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Chapter 10
Quebec
Will was luxuriating in that in-between state that was no longer 'sleep', but couldn't really be called 'awake'. He had been working industriously for most of the night and felt no guilt about enjoying this current drowsy contentment. He turned over and was drifting back into sleep, when he heard the knocking.Mrs. Hatcher no longer came daily, since he had finally mastered the art of keeping the home fires burning, but she did still stop in frequently for coffee and a visit. He appreciated her company almost as much as he did her baked goods. With the impetus of a coffee cake or cinnamon buns driving him, he called, “Be right there!” as he tugged on a pair of jeans and pulled a sweater over his head.
The hardwood floors were cold under his bare feet, so he hurried to let her in. Mrs. Hatcher could start the coffee today, while he brushed his teeth and finished dressing.
He threw open the door to see Anne, nervously biting her lip. She looked at him uncertainly. “Did I wake you up?”
“No, of course not. Well, yes. It doesn't matter. I should be up by this time, in any event. Erm, what time is it?”
Anne laughed. “It's around ten. Probably much too early for a social call on an author. I should go.”
“No, please. Please come in.” He held the door open for her.
Once inside, neither Anne nor Will seemed to know what to say.
“I'll just build the fire up, shall I? It gets a bit chilly in here when you're not snuggled under the covers.” An appalled look crossed his expressive face. “Not that I was suggesting—”
Anne broke in. “No, of course not. I never thought you were—”
Will could feel another of those damnable blushes suffusing his fair skin and he quickly turned to make up the fire—which naturally chose this day to withhold cooperation. Raking the covering of ash from the embers, he added kindling, which just sat there, refusing to catch fire. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, but Anne appeared to be more interested in looking around the cottage than at his shortcomings as a fire-starter.
He re-stacked the kindling, adding some bits of crumpled newspaper, and got down on his hands and knees to blow on the recalcitrant embers.
When she was sure that Will was once again occupied, Anne's focus returned to him. Amazing blue eyes and a very nice ass! Not that she was noticing . . . she couldn't help it if that particular portion of his anatomy happened to be sticking straight up, encased in skin-tight jeans . . .
Will glanced back at her, and Anne dropped her eyes, pretending to be intently studying the hand-made braided rug at her feet.
“Would you . . . ” Will cleared his throat, as his voice seemed to have suddenly developed an alarming squeak. “That is, it may take some time to get the fire going and if you wouldn't mind making coffee . . .”
“I'd love to!” Anne couldn't remember if she even knew how to make coffee, as the Sisters drank herbal teas; so why was she sounding like the opportunity to make coffee was her most fervent desire? Maybe coming here uninvited hadn't been such a good idea. She was feeling less 'neighborly' and more 'stalkery' with each passing minute.
Coffee. She could make coffee. How hard could it be? She must have made lots and lots of coffee in her life. Gallons and gallons of coffee. She should go make coffee and stop staring at his firm, tight . . .
He looked over his shoulder again. “Everything's in the kitchen, or if you'd rather wait a bit, I can do it.”
“No. It's fine. I'm sure I'll find everything in the kitchen. I'll go make some coffee!”
Will finally got the fire going and was preparing to slip away to make himself presentable, when Anne poked her head into the main room.
“Um. Where do you keep your coffee?”
“Oh. It's in the freezer.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She was back in two seconds.
“Why do you keep it in the freezer?”
Will thought for a moment. “I don't know. I guess because my mother did. She thought it stayed fresher.”
“That makes sense. My mom kept it in a canister on the counter. She went through so much coffee, I guess it didn't have a chance to get stale.”
Anne turned to go back into the kitchen, then suddenly whirled and threw her arms around him, nearly cracking his ribs. A blinding smile lit up her whole face.
“My mom loved coffee! She kept it in a canister!” She released him and once again turned to the kitchen, throwing over her shoulder, “She used cream and sugar!”
With a bounce in her step and a happy little hum, Anne went to make the coffee.
Will felt a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He wasn't sure exactly what had just happened, but it didn't matter. If Anne was happy; he was happy. Wearing the goofy grin that had taken up residence on his face, he went to wash, brush and finish dressing the appropriate body parts.
**********
Morning breath vanquished, hair pummeled into submission, and feet clad in warm socks and trainers, Will returned to the living room.
Anne had stacked mugs, spoons, cream, sugar and the coffee on a cookie sheet, which she placed on the coffee table with an air of triumph. She kicked off her snow boots and tucked her feet under her on the couch.
Will sat down next to her and reached for the coffee pot.
“I knew it! You're left-handed.”
Will raised a quizzical eyebrow. Anne caught her breath. For some reason, that gesture seemed eerily familiar.
“Er, yes. I've always been.”
Anne realized that the excitement in her voice over such a mundane discovery made her sound like an idiot.
“It's just . . . I heard somewhere that a lot of creative people are left-handed, and with you being a writer and all . . .”
Will grinned. “And if it adds credence to your theory, I'm terrible at maths.”
Anne leaned forward and said in an obvious stage whisper, “So am I.” Returning to her normal voice, she continued. “But I don't even have the 'creative writer' thing as an excuse. I just plain suck at math.” Remembering his earlier comment about the coffee, Anne added, “But I'll bet your mom is really proud of you, becoming a published author and all.”
A shadow passed across his eyes, turning them almost gray.
“I'm sure she would have been. She was always very supportive of my writing, even when it wasn't very good. And when I was at university, she always asked that I save my papers and bring them home at end of term for her to read.”
Anne touched his forearm. “I'm sorry. Is your mother . . .” What was the polite word for 'dead'? She couldn't just say “Is your mother dead?” That sounded really callous. “. . . deceased?”
Will nodded. “She had cancer. She fought it as long as she could . . . more for my sake than her own, I believe. My father passed away when I was a child, and she was all I had. She . . . didn't want to disrupt my education. It wasn't long after I finished at Cambridge that she . . . finished, also. I still miss her very much.”
Anne swallowed to ease the lump in her throat. She could feel his pain. She understood it; at that moment, she was certain she shared it.
“I . . . I think my mother's dead, too. It . . . feels like she is. Like there's a space where she used to be, a 'Mommy space', and it feels like it's been empty for awhile. I don't know how I know that; I just do.”
The single eyebrow raised again, and Will tilted his head.
Anne shivered in reaction to that gesture. She took a deep breath. She had to come clean now.
“I got hit on the head a while ago and I don't remember much about my past.”
Anne twirled a section of her hair around her finger, curling and then releasing it, over and over. She snuck a look at Will from under her lashes. He didn't seem to be retreating in horror; maybe it would be all right if he knew.
“The Sisters took good care of me. They saved my life. I . . . healed physically, but my memory didn't come back. It's all pretty much a big blank. Except, when I'm with you, I seem to remember things—like how my mom liked her coffee, and that I'm pretty sure she died.”
Anne brushed the back of her hand across her lashes and then looked directly at Will. He thought he could drown in the depth of those eyes.
“I just wish . . . I wish I knew . . .” A note of despair crept into her voice. “I don't even know her name!” she burst out.
Will continued to look deeply into her eyes, and suddenly he knew. His lips seemed to move of their own volition.
“Joyce,” he said succinctly. “Her name was Joyce.”
Anne's eyes widened in shock.
**********
Buenos Aires
Pilar paced the courtyard. She felt unsettled. At sixes and sevens. Such a lovely English expression. Although she wasn't sure just why being at sixes and sevens described her current feelings. What did being at eights and nines entail?
As Willow would say, she felt twitchy. A small smile curved her full lips and her dark eyes softened. Willow. She had never met anyone like Willow. There was such a power and goodness in Willow—yet she feared the former and mistrusted the latter. And she really had no idea how stunningly beautiful she was, with her red hair and gray-green eyes and lithe body. How could she not know?
Pilar ran her hands over her own ample hips. At a fraction over five feet, slightly plump, with dark hair and eyes, she looked like millions of other women in Buenos Aires. What did Willow see in her?
But the attraction was there, and it was mutual, thanks be to Olorun. After the disaster with Maria, Pilar had not hoped to find love again.
She sat on the edge of the fountain and trailed her hand in the water. She and Maria had been schoolmates, and Pilar couldn't remember a time when she hadn't loved Maria. Maria had wanted to go to university in the Estados Unidos, and they had dreamed of Pilar joining her there. Yemalla had blessed her family; but although comfortable enough in Buenos Aires, Pilar knew her family's wealth could not encompass a foreign university education.
They had decided that Pilar would seek employment while Maria studied, and they would obtain a small apartment where they could make a life and a home for themselves. They were very happy planning their future.
But then, Maria's staunchly Catholic family discovered their relationship. Her father saw his hopes for Maria to make a good marriage with a prominent Yanqui dashed. Maria was kept incommunicado for three weeks while her family 'reasoned' with her. Pilar could only imagine the recriminations—Maria would burn in hell for eternity and shame her whole family. Blah, blah, blah, as Willow would say.
Pilar's world crashed down on her when Maria entered a convent and took a vow of silence. The Sisterhood was allowed no contact with the outside world, with the exception of a single family visit for one hour on Christmas. Maria was as effectively lost to Pilar as if she had died.
Pilar grieved for two years, and spent the next two comfortably numb to all emotion. Two things saved her; she came from a family of strong women who understood her pain and put no pressure on her to marry and have children—and she met Willow.
Willow filled the space that had been empty for so long, in her heart and in her life. Willow understood. Having lost her own Tara, Willow showed her that it was possible to go on living, rather than simply existing. She and Willow could talk with each other, mentioning Tara and Maria with no awkwardness. Both women resided in inviolate places in their hearts, but Willow had shown her that hearts were magical places. No matter how many loves resided there, the heart could encompass new ones. There was always room for more love.
Pilar stood up and resumed pacing. She missed Willow dreadfully. She understood why Willow had to go—she had responsibilities to her 'Scoobies'. She was needed, so of course she must go. But the understanding of it didn't make the separation any easier.
Hurry back to me, Willow. I'm at sixes and sevens without you.
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