Courting Mr. Emerson

by Melody Carlson

  She dropped a sheet of soggy wallpaper into the garbage pail. “Come to think of it, I am hungry.”

  “Want to join me?” He smiled pleasantly. “We can discuss some kitchen decisions.”

  “A business lunch?” She frowned down at her stained overalls and flip-flops. “I’m not exactly dressed for success.”

  He chuckled. “It won’t matter at the place where I’m taking you. It’s come as you are. All the construction dudes eat there.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place.”

  Cliff’s pickup was one of those where Willow almost needed a stepladder to get into the cab. Fortunately, Cliff gave her a hand. As he drove he told her that he’d just met with Ross. “He’s off to a great start, but he wanted to double-check on a few things.” He handed her a short list. She’d just finished reading through it when he parked in front of Dot’s Diner. “This is the place,” he announced. He hurried around to open her door and help her down. “They’ve got the best burgers in town.”

  He was just leading her into the fifties-style restaurant when Willow noticed George across the street—staring directly at her. She waved to him, but without responding, he simply turned and hurried away. Although she felt slighted, she was glad to see him out and about. Hopefully that meant he was feeling better. But it was disheartening that he’d ignored her.

  George didn’t know why he felt so angry as he walked home from the doctor’s office. He really should’ve been feeling happy that the doctor had given him such a clean bill of health. Especially since George had felt certain that he was dying. “Stress can make you feel very unwell,” the doctor had told him. “I recommend you find some activities to alleviate your stress.”

  “Such as?” He’d attempted to conceal his irritation at the doctor’s suggestion. After all, George was retired. He had a hammock and a cat. Why should he be “stressed”?

  “Yoga. Reading. Music. Walks. Gardening. Whatever helps you to relax and enjoy life.” He’d smiled as if to say, That’s it . . . next appointment, please. So George had felt miffed as he’d exited the medical office. Then to see Willow being helped out of the big black pickup with a contractor’s name on the side of it . . . well, that hadn’t helped any.

  As George stormed through town he assumed that Cliff Grant Construction was the company working on his grandparents’ house. Even though George had given Willow free rein there, he now wondered if that was a mistake. Not so much because of the house. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel too concerned about that. But he did not like the way it had looked as the tall, dark-haired man had helped Willow out of that pickup. It looked far too friendly and intimate. And unless George was mistaken, the man was younger. What did Willow think she was doing?

  By the time George got home, he felt a bit silly for his earlier anxieties. First of all, the doctor could be right. Perhaps George did need some stress-relieving activities. And besides that, it was none of his business what Willow did in her spare time. Or any of her time. They’d made it perfectly clear they were only friends. Why should he feel so jealous of the handsome contractor?

  George considered the doctor’s recommended activities. Well, George had already tried tai chi—and wasn’t sure he wanted to go again. He read daily and would continue to do so. As for music . . . well, Simon and Garfunkel had nearly done him in. That left walks, which he’d just done. And gardening. He glanced out the back window to see his grass looked long and shaggy—with dozens of dandelions in full bloom. When had he last mowed? Or weeded? As he went outside, he wondered what his neighbors must think. George would’ve said something to his renters if they’d allowed their yards to become this overgrown and weedy.

  “Hello, George.” Lorna came over to the fence just as he wheeled out the mower. “Catching up on yard work today?”

  “Uh, yes.” He nodded nervously. “I’ve been, uh, a little under the weather.”

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “I, uh, I think so.”

  “How about I give you a hand?” she offered. “I’ll be right—”

  “That’s okay. I can handle—”

  “I insist,” she cut him off. “I’ll just grab my garden gloves and pop around to the side gate.” Before he could stop her, she was on her way. As he went to open the gate, he thought perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to accept her help. The grass was so overgrown it would take a lot of time to get it all raked up. And despite his doctor’s proclamation of good health, George still felt weary. It took several pulls to start the mower and then George felt slightly winded. Maybe this was what it was like to be retired—first you became tired, and then you got tired all over again!

  Willow could hardly believe that it was already Final Friday art walk night again. Hadn’t they just had one? Still, it felt rather nice to be cleaned up, dressed up, and ready to greet guests in her gallery. Between Leslie and Joel and Haley and Savannah, they were well staffed. Not only that, but both Collin and Josie had mentioned their plans to make a showing. Collin probably just wanted a chance to see Savannah. And Josie hoped to garner some interest in the three pieces of folk art, which was what Willow was calling Josie’s creations, that were now on display. Hopefully Josie would heed Willow’s advice to “go easy” tonight. “No one wants a pushy salesperson,” Willow had warned her. “Especially on an art walk evening. Just have fun and talk about the art process if someone asks. If they’re interested, they’ll make the next move.”

  Willow’s only plan tonight was to enjoy herself—and her guests. Thanks to Haley’s boyfriend, Nick, a classical guitarist, the music was covered. Leslie had arranged for the refreshments. Everything and everyone was in place as Willow entered the gallery. The music was light and airy, the aroma of a blood-orange candle was clean and sweet, and the food table looked inviting.

  “You’ve all done a fabulous job,” she told her crew shortly before the gallery was officially opened. “Thank you so much. It’s very reassuring to know the gallery is in such good hands.”

  Willow welcomed tonight’s featured artist, an older woman named Belle whose oil landscapes were an old-world sort of gorgeous. “Thank you for joining us tonight,” she told Belle. “It’s a perfect summer evening. Hopefully we’ll get lots of traffic. Enjoy yourself.”

  It wasn’t long before the gallery began to fill with people. Some were obviously just there for the eats, but some were valued customers, and others were just vacationing in the area. To Willow’s relief, Josie, dressed in another one of Willow’s hand-me-downs, acted fairly laid-back. And Collin, trying to appear nonchalant while remaining near Savannah, was in good spirits. All was well.

  Willow was just introducing a customer to Belle when she noticed a tall man with dark hair enter the gallery. She blinked, but tried not to look surprised to see that it was Cliff Grant. She finished her introduction then went over to greet him. “I didn’t know you were a patron of the arts.”

  “I’m sure there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” She smiled warmly. “Thank you for coming. Would you like me to show you around?”

  “That’d be great. If you’re not too busy.”

  She linked her arm in his and proceeded to give him the “two-bits” tour. She was just introducing him to Josie and showing him the stepladder Josie had recently finished when Willow noticed another familiar figure entering the gallery. To her pleasant surprise, it was George, dressed in his old buttoned-up way—suit and tie and every hair in place. Willow couldn’t help but smile. Sure, he was an odd duck, but he was a likeable odd duck. She was about to wave to him when he abruptly turned around and exited the gallery.

  “What’s with George?” Josie asked with a frown.

  “I don’t know.” Willow just shook her head. Trying to put George and his strange ways to the back of her mind, Willow continued to take Cliff on his little tour. She was actually impressed with how much he knew about art in general. She hadn’t exp
ected that.

  “My older sister is an artist,” he confessed as he helped himself to the food table.

  “What sort of art?” Willow set a canapé on a cocktail napkin.

  “She did a little bit of everything. But now she sticks with watercolors.”

  “Is she good?”

  “Of course she’s good. She’s my sister.” Cliff grinned. “But she’s good enough to have her work in a gallery on the coast.”

  “Maybe she’d like to have some pieces in here. If she’s ever in town, tell her to stop by.”

  “She’s planning to come during the Tour of Homes week. Maybe I can get you two together then.”

  “That reminds me,” Willow said. “I’ve had an idea. I plan to close my gallery during the tour and—”

  “Close your gallery?” He looked concerned. “Just for the Tour of Homes?”

  “I want to bring most of the art over to the house for those four days,” she continued. “My employees will help me display items throughout the house, as well as be on hand to help give tours.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.” He held up his plastic cup like a toast. “You’re a sharp businesswoman, Willow.”

  “Well, it just sounded like a fun way to mix things up.”

  “Hey, there’s our designer friend, Donna.” Cliff waved to where Donna and her husband, Lyle, were just coming in. Before long the four of them were visiting and Cliff mentioned the plan to include the Rockwell Mansion in the Tour of Homes.

  “You’re kidding.” Donna looked offended as she turned to Willow. “You never said a word about that to me.”

  “It was my idea,” Cliff clarified. “I sort of talked her into it.”

  “What will you do for furnishings?” Donna demanded.

  So Willow explained her plan to utilize the furnishings she’d set aside and then to bring her art to the house.

  “That’s all good, but it’s a huge house. I can’t imagine you’ll be able to fully outfit it.”

  Willow shrugged. “I’ll just have to do my best. Some rooms might be a bit bare, but at least they’ll have nice art.”

  “Tell you what.” Donna held up a finger. “You let me help with the staging—in exchange for getting my name in the credits—and I’ll bring you the missing pieces.”

  “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Absolutely. I’d love to have my name associated with that house.”

  Willow explained her hopes to utilize some of the modern pieces. “I have some ideas on how to make it feel like a mix of contemporary and traditional. Do you think you could work with that?”

  “That sounds interesting. Let’s meet in my office next week to talk about it,” Donna said. “I think this could be quite fun.”

  Willow nodded. “Yes, that’s what I want it to be—fun. And somewhat unexpected, but without insulting the house.” Even as she said this, Willow couldn’t help but wonder . . . what if she insulted the house’s owner? Perhaps she already had.

  George felt lost as he walked back home. Not literally lost, since he obviously knew his way. But he felt lost inside . . . as if he had no idea of where he was going . . . or why. Lost and confused. And it was doubly frustrating because he’d really made an attempt to regain his old self this evening. After getting his yard back into shape yesterday, he’d spent most of today catching up on his housework. Then he’d decided to clean himself up and pay Willow a visit. But she’d been with that man again. Cliff Grant.

  George had mentioned that name to Lorna yesterday. Just in passing while they’d worked on the yard together. He’d casually said that Cliff Grant was doing some work for him on a family piece of property. He didn’t reveal anything about the property since he had no intention of telling Lorna all the details of his life. But when her eyes lit up at the name, George gently pressed her for more information. “I hope he’s a good contractor . . . trustworthy and all. You never can tell.”

  “I don’t know about his work ethics, but Cliff Grant’s a real looker, that’s for sure.” Lorna leaned on her bamboo rake handle with a dreamy expression in her eyes—reminiscent of certain girls from George’s teaching days whenever a good-looking jock passed by. Not terribly mature. “And he’s one of our town’s most eligible bachelors.”

  Hadn’t people once referred to George as “an eligible bachelor”? Not lately, of course. Perhaps never again. The bloom was most definitely off that rose by now. “What do you mean—most eligible bachelor?” George asked Lorna.

  “It simply means that men like him are in high demand. In a town where single women greatly outnumber single men, a man like Cliff Grant is quite a catch.” Lorna pursed her unnaturally pink lips—the color reminded George of a plastic yard flamingo. “Quite a catch.”

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “I’ve never actually met him, but I’ve seen him around town. I sure wouldn’t mind meeting him. My friend Gayla went to school with him. She says that he’s been divorced a couple of times and always has a new girlfriend. So apparently he’s looking around. If he’s Gayla’s age, he must be pushing fifty, but I think he looks a lot younger.” She patted her platinum hair and looked hopefully at George. “Any chance you could arrange an introduction? Say, how about we visit your family’s property together and just happen to bump—”

  “No, no. Sorry, that’s not possible.” George bent down to start his mower again, loudly revving the engine and setting his focus on keeping the mow-lines of his lawn perfectly uniform. But her comments had concerned him so much that his lawn appeared to have been mown by a drunkard. Not only that, but it had motivated him to clean himself up, put on a suit, and pay Willow a visit at the gallery. Only to discover it was too late. Judging by the way she’d looked at that suave Cliff Grant, the way their arms had been entwined . . . George knew it was too late. And now he felt worse than ever. He felt like completely giving up. What was the use?

  twenty-seven

  The next morning, George jumped in alarm to hear his doorbell ring—not just once, but again and again. Shocked to see that it was past eleven and embarrassed to still be in his pajamas, he didn’t know what to do. Whoever was on his porch, now pounding on his door, could easily peek through the window and see him crouched by the bookshelf. Poor Baxter had scampered off when George jumped in surprise, but short of slinking down to the floor and crawling behind his chair, George had no place to escape as the pounding and doorbell ringing continued. Who on earth was it? George picked up the newspaper, attempting to shield himself with it.

  “George Emerson!” a female voice called out. “I know you’re in there. Let me in before I break the door down!”

  He peered over the top of his newspaper to see that it was Josie, now pounding on the window next to the door. Relieved that it wasn’t someone else, George reluctantly opened the door. “What do you want?” he growled.

  “I want to know what the heck is wrong with you.” She pushed past him.

  “The only thing wrong with me is people who burst in like—”

  “Why did you come to the gallery last night, then not even say hello?” she demanded as she flopped down onto his sofa like she owned the place. “I saw you there. Mom did too. You walked in then walked out. Just like that.” She shook her finger at him. “Bad manners if you ask me.”

  “And you should be the expert.” He glared at her.

  “Seriously, George, what’s up?”

  “I simply changed my mind.” George sat down in his chair, gathering up and neatly folding his newspaper as if the rest of the room wasn’t in complete disarray. Not that Josie would care. She wasn’t big on tidiness either.

  “I don’t believe you.” She leaned forward, peering at him with a skeptical scowl. “Something is bugging you, George. My mom is worried. And so am I.”

  “Willow is worried?” He stopped folding the newspaper.

  “Yes. She’s gotten it into her head that you might be dying.” Josie rolled her eyes. “And now I broke my promise to
her. I swore I wouldn’t tell you about that.”

  He blinked. “She thinks I’m dying.”

  “Well, you’ve been acting pretty weird. I mean weird for you. And you’ve been going to the doctor. And, well, she remembers how it went down when Asher died. I mean, her husband was obviously a lot older than you. But I guess the way you’re acting has got Mom worried.” Her brow creased. “You’re not dying, are you, George?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  He shrugged.

  “Do you want to die?” she demanded.

  “No, no—not exactly. But I suppose I don’t know what I have to live for.”

  Josie frowned. “What does anyone have?”

  “I don’t know. Your mother thinks there’s plenty to live for. But then she’s got her religion. I suppose she has to be like that.”

  “She wasn’t always like that.” Josie leaned back, folding her arms behind her head. “And to be fair to my mom, she’s not really that religious. That’s what she says anyway. She says that she loves God and she loves people and that it’s not about religion. To quote her, ‘It’s about relationships.’” She rolled her eyes. “At least that’s what she tells me whenever I make the mistake and call her religious.”

  “Yes, she said something similar to that to me.” George set aside the newspaper. “But she does go to church fairly regularly.”

  “Yeah, I went with her and Collin once.” She sat back up. “And it really wasn’t too bad. It didn’t really feel like church to me. Not like I remember church anyway. The pastor dude is pretty cool. Don’t tell my mom this, but I actually made a counseling appointment with him. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been a couple of times and will probably go again. He actually gave me some helpful advice.”

  “Interesting.” He tried to imagine Josie taking advice from a clergyman. Was she pulling his leg?

  “So you’re really not dying, George?”