Courting Mr. Emerson

by Melody Carlson

  “I think he’s home,” Lorna said. “At least I haven’t seen him venture out.”

  “Oh, well . . . thanks.” Willow turned back, quietly tapping on the door, but preparing to just drop off her parcels and leave.

  “Hello?” George opened the door with a bleary-eyed expression.

  “Did I wake you?” she asked with concern.

  “No, no, of course not.” His frown looked confused.

  “Here.” She held the bags out. “I brought you something and—”

  “What’s this for?” he asked with a furrowed brow.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Lorna watching with open curiosity. “May I come in?” she whispered.

  He appeared to understand. “Yes, of course.” He opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”

  Once inside, she let out a sigh then giggled. “I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, George. But I wanted to thank you for—”

  “You thanked me last night.” He looked self-conscious as he tucked a slightly rumpled blue shirt into his trousers. Not his previous buttoned-up self. She wondered if something was wrong.

  “This is to thank you for something else.” She quickly explained about Collin’s plans to meet up with Marissa. “He was so happy. And he said it was thanks to you.”

  George’s lips curved up. “Well, that’s nice to hear. I’m glad for him.”

  Willow held out the bakery bag. “For you.”

  His eyes lit up as he peered inside. “Bran muffins?”

  “With raisins.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded.

  “That’s not all.” She held up the other bag. “Coffee.”

  “But I already have coffee.” He nodded toward his kitchen. “I haven’t made it yet, but I—”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to make your coffee this morning.” She went past him, going into the small but tidy kitchen and examining the coffee maker—even sniffing inside of it.

  “Well, that’s rather unusual. I can easily make it—”

  “Do you have any white vinegar?”

  “What?” He pushed his uncombed hair back with a perplexed expression.

  “I’d like to clean your coffee maker,” she told him as she removed the carafe, setting it into the sink.

  “But, as you can see, it’s perfectly clean.” He ran a finger over the top of it.

  “Yes, it’s spotless on the outside, but when did you last clean the inside?”

  “What?” He frowned.

  “Do you or do you not have white vinegar?” she demanded.

  He went to a pantry and after a bit returned with a bottle of white vinegar. “Here.” He handed it over with a dubious look.

  “This will take about ten minutes or so.” She poured vinegar into the carafe. “In case you have anything you need to attend to.”

  “Well, I, uh, actually haven’t had my morning shower yet. I slept in today. Not something I normally do.”

  She smiled. “Sometimes it’s good to do things outside of the norm, George. Go ahead and get your shower. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Well, I, uh—”

  “Go on.” She gave him a gentle nudge. “Don’t worry, I’m not a house burglar. You can trust me. And take your time.” To her relief, he didn’t continue to protest. Poor fellow, he probably thought she was certifiably nuts. But as she waited for the vinegar water to heat and run through the coffee maker, she knew that purging out his old generic coffee would be well worth the effort.

  Willow didn’t like to think of herself as a snoop but couldn’t help a look around the kitchen as she waited on the coffee maker. The wooden cupboards were painted white but spotlessly clean. The black-and-white checkerboard floors looked old but well cared for. Although there was no dishwasher, the aqua-blue stove and fridge looked like vintage 1950s and were actually quite charming. Other than the coffee maker and toaster, there were no “modern” conveniences on the original countertops. For some reason this wasn’t surprising. George was an old-fashioned guy . . . almost like someone from a different era.

  Curious as to whether there might be milk or cream for coffee, she peeked inside the fridge to see that it was adequately, albeit rather spartanly, stocked. Not that she could judge since it was actually in much better shape than her own much more modern refrigerator at the moment.

  She removed a carton of eggs, a block of white cheddar cheese, a red onion, and some spinach. While the second batch of just plain water gurgled through the coffee maker, she set to work grating, chopping, and stirring. She paused to grind the Brazilian beans and, while a fresh pot of aromatic coffee brewed, sautéed the onions. Then she added the spinach, eggs, and cheese . . . and scrambled. Leaving her concoction covered on the stove, she got out dishes and mugs and then, peering into the backyard, she noticed a derelict picnic table and decided to transport their breakfast outside.

  She’d just gotten it all set up, complete with a canning jar bouquet of blooms that she’d picked from a slightly neglected flowerbed in the backyard, when George appeared with a hard-to-read expression.

  “You look clean and fresh.” She waved him over. “Breakfast is served.”

  “But how did you—”

  “I hope you don’t mind.” She filled his plate with the scramble then added a muffin as he approached. “But I was starving. So I just made myself at home.” She smiled nervously as he picked up the fresh pot of coffee, pouring it into his mug. “Please, join me.”

  After he sat down, she said a quiet and nontraditional blessing then picked up her fork. “Dig in before it gets cold.” And without further ado, she took a bite. Egg scrambles had always been her specialty and this one was near perfection—although some cremini mushrooms might’ve improved it a bit.

  “This is delicious.” George dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “Thank you.”

  “Try your coffee,” she said.

  He took a tentative sip, then smiled. “This is very good. Is that just from cleaning with vinegar?”

  She explained about the freshly ground beans. “But I couldn’t bear to put them in an unclean coffee maker. That would spoil everything.” She pursed her lips. “It’s rather spiritual, if you think about it.”

  “How is that?” He broke his muffin in two.

  “Well, sometimes people look all spotless and clean on the outside, but they’re a mess underneath.” She chuckled. “In fact, that’s almost exactly what Jesus said to the religious leaders of his day.”

  “What?” George looked clearly confused.

  “Sorry.” She took another bite. “I didn’t mean to preach at you.” She tipped her head toward the side fence where a blonde head was peeking over. “And, don’t look now, but we have an audience.”

  “Mrs. Atwood?” he murmured without turning to see.

  Willow nodded. “Should I invite her to join us?”

  “No.” He bit into a muffin and thoughtfully chewed. Then his eyes lit up.

  “Better than a cupcake?”

  “Most definitely better.”

  “Do you think I’ve given the wrong impression by showing up like this?” She lowered her voice. “I mean, for your neighbor.”

  He grinned. “Well, if you have, I owe you my sincerest gratitude. Thank you very much.”

  “Hey, I do what I can.”

  Willow’s concerns for crashing in on him like this slowly evaporated as they pleasantly visited and dined in the sunshine. Although she suspected that George was still somewhat dumbfounded by her actions, she felt that he was enjoying himself . . . and the food too. “This has all been so unexpected,” he said as they finished up. “But much appreciated.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “I had a rather sleepless night,” he confessed. “I normally don’t drink coffee beyond the noon hour. I’m afraid it kept me awake.”

  “You’re sure that was the coffee?” Willow hid her smile as they carried the breakfast things back into the kitchen. George insisted on c
leaning up, and she felt a fresh wave of pity for this man. He lived such a barren and colorless existence. Almost as if he’d gotten stuck somehow, or perhaps had a primal fear of fully participating in life. Whatever it was, she felt more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it. But she suspected it wouldn’t be easy. It would probably require a lot of gentle pushing on her part. And perhaps some less-than-gentle prodding too.

  six

  George felt bewildered as he hurried to wash up the breakfast dishes. Willow hadn’t appeared eager to depart and, although he hated to leave dirty dishes in the sink, it didn’t feel very hospitable to let her sit alone in his living room. Even so, he couldn’t just leave the kitchen like this. Willow might be a good cook, but she certainly left a huge mess behind.

  George wasn’t quite sure why it made him so uneasy to think of Willow roaming around his little house. He didn’t have anything to hide. But it was disturbing to think she’d gone through his fridge and cupboards and such. Equally disturbing to imagine her out there “making herself at home.” Truth be told, George was not the ideal host. In fact, he’d never been a host at all. As much as he liked Willow, she certainly did push him from his comfort zone.

  “Well, that will do for now.” He joined her while still holding a damp dish towel. “I’ll finish up later.” He dried his hands on the towel then folded it.

  “You’re sure I can’t help?” she offered from her position on his small sofa.

  “No, thank you.” He looked nervously around the room. In the sunshine, he could see several surfaces with a slight layer of dust. He resisted the urge to use the damp dish towel to wipe it now. Probably not a hospitable move.

  “I’ve just been admiring those gorgeous cabinets.” Willow stood, going over to the wall of cabinets that George and his grandfather had built more than twenty years ago.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve tried to imagine what you keep in there.” She grinned. “I suspect it’s books, but I’ve resisted the urge to peek.”

  “You can look.” He opened the cabinet nearest to him.

  “Oh my goodness!” She rushed over to see it more closely. “Vinyl records—there must be hundreds of them.” She turned to him. “You’re a collector?”

  “Only by default. The oldest ones belonged to my grandparents. My grandfather was a jazz aficionado. My grandmother loved the crooners—Sinatra, Crosby, and such.”

  “But these are from the sixties and seventies.” She removed an album. “Beatles?”

  “Those belonged to my brother.”

  She continued to look through them. “The White Album? You have the Beatles White Album?” She carefully removed it from the cover. “In mint condition too.”

  “My brother had most of the Beatles’ albums.”

  “Amazing.” She slid the album back into place. “Do you ever listen to them?”

  He opened the next cabinet to expose an old turntable and speaker system. “I used to occasionally, but it’s been a while.” He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d turned the stereo on.

  “Oh, you should enjoy them, George. Music is good for the soul.”

  He considered this. “Well, maybe with my retirement, I’ll have more time for that.” That, of course, was absolutely silly. George always had plenty of time.

  “And what’s behind these doors?” She pointed to the other end.

  “Another collection.” He felt a little embarrassed, but he opened the door anyway.

  “VHS tapes?” She chuckled. “Are you kidding?”

  “Most of these belonged to my grandparents.”

  “What wonderful old classics.” She perused the spines. “You’ve got all the Katherine Hepburn–Spencer Tracy films. And here are all the Cary Grant ones. And Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. These are delightful films.”

  “My grandmother loved old romantic movies.”

  “And here are the westerns.” She continued to the next shelf, reading off titles.

  “My grandfather’s.”

  “And Alfred Hitchcock.” She pulled out North by Northwest. “One of my all-time favorites.”

  “Those were my collection.”

  “You’re a Hitchcock fan?”

  He nodded.

  “When did you last see this?” She held up a copy of The Birds.

  “I don’t know. Years ago.”

  “So you don’t watch these much?”

  “Maybe now that I’m retired . . .”

  “Do you have a VHS player?”

  He opened the next cabinet door to reveal an old-fashioned TV and a VHS player. “I assume it still works,” he murmured.

  She slid the tapes back into place. “Well, I hope someday you’ll invite me over to watch some of these with you.” She smiled warmly as, one by one, she closed the cabinet doors. “I’ll bring the popcorn.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. On one hand, he did enjoy her company. On the other hand, it was highly disturbing. He wasn’t sure how much he could take of this. He resisted the urge to run a finger around his collar . . . to loosen it in order to breathe better.

  “How about these last two doors?” Willow asked.

  “As you suspected.” He opened both doors. “Books.”

  Willow ran her hand across the smooth surface of a wooden door. “These cabinets really are beautiful, George. Do you know what kind of wood this is?”

  “Cherry.” He explained how he and his grandfather had built them.

  “You’re kidding.” She examined the cabinets more closely. “You’re a craftsman, George.”

  “My grandfather was.”

  “But if you helped him, you must’ve learned a thing or two.”

  He shrugged. “Yes, I suppose I know the basics of cabinet building. But I haven’t really dabbled in it much since then. That was decades ago.”

  “I suppose you need a well-equipped workshop,” she said, “to produce pieces like this. As an artist, I understand the need for space and tools.”

  “I have a workshop.”

  She looked around the small room. “Where?”

  “Oh, it’s not here,” he explained. “It’s at my grandparents’ house.”

  “But I thought they’d passed away years ago.”

  “They did, but they left me their house. And my grandfather’s workshop is still there, complete with all his tools.”

  “Do you think you’ll put them to use?” she asked. “I mean, after you retire.”

  “That’s a thought.”

  “I’d love to commission some cabinets like these,” she said. “They wouldn’t even need to be this beautiful, although I wouldn’t protest if they were. But I desperately need storage cabinets for my studio.” She peered curiously at him. “Any chance I can entice you to make some for me? I’ll pay you well, George. And perhaps I’d even make you breakfast again. Or maybe dinner. I’m great with Italian food.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t know. I’m not sure I could really make what you want. I’m out of practice and—”

  “I’m sure you could produce something that would work. As I said, I only need storage cabinets for my studio. They could be made out of simple plywood and I wouldn’t complain. Right now I’ve got supplies strewn all over the place.”

  “I’ll think about it, Willow. Maybe after next week.”

  “Yes, of course.” She pursed her lips. “I’m sorry to be so pushy, George. It’s just that I’m just so impressed by the craftsmanship here.” She studied him closely. “Do you enjoy woodworking?”

  He considered this. “I did.”

  “Then perhaps you would again.” She stepped back with a sigh. “Now I’m afraid I’ve worn out my welcome. I should probably be on my merry way.”

  George felt torn. On one hand, he’d be relieved if she left . . . on the other hand, well, he wasn’t sure. “Would you like to see my grandfather’s workshop?” he asked suddenly. “I had planned to walk up there today. I usually check on
my grandparents’ house on the weekend.”

  “I’d love to see the workshop,” she exclaimed. “Is it nearby?”

  “About half a mile. On Talbot Hill.”

  “Talbot Hill,” she said in a teasing tone. “Isn’t that where all the rich snobs live?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. My grandparents weren’t snobs.”

  “Sorry. My grandparents probably said something like that. They lived on the wrong side of the tracks. Literally.” She laughed. “So, what are we waiting for?”

  “Do you mind walking?”

  “Not at all.”

  He smiled. “I don’t have a car.”

  “Seriously?”

  He opened the front door. “Never saw the need for one.”

  “Interesting.” She followed him outside, waiting as he locked the door. And since she was watching he refrained from checking it twice. “Let’s go.”

  As they walked toward Talbot Hill, he told her a bit about his grandparents. “I never thought of them as that well off, but I guess they probably were. My mother’s side of the family owned the lumber mill in town.”

  “You mean Rockwell Lumber?”

  “That’s right. When I was a kid, the mill nearly shut down, thanks to all the government’s logging restrictions for spotted owls and such. My grandfather was always complaining about how the government was running him out of business. So to my way of thinking, my grandparents weren’t really that rich.”

  “So are you saying your grandparents were the Rockwells?”

  “That’s right. My mother’s parents.”

  Willow peered curiously at him. “I thought the Rockwells were quite wealthy. Does that mean you’re rich?”

  “No, no . . . that was long ago. The timber industry tanked when I was in high school. My grandfather sold the mill. I think that’s what paid my college tuition. The buyers kept the Rockwell name and retooled the mill to manufacture doors and windows. From what I hear they’re doing quite well nowadays.”

  “What about the Rockwell house?” she asked. “Is it on the historic register?”

  “No.”

  “I noticed the house looks a little run-down and neglected. Did your family lose that too?”