Free Wynn in the Willows by Robin Shope Page A

Preserve.”
    “I will do just that.”
    Something had taken place between them.
    As though sensing it too, a satisfied smile lifted his lips at the corners. Doug stepped up into the truck and backed down the drive.
     
     
     
     

11
     
    Wynn decided to drive by her childhood home before starting her day in the woods. She turned down the narrow road and drove beneath the canopy of shade offered by the aged sumac trees. At the crest of the driveway, a perpendicular road intersected, generating a cross. A shaft of light spiraled from the sky culminating center to where Wynn now sat. A divine center? Was it a sign? She closed her eyes.
    “God, are You really there? Because if You are, I could use You right about now in my life. Talk to me.” She leaned her head back on the seat and held up her hands. Nothing. “I thought not.” Disappointed, she drove onward. The lake shimmered below—blue and dazzling—the surf spilling onto the sand, and then chasing itself back. “Ah, this is where I connect with my own spirituality.”
    At the dip of the hill, there was an ocean of parrot tulips right next to a frost of trillium—which she remembered planting alongside her parents, so many years ago. Then Wynn caught sight of the roof of the ochre-colored house. Home. The all-consuming feeling of being here at last was intense.
    She had forgotten the smell of honeysuckle that grew along the line of the woods, and the sound of waves echoing off the cliffs in the cove. The joy was overwhelming. The pull to get out of the car and walk around was all-consuming.
    The driveway was empty of vehicles. She longed to saunter around the property, peek into the windows and pick a flower from the garden. Trembling, she was torn between embracing the memories of the past, or running from them. Her bedroom was at the front of the house, just at the top of the widow’s peak which faced the sea. Were the curtains still lace? The ache inside her grew.
     
    ****
     
    Dad helped Wynn paddle through the mid-sized waves and they floated in the vast sea. She heard the water shushing and she stiffened with fear. Her dad caught her, allowing the waves to carry them back to shore.
    Her mother had been watching them through binoculars. When she and her dad arrived home later, Mom was waiting for them in the yard, hands on her hips. Her hair was auburn and generous with thick curls circling her face, a face with sharp features—not rounded features like her redheaded twin sister, Roxie.
    Wynn was sent inside while her parents talked in the yard. Side-tracked by the amazing colors of the shells they had collected that morning; it was a while before she walked outside with a Popsicle in each hand, a cherry and a lime. Her dad was at the far end, digging at the foot of an oak. Seeing Wynn, he walked towards her, crossing from shade to sunlight. The corners of his mouth turned downward. His eyes had a blank look.
    “Is everything OK, Daddy?” Wynn held up both popsicles for him to choose.
    He took the lime. “I’m fine.”
    “What were you doing over there?”
    She cupped her hands above them and saw sorrow.
    “I wasn’t doing anything.”
    “Yes, you were. I saw you, right over there.” Wynn pointed. “And, look, your pants are all dirty.”
    “You caught me. Remember when we planted the bulbs last year?”
    Wynn nodded as a glob of red ice fell onto her shirt.
    “This time I was planting something different. It was hope. I planted hope.”
    Right before the sunset had completely evaporated for the night, Wynn snuck out of the house with a trowel to unearth her dad’s hope, wondering what it looked like. Wynn lifted the dark earth until deep red appeared. It was so pretty. She touched it with her hand. Hope was red and fluffy. She picked it up. It was a cardinal with a broken neck,
    She screamed and dropped the bird and the trowel. Wiping tears with muddy hands, she wondered how a dead bird meant hope.
    As the sun continued with its descent,