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Excerpted from Love Sizzles:
Whisper Beneath The Willows By Su Kopil Carolina coast, 1886 Charcoal clouds rolled and bunched, a continuous rhythm of movement in an ocean gray sky. Keely Wyth lifted her long skirts in her haste to top the small rise. She paused in front of the pendulous willow, watching its silvery green leaves dance erratically in the violent wind. She used to hate the storms that battered the southern coast, the flooding rains that sent isolated tornadoes touching down in random acts of destruction. But for the last five years, she welcomed the savageness of the tempests. Only then did the searing emptiness invading her every waking moment pour forth, allowing her to vent the bone deep grief that stayed locked away otherwise. Avoiding a gnarly root, she knelt in the soft grass. Her fingers trailed along the rough stone marking the tiny grave. With her own hands, she'd dug the hole and buried the body of her stillborn daughter, Annie. Her husband had fled one month prior to her giving birth but not before leaving his mark upon her. She fingered the L shaped scar running from cheek to mouth. The loss of her marriage wasn't what she mourned. Her sorrow, a sorrow that would not heal, was for her baby lying beneath the willow. Thunder crashed and reverberated around Keely. An eerie darkness settled over her like a well-worn cloak. The earth trembled beneath her knees, the vibration feeding the rush of adrenaline to her blood. Nearby, the sizzle and snap of a lightning bolt struck, bringing her to her feet. Basil, the stray cat she'd found frolicking in her herb patch, appeared from nowhere to arch against her leg. "Looks like we're due for a long, wicked one." She stroked the orange tabby. Before the cat decided to stay, weeks had passed without Keely talking to another soul. Rarely did the townsfolk visit with her anymore. The ladies had tried in the beginning, but she'd retreated into the pain of her loss. Finally, they left her alone, claiming the death of her baby had made her touched in the head. Now they sought out her cabin in the woods only when her knowledge of herbs was needed for a medical emergency. On her part, only a depletion of supplies would force her to take the horse the five miles into town. Fortunately, the cupboards were well-stocked for whatever onslaught the skies brought forth this time. "We best tuck old Molly into her stall and get the chickens settled." She started down the well-trodden path. Basil meowed, tail high as he weaved in and out of her legs. "No, I don't suppose I need your help with the chickens. But your supper will have to wait until everything is secure. Now be off with you before you trip me and leave me lame. Then no one will get supper." The rain began just as she finished securing the barn door. It had taken her longer than anticipated to save what vegetables she could from the garden and gather the chickens into their coop. Even old Molly kicked up a nervous fuss, refusing to calm herself. She thought of mixing some chamomile leaves in her oats to relax the mare but just as quickly as the rain started, Molly's quaking eased. The drumming of the rain on the roof soothed her. Outside, the wind caught Keely's breath. Stinging rain chilled the summer heat. She could barely see her raised hand in front of her face. With no moon or stars to guide her, she made her way to the cabin door. At her touch, the heavy wood slammed open. She battled the wind to shut it again. In short order, the fire was stirred to flame and two oil lamps glowed cheerfully. A pot of soup simmered on the cast-iron stove. Basil lay contentedly by the hearth, his tummy full. Keely sat in her rocking chair, watching his tail twitch in sleep. To a stranger the cozy scene might appear peaceful and welcoming. But inside Keely's heart, a storm raged as fierce as the one battering the cabin. The howling gales only served to release the sorrow and grief hidden deep within her. As the volume of the storm grew, so did her own anguished moans. She cried for the child she'd held in her arms only once. Even now, she could feel the silky blonde hair, see her tiny pale face. Keely rocked in her grief, forgetting the storm or the soup still simmering, remembering only the child she would never see grow, never see laugh, never see smile. Tears drowned her face, dried, then began anew. Her throat hoarse, her body exhausted, she slept. The dream began as it always did. A blonde child, no more than four or five, played beneath the willow on the hill. She paid no attention to Keely's approach but continued to sing softly to a tattered doll. A gentle breeze carried away the words. Try as she might, Keely could never hear them, neither could she attract the child's attention. Not by clapping her hands or calling out. It was always the same. A familiar despair settled over her. She turned to leave and almost missed the whisper coming from beneath the willow.
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