Wishing on Willows: A Novel (13 page)

Ian tried to return Dad’s smile, but the effort didn’t quite reach his lips.

“Speaking of, she’d like you to come over for dinner.”

“I was hoping to head back to Peaks.”

“What are you going to accomplish tonight that you can’t take care of tomorrow?” Dad clapped his broad hand over Ian’s shoulder. “Can’t let business get in the way of family. If I’ve taught you anything, I hope it’s that.”

Ian gathered his notes and slid them into his briefcase.

“Running away from your mother’s cancer won’t make it go away.”

The muscles in Ian’s arms tightened. His mother, of all people, should not have to fight this battle. Not again. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“She wants to see you. And if getting you home for dinner tonight will boost her morale, then so help me God, I’ll drag you by your ears if I have to.”

Ian dismissed the threat with a short-lived laugh, one that fell from his lips and toppled into nothing. “I’m not running away from anything. You got Mom through this last time. You’ll get her through it again.”

“This is different than last time.”

Ian shook his head and fought against the unease crawling through his insides. “Of course it’s not.”

“She’s in a lot of pain, Ian.”

He unfolded the notes and set them back on the table. The creased lines blurred out of focus. “I’ll be over at six.”

The smell of oregano filled the foyer. Ian slipped off his shoes, made his way through the living room, and entered the kitchen—home away from home. Mom stood at the island, her head wrapped in a silk bandana, chopping onions and tomatoes while Dad leaned against the counter behind her.

As soon as she looked up from the cutting board, her face lit with a smile. One that did very little to erase the dark circles under her eyes or the hollowness beneath her cheekbones. She went to him with opened arms and hugged him fiercely. The thinness of her frame made Ian’s Adam’s apple swell. He met Dad’s gaze over Mom’s bony shoulder, but Dad just winked, like he had everything under control.

“Smells delicious,” Ian said.

“Of course it does.” She patted his chest and resumed her chopping. “I’m making your favorite. Baked ziti.”

“Where’s the garlic?”

Mom pointed the knife at the ceramic bowl in front of the window. He plucked out a fat bulb. Putting both hands over his head, he crushed it and the cloves popped apart.

Growing up, Grandpa Vin taught Ian his way around a kitchen. While Dad was busy ingraining a pocketful of timeless life lessons in Ian’s young mind—like family first and nothing’s worth doing unless you give it your best and failure’s an option only if you think it’s an option—Grandpa Vin had one simple piece of advice to impart. More garlic. As if all of life’s problems could be solved by those two words.

Bland meal? More garlic! Hard day? More garlic! Runny nose? More garlic! At times, Ian would catch Grandpa popping a few minced pieces into his mouth, uncooked. He claimed it was the key to a strong immune system. Why get a flu shot when there was raw garlic to eat? Once, when Ian had a bad cough, he tried it for himself. He ended up with a stomachache.

“Any word from Bailey?” Ian asked. His kid sister tied the knot two weeks ago. Her husband was a trust fund kid who graduated from Brown and whisked her off on a six-week honeymoon across Europe. Ian had a hard time thinking about her as a married woman.

“Three postcards,” Mom said. “Paris. Venice. Rome.”

Ian grabbed a chef’s knife from the block by the fridge and cut the roots off the cloves. After removing the skins, he crushed each one and started mincing. The fast rocking of the knife sounded like a woodpecker had taken up residence in the kitchen. His tension melted away. He could do this all day, for the rest of his life—a quiet kitchen, the soothing chop, chop, chop of knife against cutting board. Cooking stilled the chaos.

Mom came beside him—shoulder to shoulder—and watched. “It’s like magic,” she said,

“What?”

“Watching you cook.”

He smiled and scooped the minced garlic into a small porcelain bowl.

“You missed your calling.” The words must have slipped out of Mom’s mouth by accident, because she flicked a look at Dad, then Ian, and quickly
resumed her tomato chopping. “Did your father tell you he was nominated for employer of the year again?”

“No, he didn’t.” Every year, the chamber of commerce in Peoria held a banquet on behalf of local businesses. Employer of the Year nominees were selected by employees. Dad had been nominated numerous times. He’d taken the award home on more than one occasion. “That’s great news, Dad.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Joseph. It’s a wonderful accomplishment. We’re very proud of you.”

Ian rinsed the knife and set it in the sink. “When’s the banquet?”

“Next weekend.”

“Will you be bringing anybody?” Mom asked.

Dad frowned. “Who would he take, Maureen?”

The knife clattered to the floor. Mom sucked in a sharp breath and stuck her finger in her mouth. Before Ian could react, Dad was already by her side, taking her hand, surveying the damage. Blood seeped from a thin slice running across the tip of her pointer finger. “Do you think you need stitches?”

“It’s just a cut.” She pulled away and returned her finger to her mouth.

Ian stepped forward. “I can chop the rest of the vegetables.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m completely capable of cooking dinner for my two boys.” She rinsed her finger in the sink. “Joseph, could you please get me a Band-Aid so I can finish up without bleeding all over our food?”

Before Dad could protest, Mom shot him a look—her dark eyes melding into iron. Arguing with her when she wore that particular expression was futile. Ian knew it. Dad knew it too. Once he disappeared down the hall, Mom leaned against the counter, cotton shirt outlining her sharpened frame. “You and your father …”

“We’re worried about you,” Ian said.

“It’s very obvious.”

“I promise to be more subtle.”

When Dad returned, he wrapped the bandage around her finger and kissed the tip.

Mom put her hand on his cheek. “You have to stop treating me like I’m an invalid.”

“You have to stop pretending everything’s okay.”

“I have cancer, Joseph. A truth that hardly escapes me.” She washed the knife and resumed her vegetable chopping. “The last thing I’m going to do is sit around and let fear have its way. If I can’t fight the tumors, I’ll fight for a little normalcy.”

“Can’t fight the tumors?” Of course she could fight the tumors. She had to fight them. Ian looked at his father, but Dad wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You fought the tumors last time.”

“God fought those tumors, honey. It’s up to God if He’s going to fight them again.” Mom pointed her knife in Ian’s direction. “I need you to be okay with that. You and your father.”

Dad came behind Mom and buried his nose in the crook of her neck. “If you’re asking me to stop trying to protect you,” Dad said, “that’s a promise I’ll never make.”

“Not everything is fixable, Joseph. It’s a lesson you might consider teaching our son.” She stopped chopping and looked at Ian, her smile haunted and worried. “Now go sit down and visit while I finish making the salad.”

Maybe she should go sit down and they should fix dinner. But Ian knew better than to argue. If Mom wanted to cook dinner, then that was exactly what she would do, so he followed Dad into the dining room and took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs.

“You’re heading back to Peaks in the morning?”

“That’s the plan.” Ian drummed his fingers into the oak. He peeked over his shoulder and leaned over the table. “Mom looks terrible.”

“It’s the chemo. She has her final round this Friday.”

“Is it helping?”

“We’ll find out in a week or so.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Dad knocked on the tabletop. “How about this? I’ll take care of your mother and you close the deal in Peaks. That’s the best thing you can do right now.”

Ian fidgeted with a woven placemat. Mom wasn’t the only one who looked unusually worn-out. Wrinkles that had once been barely noticeable carved deep trails around Dad’s eyes. More and more gray crept through his hair. It was as if Mom’s cancer had infected the entire house. Ian wanted to erase Dad’s burden for a change. He was so tired of adding to it.

“I’ll close the deal,” Ian said. “You won’t have to let anyone go.”

Dad smiled. “I’m counting on it.”

For eleven o’clock on a Thursday, the café was quiet. The creaking of the oven door filled the silence, and thanks to Lenny, a blast of hot air flushed across Robin’s face. Golden-brown mounds rose in eager puffs, anxiously awaiting their union with the cream she’d whipped and stuck in the refrigerator. Inhaling the aroma of choux pastry, she pulled out the baking sheet. Parchment paper crinkled against her oven mitt as she pushed the cream puff shells onto a cooling rack.

Judy, the local librarian, was on an Alaskan cruise and Pastor Mike and his wife had left town that morning for their youngest daughter’s wedding, which meant her usual lunch crowd would not be making an appearance. Robin removed her oven mitt and breathed in the stillness. She hadn’t heard a peep about condominiums since her confrontation with Cecile three days ago.

Brushing her fingers over the smooth pages of her opened Bible on the prep table, she soaked in the words she’d clung to on Monday evening: “Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the L
ORD
, which he will work for you today.… The L
ORD
will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.”

The verses felt like a promise straight from God. And in this quiet moment, she could almost believe that Ian McKay had given up and left Peaks for good. She could go back to life before he came and provide for her town in peace.

Mayor Ford greeted Ian at the door of the conference room with an outstretched hand. “It’s great to see you again.” He pumped Ian’s hand and smiled. “Did everything go well in Peoria?”

A vision of Mom glued itself to the forefront of his mind. Sitting like a waif at the dining table, picking at her food, covering her pain with a disturbing smile. The picture turned his heart cold. He massaged away the tightness in his neck and forced himself to focus. Today’s meeting was incredibly important. “It went very well, thank you. You’ve got a pristine town hall on your hands, Mayor Ford.”

“Did you get a chance to peek inside the chamber?”

“I did. It’s wonderful.”

“You should have seen our old building. Nothing glorious about it. We’re very pleased with this one.” He turned around and motioned to seven others sitting in chairs around the table. Ian recognized Richard Arton, owner of the jewelry store; Brian O’Malley, the Irish beanpole; and Darrell Maddocks, the barrel-chested bulldog. The three men nodded their greetings. Four others—two women and two men—examined Ian with open curiosity.

“I’ve called together the council members and the planning commission. I didn’t think the zoning board needed to sit in on such a preliminary meeting. Not this early in the game.”

Once the mayor did his round of introductions, and Ian greeted each person with a handshake, he straightened his suit coat and took the only remaining seat—at the head of the oblong conference table.

“As you all know, I contacted McKay Development and Construction about doing business here in Peaks.” Mayor Ford turned to Ian. “Why don’t you start with an introduction? Explain what your company can bring to the table. Get us all on the same page.”

Heads swiveled from the mayor to Ian.

“I’m a project manager for McKay Development and Construction.” He flexed his fingers over the chair’s armrests. If he could close this deal, he’d be more than a project manager. He’d be the company’s hero. And perhaps he’d finally find the satisfaction so many others claimed to experience whenever they closed an important deal. “We target small to midsized towns in the Midwest that have experienced, or will likely experience, a substantial growth in population. We build condominiums and townhouses
to accommodate the growth. When Mayor Ford contacted my father, we both agreed Peaks would be an ideal place to build.”