Feeling like a fish out of water—or at least swimming upstream—Willow pushed a trail through the hoard of noisy students eagerly pressing toward the school’s exits. The smell in the crowded hallway was a combination of sweat, stinky tennis shoes, cheap cologne . . . and what she could only describe as adolescent angst. Or maybe it was just teenage hormones running amuck.
She hurried on, feeling intrusive for being on their turf and desperately hoping Collin wouldn’t spy her and get embarrassed or worried that something was wrong. She hadn’t even told him of her plan. Well aware of Collin’s type A personality and tendency to obsess over small things, she didn’t want to disturb him with what he considered her “eccentricities.” Her grandson’s cautious approach to life was both sweetly endearing and slightly troubling.
As she went past the trophy case, Willow was surprised at how little appeared to have changed inside Warner High. Even the posters looked the same. Other than dropping Collin off here occasionally, she hadn’t been inside this building in ages. Not since her own stint here decades ago. She hoped it wasn’t a mistake to show up without an appointment. Schools had never been this formal back in her day. Having to produce photo ID and getting her oversized macramé bag checked by a security guard was a real wake-up call. It made her sad to think this was what Collin was subjected to every day, although he probably took it in stride.
Willow paused by the administration area, considering whether or not to ask someone for help, but everyone looked busy and preoccupied. She probably still knew her way around this place anyway. Unless the layout had drastically changed, which she doubted, she knew the Language Arts Department was up the main stairs and directly to the right.
At the top of the stairs, she noticed a young security guard curiously eying her. Willow smiled at him, then felt a surprising wave of anxiety—almost as if she expected to be apprehended for breaking a rule. It was probably just a guilty flashback from her youth—perhaps from the time she and Shelly Hanson got caught smoking weed in the restroom right around the corner. Good grief, what had they been thinking? She suppressed the urge to giggle as she walked past the uniformed guard and entered the Language Arts Department. She knew she was being ridiculous. That silly weed incident happened in 1980! And fortunately, her pot-smoking era was quite short-lived. She hadn’t touched the stuff in more than thirty years. She felt shocked to think it had been that long since she’d been young. Maybe she was delusional, but most of the time she felt like she was still young—more like her late thirties than her early fifties. She smiled to think how many times she’d been mistaken for Collin’s mother and had to explain she was his grandma.
She hoped she hadn’t come on a fool’s errand as she searched for Mr. Emerson’s classroom. She probably should’ve called ahead to be sure he was here. And if he was here, she hoped she wouldn’t appear to be a fanatical grandmother by bursting in on him like this. Yet, she knew if there was anything Mr. Emerson could do to help her grandson, it was well worth any amount of humiliation. She finally found the classroom, and peering through the narrow glass window beside the door, she could see that the lights were on. She felt hopeful. Maybe he was still here.
She tried the door but was dismayed to find it locked. What was it with schools these days? Was everything and everyone under lock and key? Feeling intrusive but desperate, she knocked then pounded on the metal door. She could see the door to the office area opening and then, to her relief, a dark-haired man emerged. He was medium height and slender, looking toward her with his head cocked to one side. But now she wondered if she’d gotten the wrong room. For some reason, she’d expected a bald and portly elderly man. But this guy, dressed in a tweed jacket, light-colored shirt, and narrow tie, looked younger. In fact, he resembled a character from a 1960s TV show—or maybe he’d been an extra in Mad Men.
“Hello?” He opened the door with a curious but kind smile.
Willow noticed slight touches of gray hair at his temples and fine lines around his eyes, suggesting he was older than she’d just assumed. But there was a youthfulness about him too. “Mr. Emerson, I presume?” She smiled nervously, hoping he’d get the joke.
“I am.” His nod was somber as he opened the door a bit wider. “May I help you?”
“I hope so.” She stood up straighter. “I’m here to talk to you about Collin West. I understand he’s one of your students.”
“Yes. Collin is in two of my classes. A fine young man. Are you his mother?”
She beamed at him. “No, no, but thank you. I’m actually his grandmother. I’ve been raising him for most of his life. We just moved to Warner last winter.”
“Yes, I know that Collin is new to the school.” He waved her into the classroom. “He’s impressed me as an outstanding student. You should be very proud.”
She felt a wave of relief. “Oh yes, I am. I think he’s absolutely brilliant. But I’ve been concerned after transferring here from the Bay Area in California. We moved so abruptly, and it’s recently occurred to me that Collin won’t have all the letters of recommendation that he might need, you know, to start applying for college. I’m afraid I’ve been negligent.”
“He hasn’t applied already?” Mr. Emerson frowned. “I thought Collin was a senior.”
“Yes, he is a senior. And you’re right, he should’ve been applying long before this, but Collin doesn’t see the need to attend a big college. He insists on going to community college for his first year.”
“I see. Well, that’s a sensible plan.”
“Maybe so. At least for his first year. But I don’t want him to set his sights too low. I’m hoping he’ll start applying to some bigger schools soon. Maybe after fall term.”
“Getting into a bigger college shouldn’t be a problem. He’s an intelligent young man. I assume he’s got a strong GPA.”
“Yes. But we still need to get our ducks in a row. Recommendation letters and such. And I just heard you’re going to be leaving Warner High.” She frowned. “Did I hear it right? You’re retiring?”
“That’s correct.” He nodded with a grim expression.
She frowned. “You look young.”
“Well, maybe . . . but it’s time.”
“Congratulations . . . I guess—I mean, if that’s what you want.” She studied him, wondering why he appeared melancholy, but controlled herself from asking. She knew her tendency to get overly involved sometimes, and this was not the time.
“Thank you.” He rubbed his chin. “I guess I’m still adjusting to the concept.”
“Well, life is about more than just work.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” He frowned.
Willow studied him for a long moment. Something about Mr. Emerson seemed sad and vulnerable . . . almost like a little boy in need of a warm, reassuring hug. And at the same time, she could tell that he was uncomfortable, as if he wanted her to keep a safe distance. “Anyway,” she said quickly, “the reason I came here today was to personally ask you for a recommendation letter for Collin.”
He slowly nodded, but there was a faraway look in his eyes, almost as if he wasn’t really listening. Perhaps he had health problems. Maybe that was his reason for early retirement—not that she planned to probe. At least she hoped not.
“You see, you’re his favorite teacher,” she continued. “And if you could write a nice letter, I can make copies. You know, to include in Collin’s application packets in the event that he applies to some larger colleges. I suppose I’m hoping he’ll soon become disenchanted with community college.” She leaned forward slightly, trying to discern if Mr. Emerson was really on board or simply lost in his own thoughts.
“Yes, yes.” His dark eyes lit up. “That sounds like a good plan. Sensible.”
She felt relieved. “Collin truly is fond of you, Mr. Emerson. He’s mentioned you a lot. And he loves his English classes. Whether it’s reading or writing or whatever. He actually hopes to be an English major. I’m not sure that’s a very useful degree, but I’ve alw
ays encouraged him to follow his dreams. And you may already know that he loves to write. He writes short stories and poems—just for his own entertainment.” She paused to catch her breath, worried that she was gushing.
“Yes, I’ve noticed he’s a strong writer. That caught my attention early on.”
“Oh, good.” She set her overloaded macramé handbag on a desk with a heavy thud and sighed deeply. “So you’ll help us then? I mean, him—you’ll help him?”
“I’d be honored to write a letter for Collin.”
“Oh, thank you—thank you!” Once again, she resisted the urge to embrace him. With his proper manners and buttoned-up appearance, she felt certain Mr. Emerson was not a hugger. Although she could be wrong. For his sake, she hoped she was wrong. “I was so worried about showing up like this, straight out of the blue,” she confessed. “Without an appointment, I mean. I’m obviously from a different era. They never had armed guards all over the schools back in my day. To be honest, this place felt more like a reformatory than a high school to me today.”
“I’ve actually had similar thoughts.” He looked almost amused.
She waved her hand around. “Can you believe I actually went to high school here? Ages ago, of course. But I’m a Warner High graduate. Well, barely.” She felt her cheeks growing warm to remember how she’d marched up to receive her diploma while pregnant. Not that she planned to disclose that.
“Really?” His brow creased. “You went to school here?”
“Yep. I was a Warner Wolverine.” She chuckled. “I graduated in—”
“So was I. A graduate, I mean. Class of 1980.”
“No kidding? I was ’81.” She blinked, trying to recall anyone by the name Emerson. Then, realizing she hadn’t properly introduced herself, she stuck out her hand. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you my name. I’m Willow West and—”
“Willow Wild West?” His hand covered his mouth as if embarrassed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Please, excuse me.”
“That’s okay.” She gave him an uneasy smile. “It’s true, I was a bit of a wild child in high school. I’m sure the word got around. But I eventually grew up.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, mostly. I suppose I don’t ever want to grow up completely. And the truth is that my own grandson still calls me a hippie.” She rolled up her sleeve to show him the faded rose tattoo on her forearm. “He calls this my gramp-stamp.” She laughed loudly. “From back in my glory days. I was even younger than Collin when I got this and he thinks I was crazy. I suppose the good news is that Collin has absolutely no interest in doing anything illegal. He’d never get tattooed. Not that I’d mind so much if he did. Sometimes I wish he’d lighten up. Not necessarily with tats.” She sighed as she pulled her sleeve back down.
“I know they’re painful to remove.” He folded his arms across his front. “Not from experience, mind you.”
“No, of course not. You don’t really look like the tattoo type, Mr. Emerson.” She tipped her head to one side. “But I still can’t place you. You really went to school here?”
“I’d be surprised if you did remember me.” His tone was solemn. “I was pretty quiet. Certainly not part of your crowd. Although my best friend Greg Walters mixed with—”
“I do remember Greg Walters! And now I remember you too. You’re George Emerson.” She peered curiously at him. “I thought you looked familiar and, come to think of it, you haven’t even changed that much. As I recall, you were rather standoffish then. Studious and serious. But Greg was fun. He really came out of his shell in high school. Whatever happened to him? Does he still live in Warner?”
Mr. Emerson frowned. “No . . . Greg passed away about ten years ago.”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry to hear that.”
He nodded. “As am I.”
“Didn’t you have a war hero brother?” She wanted to change the subject. “Alex Emerson? For some reason, I remember that name.”
His brow creased. “Yes, but I’d be surprised if you knew him. Alex was ten years older than me.”
She suddenly recalled why she remembered the brother’s name, but she didn’t want to admit it. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a graceful way to deflect the conversation.
“How did you know about him?” Mr. Emerson pushed.
“The truth?” She grimaced.
“That’s always the best policy, don’t you think?”
“Well . . .” She winced inwardly. “My parents were . . . well, they were hippies. We lived on a commune. And we participated in war protests sometimes, and this one time, when I was just a girl, we were visiting my grandparents right here in Warner. We demonstrated by the Vietnam Memorial at the city park . . . and I remember reading that name. It was the most recent one on the stone. And I can’t explain it, but I felt so sad for him. I remember wishing that he’d never enlisted.”
“Alex didn’t enlist,” Mr. Emerson said soberly. “Do you recall the Vietnam draft lottery? How they drew birth dates and numbered them for the draft?”
“Sure.” She nodded.
“Well, Alex’s birth date was the second date drawn. He was drafted into the army right after graduation.” Mr. Emerson sighed with a faraway look. “He went overseas with a buzz haircut, shiny combat boots, and a brave smile . . . and came back in a wooden box.”
“Oh . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, so was I.” He shook his head.
“I really am sorry. You lost your brother and your best friend.” Despite herself, she reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. “That must’ve been very hard.”
He simply nodded.
Now she didn’t know what to say. She awkwardly pulled her hand down then reached for her macramé bag. “I sort of lost track of this town after high school,” she said nervously. “I spent a year in Berkeley but felt like I was floundering. Then my parents talked me into transferring to an art college.” She waved her hand in a dismissive way. “But I’m sure you’re busy, Mr. Emerson. I don’t want to bore you with the silly details of my life. I’m just so glad you’re willing to write a letter for Collin.” She reached inside of her bag, extracting a slightly wrinkled business card.
“There’s no rush for the letter, but I thought perhaps you’d do it before school lets out. You know, so you don’t forget. I’m sure you have big summer plans—celebrating your retirement and all.” She handed him the dog-eared card. “That’s the info for my art studio and gallery. You may have noticed it on Main Street.” She pointed to the card. “Named after me. Willow West. Anyway, it’s probably the best way to contact me. Or just send the letter to the email address on the bottom. I can print it out.”
“Then I’d have to do that before school ends since I don’t have public email.”
She blinked. “Seriously? No email?”
He nodded. “I’m rather old-fashioned. I view computers as a necessary evil. I use them when I must, like here at school, but you won’t find those electronic devices in my home.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t even own a cellular phone.”
“Wow.” She wasn’t sure if this was impressive or just plain nuts. “How do you communicate?”
“I have a landline phone that works just fine. And if I need to write a letter, I use a pen, or if I’m writing something longer, I use the same Olivetti typewriter that took me through college.”
She grinned. “That’s actually sort of cool . . . and very unusual.”
“People give me a hard time for it, but I just happen to like it.” He shrugged. “And I think my life is less stressful as a result.”
“I can understand how it might reduce some anxiety.” She put her purse strap over a shoulder. “And if I could get away with something like that, I think I would too. But for my business, well, I feel it’s necessary to have an online presence.”
He studied the card. “You’re an artist?”
“I mostly create textile arts. As well as a little painting, and sometimes I’ll dabble in scul
pture and pottery—if I’m in the mood for getting muddy.” She grinned.
“Interesting.”
“Do you like art?” She peered curiously at him. He didn’t particularly strike her as the artistic type.
“I believe art is like beauty—it’s discerned by the eyes of the beholder. I’m certainly no expert, but I know what I like.”
She reached into her bag again, pulling out one of the flyers for that night’s event. Like her business card, it was slightly rumpled. “Then you might want to come to this.”
His brow creased as he read the page. “An art show?”
“Yes. It starts tonight at seven. And there’ll be food and music and all sorts of fun things. All the galleries listed there will be open until nine. It’s called Final Friday. Kind of experimental, but lots of places do it. I’m hoping it’ll work out and we’ll do it every month. Warner needs to wake up when it comes to the arts.” She smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I moved back here.”
“To wake up Warner?” His brows arched.
She chuckled. “Something like that.” She closed her bag and squared her shoulders. “Well, I don’t want to take any more of your time, Mr. Emerson.” She stepped away from him, pausing long enough for him to invite her to call him by his first name. But when he didn’t, she simply thanked him for his help with Collin’s college letter and said a cheery goodbye.
As she walked through the now-deserted hallway, she wondered about Mr. Emerson. He was so completely unlike anyone she’d ever known. And she’d known a lot of characters in her lifetime. But what made this odd man tick? And why did he act so uptight . . . and sad? And—the most pressing question—why did she feel this strange and unexpected attraction to him and what in the world did she plan to do about it?
three
By that evening, George had convinced himself that the only reason he was going to the art walk on Main Street was because it provided him an honest excuse for turning down Lorna Atwood’s persistent dinner invitation. He’d told a little white lie by claiming he had other plans. Of course, he’d intended to make his words true by doing something. But now he actually had an activity. The trick would be getting out the front door without crossing paths with her again.
Courting Mr. Emerson Page 2
