Courting Mr. Emerson

by Melody Carlson

  “But isn’t that place for young folks?”

  Willow laughed. “We are young folks.”

  George wanted to challenge this, but decided not to. Instead, he allowed her to lead the way. Perhaps he was simply under her spell, but he soon found himself entering a crowded coffeehouse where what sounded like folk music was playing and most of the crowd looked about half his age.

  After a quick discussion at the counter, where George confessed to not being a coffee connoisseur, Willow insisted on ordering and paying for their coffees. “This is my little thank-you for writing that letter for Collin,” she said as they settled with their coffees at a little bistro table in a semi-quiet corner.

  George never drank coffee past the noon hour, but so many things about this evening were outside of his norm, he decided it didn’t matter. And after his first sip, he was surprised. “This is really good,” he told Willow. “What is it?”

  “Just Brazilian medium roast,” she said. “You said you weren’t a fancy coffee drinker so I just chose a basic.”

  “But it’s so tasty.”

  She looked amused. “So, tell me, what coffee do you usually drink?”

  “It’s just a generic grocery store brand.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes twinkled. “Let me guess—it comes in a can.”

  He nodded, then took another sip. “Well, thank you for this. It’s surprisingly good.” He smiled. “But I’m the one who owes you a thank-you tonight.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “For helping me to escape Lorna Atwood.”

  She laughed. “That woman is really into you.”

  “So did it take very long for her to get discouraged and leave?”

  “I didn’t actually see her go, but I’m sure she remained for a good fifteen minutes. She was hanging near the door . . . probably in the hopes of snagging you up again. Did you actually break a dinner date with her?”

  “No.” He firmly shook his head. “It was never a date. She asked me several days ago and I couldn’t think of a good excuse so I put her off by saying I’d think about it. The other day, I told her I had another commitment. It wasn’t exactly a lie. I planned to think of something else to do, to make it true. And then you told me about the art walk tonight. It sounded like the perfect excuse to go out.”

  “But not with her.”

  “That hadn’t been my plan.” He frowned. “It’s not that she’s particularly unpleasant, she’s quite cheerful really . . . although she talks a lot.”

  “She is rather attractive.”

  “In a cupcake sort of way.”

  “What?” Her brows arched.

  He chuckled. “Oh, that’s a bad habit of mine. Not the sort of thing I usually say out loud.”

  “Tell me more.” She leaned forward with an attractive tilt to her head. “What is a cupcake sort of way?”

  “The truth is . . . I have an embarrassing tendency to compare women to baked goods.” Had he really just admitted that?

  “Seriously? And Lorna Atwood is a cupcake? Why?”

  “Well, because she’s sort of fluffy and a bit too sweet and colorful for my taste.”

  “Interesting.” Willow nodded to a pair of attractive younger women seated nearby. “What about those two? What sort of pastries would you use to describe them?”

  He studied them briefly. “Well, I don’t really know them so this is pure speculation, but the blonde might be a French cruller and the brunette could be a frosted brownie.”

  “Hmmm . . . I wonder what I would be.”

  “A bran muffin,” he answered without hesitation, then instantly regretted it. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t usually this open and transparent with anyone. Had she cast a spell over him?

  She looked dismayed. “Really? That’s it? A bran muffin?”

  “With raisins.” He grinned sheepishly. Naturally, he had no intention of admitting that bran muffins with raisins were, hands down, his favorite.

  “Interesting.” She leaned back with a creased brow. “And do you consider yourself to be an expert on baked goods?”

  “Not in the least.” He grimaced. “The truth is I avoid sweets altogether.”

  “Both in women and pastries?”

  “You have me all figured out.”

  “Hardly, Mr. Emerson.”

  “Please, call me George.”

  “Only if you call me Willow.”

  “Agreed.” He set down his cup and just looked at her. “This has been a most extraordinary evening.”

  “Really? In what way?”

  “Well, I lead a very quiet life. To be honest, I rarely go out at night. And here I am at a coffeehouse at nearly ten o’clock . . . and that’s after I’ve indulged in goat cheese and kombucha.”

  “Kombucha?” She blinked.

  “Collin had me try some.” He made a face. “Not exactly my cup of tea.”

  “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

  “But it was nice getting better acquainted with Collin. I think he and I share some commonalities.”

  “How so?”

  George explained about being raised by his grandparents. “But that’s because my parents were killed in a car wreck. I was surprised to hear that Collin’s mother is a grunge band groupie. At least that’s what I think he said.”

  Willow’s smile faded. “Yes, Josie has led a troubled life. I keep hoping she’ll return to her senses and come home. I even offered her one of the apartments above the gallery. But she declined. Last week, I texted her an invite to Collin’s graduation, even offering to cover her expenses, but she texted back that there’s a big concert in Fort Lauderdale the same weekend.” She glumly shook her head. “It’s as if she’s forgotten that Collin is her own son.”

  “That must be frustrating for you.”

  “Do you have children?”

  He shook his head. “Never married.”

  “Then I doubt you can imagine just how frustrating it is.” She sighed. “But then that’s life. You can’t let it beat you up. And as I remind myself every single day, God knows what he’s doing. Even if I don’t.”

  George considered her words. For some reason he hadn’t supposed that Willow West was a particularly religious person. It just didn’t appear to fit her carefree hippie persona. But, of course, he was no expert on religion. “Collin mentioned that you’re widowed . . .”

  She slowly nodded. “Asher passed away . . . It’ll be three years in October.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. He was a dear, lovely man. And we had a very good life together. He was the sort of man who happily embraced each day—right up to his death.”

  “Was it unexpected? His death, I mean.”

  “Of course, it was a shock when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Everything happened so quickly. But at least it gave us time to take care of things . . . to say goodbye. Asher seemed ready to go. But he was only in his midseventies when he passed away.”

  “That old?” George felt surprised. Willow had such a youthfulness about her, it was hard to imagine her with someone that much older.

  “Yes. I suppose Asher was old enough to be my father. I first met him as a student eons ago.” She looked at George with a curious expression. “You know, he was a teacher too.”

  “What did he teach?”

  “English lit. At Berkeley. I was young and idealistic and impressionable. His age didn’t bother me in the least . . . not then, anyway.”

  “Did it bother you later?”

  “Only that he grew older faster. And then when he died, I was alone. Well, of course, I had Collin. That made a difference.” She brightened. “So you see why I said we are still young, George. Compared to Asher, we are young. With our whole lives ahead of us. So why think of yourself as old? I don’t know about you, but I plan to be around for about forty more years. Maybe more.”

  George wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t that he had any health problems, but somehow he’d never imagined himself growing particu
larly old. In fact, he’d never expected to be as old as he was right now. And his age, combined with being put out to pasture with this early retirement, well, it just didn’t instill much confidence into what might be lurking ahead.

  “I’m afraid our conversation has grown rather somber,” Willow said apologetically. “That’s probably my fault.”

  George thought it was more likely his fault, but decided to try a new conversational topic. “It was interesting to see that Collin has his own apartment. I’m sure many fellows his age would be over the moon for that sort of freedom.”

  She smiled. “Thankfully, Collin is a very sensible young man. He doesn’t abuse his independence in the least. Not so far, anyway.”

  “And he did point out that your apartment is right next door, so I expect he can’t get away with too much.”

  “Yes. I was fortunate to be able to purchase the entire building, complete with several good rent-paying tenants in the shops below. And besides the apartments above, I also have a nice studio space.”

  “It looks like you’ve done some improvements to the property.”

  “After I did repairs to the exterior and created my gallery space downstairs, I remodeled two of the apartments into a larger single unit. Then Collin helped me to fix up the one he’s using. And I’m currently restoring two more for rentals.”

  “All that renovation must be expensive.”

  “Thanks to Asher’s insurance and selling my properties in San Francisco and Sausalito, well, it was all very doable. And it’s been therapeutic to release my creative energies.”

  George told her a bit about how he’d restored his rental properties. “Although that was years ago. I haven’t done much more than repairs and general maintenance for the last twenty years.”

  They continued to visit, exchanging information, getting acquainted . . . until they noticed that the music had stopped and the coffeehouse was slowly vacating. “I think it’s time to go,” George told her. “Before they throw us out.”

  “My goodness.” She stood and stretched. “I had no idea it was so late.”

  When they got outside, it was raining hard. “Good thing I brought this.” George opened his umbrella, holding it over her and feeling somewhat self-conscious, but hoping it didn’t show. “It appears I am able to escort you home in a fairly dry fashion, madam.”

  “Thank you very much, kind sir.”

  As they walked down the now-deserted sidewalk, George began to whistle an old song. Whistling wasn’t something he normally did, but nothing about tonight had fallen into the “normal” category.

  “Are you whistling ‘Singin’ in the Rain’?” Willow suddenly asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” he admitted.

  “I adore that old movie!” Now she began to hum along with him, and before long, they were both singing the lyrics as well.

  “Here you go, my lady.” George made a mock bow in front of the stairs that led up to the apartments. “Thank you for a most memorable evening.”

  “Thank you.” Lit by the streetlamp, she looked at him for a long moment and George suddenly wondered if she expected to be kissed. Good grief, he hoped not! Because, even if he wanted to kiss her—and he wasn’t sure—he had no idea how to go about it. It had been so long . . . too long, perhaps.

  “Good night,” he said quickly. Backing away, he lifted his umbrella and, without another word, rushed away. Had he missed an opportunity just now? Or had he wisely escaped what would’ve turned into an embarrassingly awkward moment? He argued back and forth with himself as he jumped over puddles and hurried toward home. Perhaps he would never know the answer to such frustrating questions. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

  Because Willow West had probably figured out that George was a very odd duck by now. Most likely, she was relieved to be rid of him. For all he knew, she was laughing about the whole thing right now. But wouldn’t that be for the best? George had spent most of his life avoiding intimate relationships. For good reason. So why change at this late stage of the game? Why tempt fate?

  five

  Willow woke bright and early the next day. Although the sun shone brightly, songs from Singin’ in the Rain still pleasantly wormed through her head as she carried her coffee mug out to her garden terrace. She breathed in deeply the fresh morning air. It felt good to be alive! So good that she began to sing another song from that old Gene Kelly film.

  “Good morning, good morning!” she sang as she strolled past the potted plants and flowers, finally settling onto the comfy outdoor sectional that she’d recently added to her outdoor paradise. She sang as many of the lyrics as she could recall then decided it was probably time to see that old movie again.

  As Willow sipped her coffee, she replayed the previous evening. The gallery showing had been a pure delight. Much better than the first show she’d had last winter when only three “patrons” showed up. Hopefully last night’s visitors would translate into some sales. Not so much for herself, but for the artists who’d consigned their work to her gallery. Some of them, she knew, were really struggling. She wanted to see them succeed . . . wanted the small town of Warner to begin embracing the arts. She felt hopeful.

  “Nana?”

  “Over here,” she called out, watching as Collin made his way through the maze of blooming plants. Wearing his plaid pajama pants, a white T-shirt, and a big smile, he sat down next to her.

  “Nice day, huh?” He sipped what appeared to be carrot juice.

  “Gorgeous.” She peered curiously at him. “And you seem in good spirits.”

  “I am.” He nodded.

  “Any special reason?”

  “I sent Marissa a text a little while ago.” He set his glass down. “I was worried it was too early, but she texted right back.”

  “And?”

  “We are going on a bike ride today.” He beamed at her.

  “Well, good for you.” She patted his back. “Good job on not giving up.”

  “Mr. Emerson encouraged me to try again.”

  Willow blinked. “Seriously? Mr. Emerson gives dating advice?”

  Collin nodded. “He said to give her a second chance. That maybe she really did have other plans last night. Turns out he was right.”

  Willow resisted the urge to remind Collin she’d said pretty much the same thing last night. “Well, I’m glad you listened to Mr. Emerson. And how about that letter he wrote—did you read it?”

  “I did.” His smile grew bigger. “It’s really nice. Thanks for asking him for it, Nana. It almost makes me want to start applying to a bigger college.”

  “Really?” She felt hopeful.

  “Yeah . . . but not until a semester or two at the community college.” He grinned. “That’s where Marissa is going.”

  “Aha.” She nodded. “Now I get it.”

  He polished off the last of his carrot juice. “You got anything good for breakfast at your place?”

  She grimaced. “I meant to get groceries yesterday, but I got distracted with the art walk preparations. I do have Irish oats, but that takes a while to—”

  “That’s all right. I already had a bagel and cream cheese.”

  “Sounds like I should be raiding your larder.”

  He stood and stretched. “I better get going. I need to grab a shower before I meet Marissa at the park.”

  She controlled herself from asking why he was showering before a bike ride. After all, this was almost a date. Or maybe it was a date. Whatever it was, it was a first for Collin and she was happy for him. “Well, you have fun,” she told him. “It’s a perfect day for a bike ride.”

  After Collin left, she felt her own stomach rumbling with hunger. As much as she hated to leave her peaceful retreat up here, she knew she needed to get dressed and go down to unlock the gallery. Leslie had promised to come in early to clean the place before opening.

  With no plans to work at the gallery today, Willow dressed casually in jeans, a paisley smock top, and her favorite Birkenstock s
andals, then went down to unlock the door just as Leslie arrived. “I’m on my way to get a bite to eat,” she told her. “Want me to bring you back something?”

  Leslie held up a small brown bag. “I brought my breakfast with me.”

  “Joel will be here at noon,” Willow reminded her. Although Joel was only part-time, he was a great help with bookkeeping and a well-informed salesperson. Willow wished he was willing to be full-time, but she understood. Joel, like her, was an artist and needed time to create.

  Satisfied that the gallery was in good hands, Willow headed down Main Street in search of a light breakfast. Smelling a tantalizing aroma from the Muffin Man Bakery, she decided to go inside. As she gazed over the well-stocked glass case, she thought of George’s confession about comparing women to pastries. Willow suspected that she would’ve been offended if another sort of man had made a statement like this . . . but somehow, coming from George, it sounded rather innocent.

  “Are those bran muffins?” she asked the girl behind the counter.

  “Yes. Fresh out of the oven.”

  “With raisins?”

  The girl grinned. “Yep.”

  “I’ll take half a dozen,” she said impulsively.

  After paying for the muffins, she headed over to Common Grounds Coffee Company with a specific mission in mind. Munching on a broken-off piece of a bran muffin, which was surprisingly good, she selected a small bag of medium roast Brazilian coffee beans and a coffee grinder, then ordered herself a latte. While she waited for her coffee, she used her phone to look up “George Emerson of Warner, Oregon” and was pleased to discover his address was only a few blocks away.

  As she carried her purchases, she continued to nibble on the bran muffin, finishing it off as she came up to his house. It was a charming cornflower-blue bungalow with a tidy, albeit sparse, yard. She felt a little nervous as she stepped up to the front porch. Poor George had been practically stalked by his neighbor last night and here was Willow showing up uninvited this morning. Perhaps she should simply set her gift in front of his door and leave.

  “Hello there,” a female voice called out.

  Willow turned to see Lorna Atwood waving from her front porch. “Oh, hello,” Willow called back. “I was just dropping something off for George.”