After several minutes of trying to compose himself, George began to feel silly. What was wrong with him? He forced himself to stand, but his legs felt like noodles. Using the rail of the basket to support himself, he took a deep breath, then looked down. They were so far up that a fresh wave of panic swept over him. Without saying a word, he returned to the bucket and sat down. Leaning over he held his head in his hands and longed for this torture to end.
“How you doing, George?” Rod asked lightly.
“Just great,” George growled. “How long does this ride last?”
“Well, this is the deluxe ride. We’re due to land on the Warner High School football field at three o’clock.”
George groaned. He glanced at the boys who now were more interested in looking at their dad’s phone than the sights down below. He was tempted to ask them to call 911 and ask for an ambulance to meet them at the high school. He felt nearly certain that if he didn’t suffer a heart attack, he would probably have a stroke. His blood pressure had to be sky-high.
To distract himself from his intense phobia, George watched as the two boys sat down on the floor next to him in order to play a video game on their dad’s phone. As much as he disliked electronic devices, he felt some appreciation for the stupid thing now. He watched the boys as they played, grateful for this odd bit of companionship.
Willow and Rod and the dad continued to chatter away about sights below and the direction of the prevailing wind—but George just sat on his bucket and wished this horrible ordeal would soon be over. Maybe he didn’t even care if they dumped his lifeless body onto the football field for curious onlookers to see. At least he would be done with this.
Willow and Rod checked on him off and on during what felt like the longest hour of his life. The dad nagged at his sons to stand up and enjoy the trip, finally taking his phone away so that they had nothing better to do than look down at the landscape below them. And finally, finally . . . Rod turned down the propane flame and the balloon began to go down.
Of course, this motion of going down so quickly filled George with fresh nausea. So much so that as soon as they thumped onto the ground, George leaped to his feet and burst out of the gate—even though Rod tried to stop him. George didn’t realize that the basket had hopped up a few feet until he tumbled onto the ground and rolled into a crumpled heap.
“Oh, George,” Willow exclaimed as she went to join him. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” he said sharply.
“Did you break anything?”
“I don’t think so.” He pushed himself up with a dark scowl.
“You weren’t supposed to get off that quickly.” She helped him to his feet. “You could’ve been hurt.”
“It’s a wonder I didn’t leap from that stupid thing while we were still in the sky,” he sputtered. “I’ve never had such a terrible experience in my life.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Goodbye, Willow,” he snapped. Then, without another word, he stormed off toward home.
A fine way to thank someone! George should’ve known better than to trust that woman. Willow West was just plain crazy. And George had had enough!
seventeen
Willow felt terrible about George’s disappointing balloon ride and wouldn’t be surprised if he never spoke to her again. She knew the prudent thing would be for her to leave him alone—and yet she felt like she still owed him a thank-you gesture. It’s just that she had no idea what that would be. Perhaps the best thing she could do for him would be to do nothing. But that was just not her style.
Willow knew that she didn’t fully understand George, but she suspected that he was trapped in a life that he didn’t particularly love. Oh, George thought he liked the calm, quiet, predictable existence that he’d carved out for himself. But she’d had glimpses of another George. A man who was hungry for more—a man who regretted letting life pass him by. How to tap into that? She just wasn’t sure.
After a week had passed by—without crossing paths with George—Willow felt concerned. She imagined him holed up in his little house, afraid to step out and engage with anyone. Was it possible the balloon ride had seriously set him back? And if so, wouldn’t that be her fault? And if it was her fault, shouldn’t she do something to remedy it?
Willow read the biweekly newspaper, glancing at the local shelter’s pet ad, just like she did every Friday. Her interest was twofold. She loved animals and liked the idea of them being rescued into a good home. But she also hoped to run across a pet that would suit her lifestyle. She wasn’t sure if it would be a dog or cat. Or perhaps even a bird. But she was open to a pet and, one day when life wasn’t too hectic, she planned to visit the shelter to find one. However, she knew that a single trip to the shelter would result in adopting a pet, and she wanted to be sure she was truly ready.
The photo in this week’s pet ad made her heart beat faster. She stared in wonder at the tiger-striped cat with big eyes and a friendly expression. As she read further, she learned it was a four-year-old Maine Coon cat named Baxter, whose elderly owner had recently passed on. Without stopping to think, she grabbed her purse and keys, hopped into her car, and drove straight to the shelter. She hoped against hope that the cat was still there.
“We’ve had numerous calls about Baxter,” the woman at the front desk informed her. “But you’re the first one to show up.”
“May I see him?”
“Certainly.” The woman led Willow back. “If I didn’t already have three cats, I’d take him myself.”
“I’ve heard that Maine Coon cats are special,” Willow said.
“This one is. He’s got personality and intelligence.” The woman opened a cage. “Meet Baxter.”
“Hello, Baxter.” Willow reached in to pet the cat. “How are you doing?” He rubbed his head against her hand and then she reached in and scooped him up. “You’re a heavy fellow.” She looked at his oversized paws. “And big feet too.”
“Those are characteristic of a Maine Coon cat.” She pointed out a few more things that made these cats special.
“Well, I’d like to adopt this guy,” Willow told her. “I thought I was getting him for a friend, but now that we’ve met I’m tempted to keep him myself.”
“As long as he gets a good home.”
Before long, after purchasing numerous cat items and paying the adoption fees, Willow and Baxter were on their way home. But instead of taking him up to her apartment, like she wanted to do, she knew the kinder thing would be to take him to George. Oh, she knew George well enough to know he would protest—and perhaps even outright refuse her gift. But she had to at least try. George was lonely. A lovely cat like Baxter could make a huge difference in his sad little life. So, as much as she wanted to keep Baxter for herself, she felt like George deserved him more. The question now was how to convince him.
Willow parked in front of George’s house and, after giving herself a quick pep talk, got Baxter’s cat carrier out of the car and marched up to the door. As she rang the doorbell, she almost hoped that he wouldn’t answer and then she could leave the cat and cat things, along with a note, on the porch. But then George opened the door.
“Good morning,” she said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m making a special delivery. May I come in?”
George blinked, but let her inside.
“I know you probably think I’m a menace and a nuisance, George, but I found something that I feel certain you need.”
“What is that?” George pointed to the cardboard carrier box.
“This is Baxter.” She set the box on the floor, knelt down, and gently removed the cat, holding him close to her for a moment. “To be honest, I fell so in love with Baxter that I wanted to keep him for myself, but I knew that Baxter was really meant for you, George.” She held the cat out. “He is four years old and his master has passed away. Baxter needs a good home.”
George’s eyes grew wide as she placed the cat in his arms.
Sh
e quickly relayed the information the woman at the shelter had given her, about how it was important that Baxter remain indoors for at least two weeks and a few other helpful tips. “Please excuse me for a moment.” And before George could speak, Willow rushed out. She gathered up the miscellaneous cat items she’d purchased from the shelter, carried them back into the house, and set them down on the coffee table.
“What am I supposed to do with this stuff?” George set the cat down on the floor with a disgusted expression. “You can’t just—”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got an art show to prepare for. It’s Final Friday again.”
“But you can’t leave—”
“Like I said, I have a show.”
“You know what you are, Willow West?” George shook a fist in the air. “You are a camel’s nose.”
“What?” Willow stared at him in shock. “That’s a fine thing to say!”
“Have you ever heard the parable about the camel in the tent?”
She frowned. “Seriously, are you about to tell me a story?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” He smiled smugly, folding his arms in front of his chest. “The setting is a cold night on the Sahara desert. An Arab traveler is snug in his tent and his camel is outside shivering.”
“Really, George, are you—”
“The camel says to his master, ‘I’m so cold, please, let me slip my nose into your tent to get warm.’ Well, the master agrees and lets his nose inside. Then the camel asks if he might slip his head in as well, and then he asks for his shoulders. And before long the whole camel is inside the tent and there’s no room for the master and—”
“So, you’re saying that I’m a camel’s nose?” Willow sniffed indignantly. “I get it, George, I can take a hint.”
“Then take back your cat,” he demanded.
“Look, George.” She waved an angry finger in the air. “If for some reason you decide that you and Baxter are not compatible, just call me. I will gladly come pick him up ASAP.” She glared at him. “Thank you very much!” Then without giving him a chance to say one more insulting word, she rushed out the door. As she drove home, she wasn’t sure which was more upsetting—George’s nasty attitude toward her, or leaving that lovely cat behind. But it sounded as if she would get Baxter back anyway. Well, fine!
George honestly thought that Willow was more than just eccentric—the woman was certifiably crazy. Who gets a cat for someone—without asking first—then dumps it and leaves? He stared at the feline on the floor. He didn’t even like cats. Why on earth would he want to trouble with this one? Pets were messy and dirty and needy and noisy. This was absolutely ridiculous. Willow would have to come right back and take this cat with her.
George went over to his phone, picking up the receiver and preparing to dial, when Baxter rubbed against his legs. Something about that movement felt so familiar . . . just like Buddy used to do. George replaced the receiver, then knelt down to examine the cat more closely. He could hear the animal purring happily. As he stroked the cat’s head, he felt stunned to see how much this cat resembled Buddy. It was rather uncanny.
“Baxter?” George spoke quietly. “Do you really want to live with an old curmudgeon like me? I’m so set in my ways. I don’t even like cats. Well, most cats.” He sat down in his favorite armchair, trying to think clearly. Sometimes it felt like Willow cast some sort of spell over him, making him say things he didn’t want to say or do things he never intended to do.
Like that painting. He stared up at the old pickup in the poppies and just shook his head. He’d never wanted an oversized piece of colorful art on his wall . . . and yet he knew he couldn’t take it down. He didn’t even want to take it down. And what about that coffee? After a week of grinding his own beans, George knew he’d never go back to the canned variety. How did such things happen?
Baxter jumped up onto George’s lap, so gracefully that George couldn’t even feel the cat’s claws on his legs. Then he looked up at George with amazingly intelligent mossy-green eyes and a sweet, contented expression that looked strangely familiar. George stroked the cat’s thick coat. It felt exactly like Buddy’s had once felt. George examined the big fuzzy feet, also very familiar. “Are you related to Buddy?” George whispered. Naturally, the cat didn’t answer. But as he nestled into George’s lap as if they’d always been friends, George knew he’d gotten his answer. Although it made no sense, George felt fairly certain that Baxter would stay.
As she ran errands and worked in her studio, Willow kept her cell phone handy. She fully expected George to call and demand that she pick up the cat. But no call came. She even checked with the gallery later in the afternoon, but Leslie assured her that George had not called.
“Everything set for Final Friday?” Willow asked Leslie. “Anything else I can help with?”
“I don’t think so. The musicians will be here at 6:30. I got a corner cleared for them. Marissa will work the floor. She said Collin plans to help her.” Leslie winked. “I think it’s just his excuse to be near her. The poor boy is smitten.”
“And the refreshments should be delivered by five.”
“I’ll manage the food table and Joel plans to man the desk.”
“Great. That allows me to mingle with the guests.” Willow thanked her and was about to leave. “I’ll be in my apartment until six . . . so if George Emerson happens to call down here, please, ask him to call me on my cell. It’s important.”
“So are you guys back on again?” Leslie had a teasing tone. Probably because Willow had confided too much to her, but it had been nice having someone to commiserate with her.
“No, we are not back on again,” Willow firmly declared. “I doubt that George will ever forgive me for that fateful balloon ride.”
Leslie giggled. “I can still imagine him sitting on that bucket with his green face then tumbling out onto the football field.”
“Don’t ever repeat that story,” Willow warned her, “or I’ll never trust you again.”
“Don’t worry. Mum’s the word.” She lowered her voice. “But if you’re still in the doghouse with George, why do you expect him to call?”
Willow grimaced. “Because I gave him a cat.”
“What?”
“I know, I know.” Willow held up her hands. “Chalk it up to temporary insanity. But I just felt that he needed a cat.”
“Buttoned-up Mr. Emerson with a pet?” Leslie looked doubtful.
“Well, the deal was this—if George doesn’t want the cat, I do. So if he calls, I want to talk to him. Understand?”
Leslie gave a mock salute and Willow went up to her apartment . . . to sit by the phone. When George never called, she knew she should be grateful. Maybe the cat had actually won him over, although that was unlikely. Instead of feeling relieved, she felt disappointed—and concerned. Hopefully she’d made herself clear with George. If he did not want the cat, she did. Surely, he wouldn’t try to return it to the shelter. She could just imagine him marching over there with the cat carrier in hand, demanding that they take the cat back.
But there wasn’t time to worry about that now. Willow needed to get ready for tonight’s showing. She was just putting on the finishing touches when she heard someone knocking on her door. She hurried to get it, certain that it would be George and Baxter, but it was Josie standing there with a cup in hand. “I’m making mac-n-cheese and all out of milk. Can I borrow some?”
Willow nodded. “Help yourself.” She wanted to remind Josie that she’d been given a food “budget,” and that maybe it was time for her to start a serious job hunt. But she knew that could lead to an unwanted conflict.
“What are you all dolled up for?” Josie asked as she opened the fridge. “Big date with George tonight?”
“No.” Willow hadn’t told Josie about the failed balloon ride.
“Where’s he been anyway?” Josie filled her cup. “I miss seeing him around.”
“I think he’s been busy, honey.”
“
So why are you all gussied up in your gypsy outfit?”
Willow glanced down at her bohemian dress. “I suppose I do look like a gypsy,” she admitted. “We’re having a showing in the gallery. Naturally, I need to look artsy and dramatic. Think this works?”
“I guess so.” Josie’s brows arched. “Will there be food at your little shindig?”
“Mostly cheese and crackers.” Willow hoped Josie didn’t want to come. She could just imagine her raggedy daughter coming down in her uniform of ratty, paint-splattered jeans and torn rocker T-shirt—and making a scene. Even so, Willow knew she needed to handle this carefully and honestly. “There will also be live music. Just a small folk trio, so it shouldn’t be too loud.”
“Food and music?” Josie nodded. “I guess I’ll come.”
Willow forced what she hoped was a believable smile. “That would be great, honey. Just so you know, people tend to dress up a little for these shows. Not formally, I mean, but nice.”
“Nice?” Josie scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I don’t dress nice enough to come to my mother’s hoity-toity art show?”
“Well, do you have anything that’s not worn, torn, or stained?” Willow braced herself.
Josie’s scowl grew darker. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
“Really?” Willow studied her ragtag daughter. “I’d offer you something of mine, but I’m afraid you’d be insulted.”
Josie brightened slightly. “I don’t know. What do you have?”
Willow tried to hide her shock. “Why don’t we go see?”
Josie set down her milk and followed Willow into her bedroom, flopping down on her bed. “Show me what you got.”
Willow went into her walk-in closet and looked around. “I know you’re skinnier than me, Josie, but there might be something you could cinch in or belt or something.” She dug around until she found a faded denim sundress that she knew was too small for her, but she’d always liked it. “How about this?” She held it up and Josie wrinkled her nose.
Courting Mr. Emerson Page 16
