want to hear is the one sliding into your seat. Go.”

Heads down, they ran to the van.

“I love you guys more than peanut butter cups!” she yelled, adding humiliation to disappointment.

A man in a floor-length fur coat with a beanie copter on his head gawked at her.

That’ll be two dollars, mister
.

She waved. The man looked away. Star reached the van just ahead of the boys. In seconds, the engine sputtered to life. Willow pointed her index finger heavenward as she angled her approach toward the passenger side. “Thank You, Je—”A shriek from the direction of her van split the air, followed by giggles, followed by another shriek.

Willow ran around the back bumper and stopped, now frozen figuratively as well as literally.

The boys balanced, arms outstretched like gangly surfers, on top of the van’s sliding side door … which lay flat on the snow-covered ground.

A shrill scream drew Wilson Woodhaus’s attention to a battered burgundy van. He waved good-bye to his vintage-dressed buddies and walked around the front of his ‘85 Camaro. He rubbed a splotch of road salt off the canary-yellow hood as he craned his neck to determine the source of the scream. From this angle, he couldn’t see anything other than the lady in the purple robe and old-fashioned yellow bathing cap sloshing through the wet snow in striped boots.

A peculiar sight. Possibly not significantly stranger than his 1920s frat house garb, but at least he wasn’t running, drawing attention to himself, like the woman in the robe.

Whatever caused the commotion, there was now an adult presence. Sidestepping a patch of ice, he opened his car door, slid, beaver skin coat and all, into the bucket seat, and removed the ridiculous beanie from his head. At the push of a button, the subwoofers vibrated and the Temptations belted out “Treat Her Like a Lady.” With a swift twist, he stilled the song. Breathing a sigh as a Mendelssohn concerto calmed the air, he put the car in reverse.

A pounding on the back window made him slam on the brake. The robe lady waved at him in the rearview mirror. “Stop! Please!”

Wilson rolled down the window as she spun across the ice and grabbed onto his side mirror. He cringed, experiencing her chokehold on the chrome of the only car he’d ever owned as acutely as if her fingers gripped his throat. “Something wrong?” It was a rather banal comment, considering the scream.

“I need a man!”

He arched his brows.

“A hand. I need a
hand
. With my van door.”

He got out of the car.

Purple Lady laughed. “Look at us! We’re a matched set.” She pointed to his grandfather’s coat then whipped open the robe, gesturing to her vintage swimsuit.

Wilson blinked and felt his face warm. “Is the door frozen?”

“Could be.” She closed the robe and hopped on one foot, then the other. “Frozen to the
ground
.“

“What?”

“Come see.” She led the way between two rows of cars. “My son yanked it open, and it slid off the track and plunked into the snow. See?”

Interior side up, the van door rocked on its back in a snowbank like a disabled turtle.

“Can you help us get it back on?” She rubbed her arms as expectant eyes pleaded from under the dripping bathing cap.

The woman was wet. His chivalry hadn’t gotten much practice lately, but the realization spurred him to action. “Here.” He unbuttoned Grossvater’s coat. “Put this on and get in the van. On second thought, go get in my car.”
And please don’t drip
.

“Th–thank you s–so much.” She turned and ran to the Camaro.

Wilson eyed the Packer-jacketed pair. Not a lot of muscle power there. “Well, men, are you with me? Let’s extricate this thing.” A confident demeanor could mask a lot of ignorance.

His green-and-gold crew gaped. The older one narrowed hazel eyes. “Let’s
what
?”

“Extri—lift this thing.”

“Oh … yeah.”

His helpers put their backs into it, but after three futile attempts to reattach the door, the girl with her forehead resting on the steering wheel let out an annoyed sigh. “It’s not gonna work. Just stick it behind the seat and let’s go.”

The older boy looked at her as if he’d just discovered a new species of maggot. “Are you crazy? Willi would freeze to death on the way home and you’d lose your license.”

“I would not.”

“Yeah … um … I think there’s safety laws against driving cars without things like … um …
doors
.”

“Duh. You’ll have your seat belt on.”

Wilson planted the door in a snowbank. “Where do you live?”

“Cedarburg,” the little one answered. “On Sheboygan Road right by the creek.”

“Go ask your mom if she wants—”

A car door opened and closed. Wilson recognized the timbre of the slam and turned to see Grossvater’s coat barreling toward him.

“Chili!” the lady yelled.

Wilson looked over her bathing cap at his yellow wheels. “Wasn’t the heater on in my car?”

“No! I mean yes, it was nice and warm, but I’ve got chili on the stove! Star, grab my phone and call Elsa and tell her to come back and get us. Quick!”

For a millisecond, Wilson considered leaving them to work things out on their own, but words he’d just read that morning came inconveniently to mind. “‘
Whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for Me.’”

Were women in paisley bathrobes part of “the least”? He looked down at the boys’ snow-crusted boots. “I live in Cedarburg.” At times, chivalry felt like a curse. “I’ll give you a ride.”

The woman lowered her frantic arms. “You’d do that? For complete strangers? Then you’ll join us for chili. No arguments. Star, grab my purse. Boys, get in that scrumptious yellow Camaro. Hurry.”

Whooping with joy, the boys ran. The girl slammed the driver’s door of the van with a force that probably wasn’t joy. Her footsteps crushed the snow as she rounded the front of the sad-looking vehicle. Five feet from Wilson, the girl stopped. Her mouth opened. The ring in her nose kept swinging. “Willi!” Her face blanched, leaving only spots of unnatural pink. “You can’t invite him to our house. Do you know who this is? It’s Wilson Woodhaus. He’s like the best, most amazing artist in the whole town. The whole state. The world, maybe.”

The woman folded her purple arms. “We’d appreciate the ride, Mr. Woodhaus, but I guess I’ll have to rescind my chili offer.” She tipped her head to one side. “Apparently, you’re too good to eat.”

C
haos in the midst of order.

Wilson fiddled with wheat-colored fringe on the place mat Ralphy, the younger boy, set in front of him. None of the five woven plate rugs matched, and the chairs were a hodgepodge of decade and design. Living in this conglomeration of style and color would make him nervous, yet the decor worked. It had a unique charm—fitting for a kitchen with “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” lettered above vermillion cupboards.

Del approached with a stack of plates. In keeping with the theme, each one appeared orphaned from a different set.

“You like variety,” he observed to the back of Willow or Willy—what was he supposed to call the woman, anyway? “Mrs. Miles” seemed a bit formal and also made the assumption she was currently married.
Married!
Was she? Would she have invited him if she were? Of course she would. This was a thank-you, not a date. But would her husband get that? He scanned the pictures on the fridge, searching for a likely face to attach to the man who might stomp in at any moment and kick him out of the greatly distressed Queen Anne chair.

Two of the many plastic frameless frames smothering the fridge featured Willow and a man. He appeared too old to have a strong right hook. If that was her husband, she’d married into another generation.

“I like garage sales.” Willow/Willy lifted a spoon from a pot of something that smelled tantalizing, though unchili-like. She set a bowl of grated cheese on the table. “And flea markets and antique stores and hand-me-downs. Or ups.” Her mouth curved as she tapped the knobby white cheese bowl.

The woman had one of those fascinating faces that appeared instantly younger when she smiled. Her eyes, blue with hints of turquoise, glinted as if she were harboring a delicious secret.

Wilson shifted his gaze to the stove. How long had he been staring? Would she realize that analyzing facial features was an integral part of an artist’s job? He nodded toward the simmering concoction. “That smells intriguing.” He cleared his throat. “Do you go by Willow or Willy or—”

“Willi. With an
I
.” She ran the backs of her fingertips along her roundish torso, ending with a finger flare at her hips. “My parents obviously envisioned a leggy, long-waisted daughter. Who knew they’d have one without a waist at all.” She grinned and turned back to the stove.

Oh, how he hated these verbal setups. Did women know what torture they put a man through when they made self-deprecating statements designed to garner a compliment out of a clueless—

“Hot or not?”

Wilson gulped and shifted his eyes back to his place mat and Jamaican-flag-striped plate. She definitely wasn’t what he’d call “hot,” but how do you let someone down easily? He took in the whole picture, from fur-lined moccasins and dark jeans to the blue-and-red-plaid shirt that hung loosely from a … a
generous
upper body. She was short, but not what anyone would label petite. An artistic flare was evident in her makeup and jewelry. He liked her pendant and matching earrings—blue stones snaked by gold wire. “Well …”

“Maybe I’ll just put the habaneros on the table and everyone can add what they want.” She set two spice jars in front of him. “It’s Cedar Creek Chocoffee Chicken Chili.”

“Choc-
what
?”

“Chocoffee. The secret is a cup of strong coffee and two squares of Baker’s chocolate.”

That would explain the indefinable aroma. Why, again, had he said yes to this?

Star, his one-girl teen fan club, sauntered in, took a spoon out of a drawer, and dipped it into the pot. “It’s easier if you just call it Number Twenty-Four.”

“I take it you’re entering the chili contest at the Winter Festival.”

“Always have, always will. Haven’t won yet.”

Star licked the coated spoon, raised an eyebrow, and lifted a calendar from a nail on the wall. “Last week we tried Pumpkin Pineapple Chili. The week before, Black Bean Beet.” She tapped a lime-green fingernail on the page. “Three weeks ago, it was Hot Hungarian Jalapeño, and last month she made us eat Sweet Potato Salmon Chili and by midnight we all had the—”

“Star!” Willi snatched the calendar. “I bet Mr. Woodhaus would like something to drink while he’s waiting.”

“Water would be fine.” And safe. Best not chance whatever weird concoctions lurked behind the picture gallery on the fridge. Ginger Peach Garlic Tea, maybe, or Raspberry Cayenne Carrot Juice.

“Speaking of the Winter Festival, you should enter the bed race with us.” Willi-with-an-
I
turned from him to the girl. “That fur coat and copter hat would be perfect, wouldn’t it?”

Star nodded as she poured what appeared to be water embellished with lemon slices from a pitcher, handed him the glass, and left the room. Wilson settled against the back of his chair.

Clunk!
Something hit the floor above the kitchen. The Tiffany lamp over the kitchen table shimmied.
Thwack!
A picture slipped cockeyed on the wall. Wilson sat up straight, muscles taut. “What was that?”

“Boys.” Willow chopped onions and scraped them from the cutting board into a boat-shaped bowl. “You don’t have any, do you?”

Onions? No, she must mean boys
. “Never been married.”

“Me neither.”

She seemed to enjoy the surprise that must be registering on his face. She nodded toward the fridge. “That’s my dad.” Had she caught him staring at the pictures of the older man? She looked up at the swaying lamp. “Kids! Come and get it!”