Courting Mr. Emerson

by Melody Carlson

  George had donned his favorite charcoal tweed blazer over a light blue shirt and burgundy tie for this evening’s festivities. Someone had once told him that wearing blue brought out his eyes. Not that anyone was likely to notice that tonight. But as he peered out his kitchen window to determine if Lorna Atwood was lurking nearby, he felt rather dapper. And seeing that her well-lit porch appeared to be deserted, George put on his favorite fedora then slipped out onto his own porch.

  Lorna Atwood had been right about one thing—the weatherman had predicted showers for this evening, and it was already clouding up. So armed with his sleek black umbrella, George made his way down his walk.

  “Mr. Emerson,” Lorna called out with a note of victory in her voice. “How nice to see you tonight.”

  “Good evening,” he said crisply, wondering where she’d popped out from and how hard it would be to extricate himself from her company. “Are you going out?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” she chirped. “Since you couldn’t come to dinner, I decided to walk into town tonight. I heard there are some activities and live music. Kind of a summer kickoff.”

  “Oh?” George paused.

  “Are we walking the same direction?” she asked. “Perhaps we can keep each other company along the way.”

  “I, uh, if you’ll excuse me, I just remembered something that I forgot inside. Something I needed to take with me tonight.”

  “I can wait.”

  “No, no, you go on without me. It will take me a few minutes to get it ready.” He tipped his head politely. “Good evening.” Then, turning abruptly, he hurried back into his house. Feeling like he’d just dodged a bullet, he was relieved that he hadn’t actually lied. He glanced at the clock to see that it was nearly half past seven now. No time to waste.

  George went over to his Olivetti typewriter, the same one that had gotten him through college. The letter he’d started typing this very afternoon was still in the carriage and very nearly finished. Without removing his hat, he sat down, typed the last two lines then carefully rolled it out, gave it a solid proofread, and signed his name. As he fanned the page to help the ink to dry, he felt a tinge of guilt. He hadn’t really intended to give the recommendation letter to Willow West this evening, but it had provided a handy excuse for avoiding Mrs. Atwood.

  Satisfied that the ink was dry, he carefully folded the letter, inserted it into a legal-sized envelope, and penned Ms. Willow West on the front. He was curious as to why she’d kept her maiden name but assumed it had to do with being an artist. And it certainly had a rather pleasant ring to it. He slipped the envelope into his jacket’s inner pocket and, relatively certain that Lorna Atwood would be well on her way by now, set out to stroll to town.

  Because the Willow West Gallery was on the other end of town, George decided to go there first. Hopefully it would lessen his chances of bumping into Lorna Atwood as she wandered through town. Main Street was surprisingly busy with pedestrians meandering along the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Strains of music floated out of some of the shops’ opened doors. And the oak trees along the sidewalk were lit up with tiny white lights, giving the town a rather festive appearance.

  George felt uneasy as he entered the Willow West Gallery. Almost as if he was an unwanted intruder, crashing a gathering that he’d not been invited to attend. Of course, that was ridiculous because Ms. West had personally invited him. Besides, he had something to give her. The gallery was quite large, well-lit, and attractive, but surprisingly full of people. They were clustered in small groups, and most of them had drinks and appetizers in hand, acting very much like this was a party. Maybe he really was crashing.

  With various walls and dividers, the space felt somewhat maze-like, but George attempted to blend in with the art-lookers, pausing to study various paintings, sculptures, and fabric creations. Although a number of them had Willow West’s name on the little white description cards, most of the items appeared to have been created by other artists. And the prices on everything sounded a bit outrageous. George could be wrong, but he doubted that anyone in Warner would fork out that kind of money on art.

  “George Emerson!”

  He turned to see Lorna Atwood directly behind him. Had she followed him here? Was she turning into a stalker? “Oh, hello again,” he said a bit stiffly.

  “Well, isn’t this interesting.” She gave him a sly grin. “Here we are at the same event. It seems almost fortuitous. I didn’t know you were a patron of the arts.”

  “I’m here to meet someone.” He felt a tinge of guilt again. That was certainly stretching the truth a bit.

  “Oh?” Her pale brows arched. “Someone in this gallery?”

  “Yes.” He continued to move through the maze of divider walls, tilting his head from side to side as if doing a search.

  “Who is it you’re looking for?” she persisted, still at his elbow.

  To his relief, George spotted Willow West now. She was dressed in a flowing and colorful kimono, and her strawberry-blonde hair was piled on her head and secured with what looked like a chopstick. In the back of the gallery, she was surrounded by a small group of people. “Excuse me,” he told Lorna. “I see her now.” And before she could further question him, he went directly toward Willow and what appeared to be a fan club of admirers.

  “Mr. Emerson.” Willow’s face lit up as he approached and, to his relief, she excused herself from the others and came over to clasp his hand. “I’m so glad you came tonight. Welcome!” Something behind him caught her eye. “Are you here with someone?”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see that Lorna was still trailing him. “Not exactly,” he muttered, but remembering his manners, he quickly introduced the two women. “Mrs. Atwood is my neighbor,” he explained to Willow.

  “We were supposed to have dinner at my house tonight,” Lorna chirped at Willow. “But Mr. Emerson suddenly remembered a previous engagement.” She chuckled. “And yet here we are at the same—”

  “Well, we did arrange to meet here tonight,” Willow told Lorna in a surprisingly firm voice. “If you’ll please excuse us, I’d like to show Mr. Emerson something.” And before Lorna could protest, Willow linked her arm into George’s and led him around a corner, past a display of pottery, and over to the refreshment table in the corner.

  “Thank you,” he murmured gratefully. “My neighbor is a most persistent woman.”

  Willow laughed. “Well, I am very glad you made it tonight.” She nodded to the table. “Would you like something?”

  “No thank you,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “Oh?” She studied him closely. “Dieting?”

  “What?”

  “Watching your waistline?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m just not hungry.”

  “Not even for this?” She held up an appetizer, smiling coyly as if to tempt him.

  He resisted the urge to turn to see if Lorna was nearby, perhaps listening to his awkward conversation. He forced a smile and reached for the cracker and cheese. “Thank you very much.”

  “This is a nice chèvre.” Willow’s eyes twinkled.

  “Chèvre?” He took a tentative sniff.

  “Very light and fresh and made in Oregon.”

  “Oh?” He took a bite and chewed.

  “Chèvre is cheese made from goat’s milk.”

  He blinked as he swallowed. “Goat’s milk?”

  “Do you like it?” Willow asked innocently.

  He tried not to gag over the thought that he’d just ingested goat’s milk cheese. “I, uh, I guess so.” He reached for a cocktail napkin, nesting the remains of his appetizer into it as his cheeks grew warm.

  Her turquoise-blue eyes twinkled with merriment. “Such an endorsement.”

  “Well, anyway, thank you for rescuing me just now.” He lowered his voice. “Is my neighbor still lurking nearby?”

  “She appears to be intently studying the large bronze in the center of the gallery.”

  G
eorge grimaced. “I, uh, I don’t mean to keep you from your guests.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about—”

  “But I did bring you something.” George pulled out the envelope from his pocket. “For Collin.”

  “Oh, you dear man!” Willow smiled. “Thank you so much.”

  Her sincere appreciation warmed him, and he returned her smile. “This is a nice gallery. I didn’t look around too much, but it looks like you’ve accumulated some very interesting art.” He studied her closely, noticing how her loose curls framed her creamy face. She really was exceptionally pretty.

  “Thank you. It’s a work in progress. I started the gallery last fall and I feel like the pieces are finally falling into place.” Her brow creased. “I, uh, don’t want to alarm you, but it appears your neighbor is heading our way.”

  “Oh dear.” He glanced nervously toward the door. “Perhaps I should just go home.”

  Willow held up the letter. “I know. Why don’t you take this up to Collin? He’s in a rather dour state of mind tonight. I couldn’t coax him to come down here.”

  “Oh . . . what’s wrong?”

  “It’s about a girl. I encouraged him to invite her here tonight. Unfortunately, she turned him down.” She shook her head. “But if you took this up to him, it might brighten his mood.” She offered a stiff-looking smile as Lorna joined them.

  “If you ladies will excuse me, I need to deliver this.” George waved the letter for Lorna to see.

  Lorna looked dubious.

  “There’s a hallway to the stairs near the gallery entrance,” Willow told George. “Apartment three.”

  Feeling mysterious—as if embarking on a secret mission—George exited the gallery, went up the dimly lit stairway, and knocked on the door with a three on it.

  “Mr. Emerson?” Collin blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  George held up the letter and quickly explained. “Your grandmother asked me to give it to you.”

  “Thank you!” Collin opened the door wider. “Do you want to come in?”

  “Sure.” George nodded, glancing around the starkly furnished apartment. All was neat and tidy, but it didn’t look like the sort of place someone like Willow would inhabit.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Collin asked. “Although I’ll warn you, all I have is almond milk and carrot juice and kombucha.”

  “Kombucha?”

  “Yeah. Do you like it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I was about to have some.” Collin opened a fridge that looked strangely bare. “It’s passion fruit. Want me to pour you some?”

  “I, uh, sure. Why not?” George sat on the bar stool next to the counter, taking in the sparse-looking kitchen as Collin poured a pinkish concoction into two glasses. “So you and your grandmother live here?”

  “No, Nana doesn’t live here. This is my apartment.” Collin set a glass in front of George. “She has her own apartment next door.”

  “You have your own apartment?” George studied the murky-looking beverage with uncertainty.

  “Yeah. My own bachelor pad.” Collin laughed sardonically. “Not that it does me any good. I’m not much of a party guy. I guess Nana isn’t too worried I’ll get out of hand on my own.”

  George took a tentative sniff of his drink. “What is this anyway?” he asked.

  “Kombucha? Well, it’s a fermented probiotic drink.”

  “Fermented?” George felt alarmed. “Is it alcoholic?”

  “No, of course not.” Collin chuckled. “It’s like Greek yogurt or apple cider vinegar. Good for the gut.”

  “Oh?” George took a cautious sip. “Interesting.”

  “My grandmother is kind of a health food nut. I’m used to it, but some people think it’s weird.”

  “How long have you been with your grandmother?”

  Collin shrugged. “For as long as I can remember.”

  “Are your parents living?”

  “Yeah, sure. Well, my mom is. I don’t really know about my dad.”

  “I’m sorry.” George set down his glass. “I didn’t mean to be intrusive.”

  “Not at all.” Collin finished off his drink. “My mom had me when she was just nineteen. Kind of like my grandmother did—I mean, with no dad around. Nana says they were two of a kind. But I don’t get that. My mom ran off, but Nana has taken care of me like I’m her own kid.”

  “Do you know where your mom is? Do you hear from her?”

  “Sometimes. She’s kind of a groupie.”

  “A groupie?”

  “You know, with a band. The way the story goes, I was a baby and my mom left me with my grandparents to attend a weekend rock concert, then never came back.”

  “I see.”

  “I guess she’s hooked up with the bass player now. It’s a grunge rock band that was popular in the nineties and is making a comeback now.”

  “Interesting.” George forced down the last of his drink, trying not to gag over how slimy it felt as it went down his throat.

  “So what do you think of kombucha?” Collin grinned.

  “Not my cup of tea.” George slid the glass across the bar. “But thanks.”

  “Well, I guess it’s an acquired taste.”

  George felt a sudden pang of compassion for Collin. “I was raised by my grandparents too,” he said quietly.

  “Really?” Collin looked at him with interest. “And you turned out okay.”

  George grimaced, then chuckled. “Depends on who you ask.”

  “I’ll bet your mom didn’t run off with a rock band.”

  “No. She died. Both of my parents did. Car wreck.”

  “Oh, that must’ve been rough.”

  George sighed. “Yeah. But my grandparents were pretty great.”

  “Mine were too. Poppy wasn’t really my grandfather—I mean, by blood relation. But he treated me like he was. He died a couple years ago.”

  George nodded. So Willow was a widow. The room got quiet and George wondered if he should leave, but then remembered something. “Your grandmother mentioned something about a girl that you wanted to ask out tonight.”

  Collin’s cheeks flushed slightly.

  “Sorry.” George started to stand. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

  “No, that’s okay. Actually I wouldn’t mind getting advice from a guy. Nana is great, but she can be over the top sometimes. You know?”

  Although he nodded, George wasn’t sure he really did know. Or that he was the kind of guy to give anyone advice on their love life. That was a joke.

  “So there’s this girl. Maybe you know her. Marissa Thompson.”

  “Sure, I know Marissa. She seems like a very nice girl.”

  Collin’s face lit up. “Yeah, I think so too. Anyway, Nana suggested I invite her to the gallery show tonight. So I did.” His smile faded. “But she said she was busy.”

  “Maybe she was busy.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ask her last minute?”

  “Yeah. After school today.”

  “Then you need to give her another chance,” George told him.

  “But what if she turns me down again?”

  “I guess that’s life.” George glanced at the kitchen clock, surprised to see that it was nearly nine. “But what if she doesn’t turn you down? What if she truly was busy tonight and was disappointed that she couldn’t spend time with you? And Marissa strikes me as a shy and rather serious sort of girl. Not the kind who would reach out to you. I think it’s up to you to give her a second chance, Collin. It’s the manly thing to do.”

  Collin nodded. “I think you’re right. Thank you, Mr. Emerson.”

  George pointed to the clock. “I should probably go. The art walk is supposed to end at nine and I left my umbrella downstairs.”

  Collin thanked him again for the letter of recommendation while George thanked him for his unusual beverage and made his exit. But as he went back down the shadowy stairs, he w
ondered about this odd little family. Collin’s mother was a grunge band groupie. His grandmother was a hippie. These sorts of people were definitely not George’s norm . . . and indulging in goat cheese and kombucha was well outside of his comfort zone.

  four

  The gallery traffic had thinned considerably, but George decided to use this opportunity to take a better look at the art, slowly making his way back to the refreshment table, where he’d left his umbrella.

  “There you are,” Willow said cheerfully as she set a cracker and cheese on a napkin. “I hoped you hadn’t gone home. Did you see Collin?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “We had a nice visit.”

  She held up a nearly empty cheese plate. “Here, help me finish this off.”

  George started to protest, but stopped. He didn’t mind getting the taste of the kombucha out of his mouth. Even if it was with another strange sort of cheese. At least it didn’t look like the goat cheese. “Did you have a good showing tonight?” He took a cautious bite.

  She shrugged. “I think it went well.”

  “Do you actually sell anything during art walks? There were so many people, but they looked more interested in talking than buying.”

  She chuckled. “We rarely make a sale at these gatherings. It’s more about connecting with the public. But sometimes a customer will return a few days later and make a purchase.” She turned to the young woman who was clearing up the refreshment table. “Mr. Emerson, this is my assistant, Leslie. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  Leslie grinned. “Good, I hope you never find out.”

  “How about if you lock up for me?” Willow set the cheese plate down. “I want to go grab a cup of coffee and put my feet up.”

  “No problem.”

  George reached for his umbrella. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”

  “Don’t be so quick,” Willow told him. “I thought perhaps you’d accompany me down to Common Grounds.”

  “The coffee shop?”

  “Yes. They’re having live music there until eleven. And I’d love a cup of coffee.”