Wishing on Willows: A Novel (5 page)

Footsteps padded down the stairs and a lady emerged—Bernie, he assumed—looking much too old to run a bed-and-breakfast on her own. She stepped behind the desk, brushed at a few scattered crumbs circling the coffee mug, and squinted at his stained chest.

Ian fished his billfold from his back pocket and gave her his most charming smile. “It’s not the best look for me, I admit. I usually take my coffee in a cup.”

She didn’t smile back.

He cleared his throat. “Do you have a room available?”

If she turned him away, he would have nowhere to stay and back to Peoria he would go. In the small town of Peaks, this was his only option.

“We have three.”

“I’ll only need one.”

Nope. Not a crack
. He ran his finger beneath his collar. “The biggest is the room next to mine,” she finally said.

“I’ll take it.”

“Do you snore?”

He blinked. Usually, a place of lodging took a person’s name. He almost chuckled, but the look on her face made him swallow the sound. This was not a joke. Bernie was very serious about the snoring. “Only when I have a cold. I’m very healthy at the moment.”

“Do you talk or laugh in your sleep?”

“Laugh?”

“My husband used to laugh in his sleep. I’d have to whack him with my pillow to get him to stop and then I’d never get back to sleep again.”

“I don’t believe I laugh or talk.”

“No guests past nine. No music or TV past then either.”

He slipped his hands in his pockets, dipped his chin and leaned forward. “What if the TV is muted?”

Bernie gave him a heavy-lidded stare. “If you come in after nine, do your best to avoid the squeaky stair. It’s the fifth one from the top. I’m a terribly light sleeper and it gets worse with old age.”

“Have you tried ear plugs?”

“I don’t trust them.”

“Of course not.” A smile tugged at his lips. “My name’s Ian McKay, just so you know.”

She pecked at her computer keys. “How many nights?”

“I’ll be here on and off for the next couple weeks.” The sooner he had this deal under wraps, the better everyone at McKay Development and Construction would feel. He dug out his credit card and handed it over.

She snapped the plastic onto the desk, typed his information into the computer, and slid his card back. “Upstairs. Follow me.”

His room—apparently the big one—was barely big enough to fit the full-sized bed, an armoire, and a small desk. As soon as they stepped inside, Bernie held out her hand. Ian dug into his pocket for a couple stray dollar bills.

“I do not want a tip, Mr. McKay. I’m waiting for your shirt.”

“My shirt?”

“Somebody needs to treat that stain.”

Ian set his luggage on the bed, which let out several creaks, then unbuttoned his shirt and handed it over. Bernie arched her sparse eyebrows at his undershirt. He glanced down. It was equally soiled with dried coffee. “Oh. I’ll just throw this away.”

“It’s a perfectly fine undershirt.”

Heat crept up Ian’s neck. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman made him blush. But seriously, he was not about to strip down to his skin. This was a far cry from playground basketball.

“I’m eighty years old, Mr. McKay. I promise I won’t see anything I haven’t seen before.”

He hesitated, then pulled the undershirt over his head. Bernie appraised his bare chest with those same heavily-lidded eyes and draped the shirt over her arm. Ian wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cover himself. She grumbled something about trouble, then turned and left.

His laughter escaped like a squeak. So far, the people of Peaks had been far from dull. He unzipped his suitcase, pulled out the shirt on top, and gave it a good shake. Something drifted into the air and dropped to his feet. The whiteness of the returned alimony check stood out against the mahogany floor. Ian stared at it, his smile fading as he recalled the angry red words Cheryl had scrawled on the attached note.

I don’t want your money
.

He crouched down and tore the check in half, in fourths, in eighths. A scrap slipped between his fingers and floated beneath the bed. He got down on his belly to grab it and found his reflection in the full-length mirror beside the dresser—grim-faced, prostrate on the floor. He looked away. The reflection was painfully symbolic, reflecting so much more than his physical
position. Especially these days. Ian walked over to the garbage can beneath the small desk and let the tiny scraps flutter from his hand like wrinkled confetti.

Ian stepped inside Val’s Diner at half past noon to the smell of bacon and syrup. The aroma stirred up long-ago memories of Saturday mornings, when he and Dad would make chocolate chip pancakes in their pajamas while Mom slept in.

A group of teenage boys sat in a corner booth, shooting spit wads at one another through straws. A heavyset man ate a piece of pie at the counter while a waitress filled his cup with coffee. She was petite with frizzy hair pulled back into a low knot and a baby face that made guessing her age impossible. When she spotted Ian in the doorway, she kept pouring until the man yelped and a bit of coffee spilled over the rim. She dabbed at the mess with some napkins and came around the counter sporting a black shirt that said Poetry Is Life. “Can I help you?”

“Is the food as good as it smells?”

“Nobody ever complains.”

“Then count me in.”

She led him to a booth on the empty side of the diner, smoothing her fingers over her hair and pulling her frizzy knot tighter. She smelled like a library. He slid into the cushioned seat while she took a small menu from the front pocket of her apron and stared at him like she wasn’t sure if he was real. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Do you have iced tea?”

“Yeah.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have. With a lemon, if you have them.”

“We have lemons.” She smoothed the hair over her ear again and looked at the front doors. “Are you eating by yourself?”

“I’m meeting with the mayor. He should be here shortly.”

“Oh. Okay.” She hurried to the counter and knocked on the window
ledge opening to the kitchen. “Fry up some onion rings, Harry. The mayor’s coming.”

Ian took a deep breath and braced himself in the booth. This was it. Dad’s company. People’s jobs. Ian’s reputation. All of it hinged upon today’s meeting.

The front door opened and a man with a shiny head and stooped shoulders stepped inside, scanning the diner. Ian recognized him from the picture on the town’s website. He stood and waved. Mayor Ford walked over to the table and pumped Ian’s offered hand. “You must be Mr. McKay.”

“I’m afraid Mr. McKay is twenty-five years my senior and much better looking.”

The mayor’s laugh escaped like a sharp bark—the sound didn’t at all coincide with a bald Mr. Rogers. “Ian, then.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. This is a very charming town you’ve got here.”

The mayor slid into the booth. “We like to think so.”

Ian resituated himself in his seat while the waitress set his iced tea on the table and scooted a mug of foam-topped soda toward Mayor Ford.

“Am I that predictable, Megan?” he asked.

“Harry’s frying up your onion rings.”

“I guess you know I want the french dip, then?”

Megan winked and pointed her pen at Ian. “Are you hungry?”

It was a funny question, seeing as he was sitting in a restaurant at lunch-time. “I’ll have whatever the mayor’s having.”

This seemed like the right suggestion because the mayor barked again. When Megan left, Mayor Ford grabbed the saltshaker and twisted it in a slow circle. “I’m so glad you could meet me on a Saturday. I sure appreciate the flexibility.”

“Of course.”

The glass shaker scraped against the laminate tabletop—a steady, hypnotic sound. “I’ve been talking with the council members ever since Fixtel made their announcement.”

“Looks like Peaks will be seeing some changes soon.”

“We sure are hoping.” Mayor Ford stopped his salt-twisting and leaned over the table, as if the boys across the diner might hear or care. His cheeks glowed like two shiny cherries. “For years I’ve been wanting to implement a development plan for our downtown, but improvements are hard to make without tax revenue.”

“A population boom would make for an expanding tax base.”

“Exactly. Which is why we need to woo potential residents. We can’t reap the benefits of an expanding tax base unless the employees of Fixtel choose to make Peaks their home.”

Ian folded his hands over the table and mirrored the mayor’s posture. “I hope that’s where we come into play.”

“The council members and I are pleased with what we’ve heard about your business. You’re a smaller development company, to be sure, but you have a solid reputation.”

“McKay Development and Construction is committed to excellence.” It was one of his father’s mottos.
“If you’re going to do something, son, you do it right and you do it well.”
Dad managed to live by it in all aspects of his life—as a businessman, as a father, as a husband.

“Which is why we’re hoping you’re interested in the job.”

They were hoping
he
was interested? “We’re more than interested, sir.”

Megan set a steaming basket of onion rings, a side of ranch, and two plates in between them. Mayor Ford scooped a handful onto his plate and pushed the basket to Ian. “Eat ’em while they’re hot.”

Ian no longer cared about the food, but he pulled apart one of the rings. Trapped steam spilled from the fried batter while the mayor poured some ranch on his plate and sprinkled his food with pepper. “What did you think about the location I suggested?”

“We know the type of people who will be moving in to work for Fixtel. We’ve built condos for them before. They’re definitely looking to live downtown.”

“It’s a perfect situation, really. They get their downtown and we finally
get to develop the south end.” Mayor Ford dunked a ring into ranch dressing and took a big bite.

“Are the businesses there open to selling?”

“Richard Arton’s on town council. He and his wife just put their jewelry store up for sale, so he’ll be thrilled.” Mayor Ford brought another bite beneath his chin. “And between you and me, I’ve been looking for an excuse to get rid of that antique shop ever since I became mayor. Talk about an eyesore.”

Ian took a sip of iced tea. “What about Willow Tree Café?”

The mayor stopped chewing, worry lines crowding around his eyes. “I do wish we could leave Willow Tree Café out of the mix. Robin makes a killer latte. She’s a nice woman. Very passionate about what she does.”

“The place looks well loved,” Ian said.

The mayor drummed his thumb against the tabletop and stared hard at the black-and-white checkered flooring. “And then there’s One Life to consider. The ministry attached to Sybil’s.”

Ian sucked a drink from his straw and let the mayor work out the conundrum in peace. He didn’t care where the condos were built. He only cared that McKay Development and Construction built them.

Mayor Ford continued his drumming. “Some of the townsfolk won’t be happy to see that go.”

“What about the north end? Would it be better to build there?”

“We just updated it last year, plus the buildings on that end are protected by the historical society. We’d never get away with it. And besides, with Arton’s already selling and the place in need of renovating, it really is an ideal location.”

Ian couldn’t argue. “The park on the south end is an added bonus. Easy access to the bike trail too.”

“These condominiums. They’ll boost the economy, right? Bring in more business. Open up jobs for the unemployed.”

“That’s usually the case.”

“One Life’s ministry has been a much-needed Band-Aid these past few
years, but this development will get at the root of our problems. As mayor, I have to do what’s best for the entire town.”

“Times are tough right now.” Ian knew. So did Dad.

The drumming stopped. Mayor Ford’s worry lines lost their sharpness and his cheeks took back some of their glow. “I’d shake your hand right now if I could, but we’ll have to convince the taxpayers first. Let’s hope the majority’s in favor of your condominiums.”

Ian held up his iced tea. “To hope.”

The mayor tapped his mug of cream soda against Ian’s glass. “To Peaks.”

Robin tiptoed around the mess of dinosaurs on the floor and groaned against Caleb’s weight as she laid him beneath the tractor-covered bedspread. She blanketed his chest, brushed her fingers over the scrapes on his cheek, and kissed his forehead. No doubt he’d end up in her bed before the sun rose the next morning—a habit formed the very first night Caleb slept in his big-boy bed. She had lain awake, listening to the crickets outside her window, overwhelmed by all the milestones Micah had missed, when tiny footsteps pitter-pattered down the hall. Perhaps she should have put a stop to it then and sent him back to his bed. But at the time, she needed him as much as he needed her. So she rubbed his back and fell asleep with his warm body tucked to her side.

Inhaling the scent of his cucumber-melon shampoo, Robin kissed her boy one last time, flicked off the light, and crept down the stairs. Amanda sat on the very edge of the sofa, staring intently at a stack of envelopes.