“No. That’s where we’re going right now. That’s where my grandfather’s workshop is located. They left the property to me.”
“You’re kidding. That’s your house?”
He barely nodded, still stuck on her previous comment. “So do you really think the house looks run-down and neglected?”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you’re the owner, George.” She grimaced. “But I always loved that house. Whenever I see it, I wish that someone would show it some love and fix it up. Most of the other historic homes on the hill have been restored.” She poked him in the arm with a teasing look. “Maybe you’ll have time for that, once you’re retired.”
“I’ll have plenty to keep me busy before long.” As they turned up his grandparents’ street, he felt suddenly overwhelmed. Almost like he was drowning—or about to. Like he couldn’t catch his breath. What was he doing with this woman? And taking her to see his grandparents’ house? Had he lost his mind?
Willow was interesting, but rather intense. Perhaps too intense for him. What would she say when she saw his family home up close? What if she criticized or made too many suggestions—or laughed? He knew he wouldn’t handle that very well. Especially after a sleepless night. What if he turned grouchy and defensive and spoke his mind? He wished he hadn’t invited her along and desperately tried to think of a way to derail this now. He was about to make an excuse to go back home when he heard a jangling sound.
“That’s my phone.” Willow paused to reach into her jeans pocket. “Sorry.” She peered down at it. “Oh, it’s the gallery—I have to take it. Excuse me.”
Wanting to be polite, George stepped away from her, trying not to eavesdrop as she talked to her assistant about something that sounded urgent.
“I’m sorry.” Willow repocketed her phone. “That was Leslie. She needs me at the gallery. I need to head back to town.”
George nodded, feigning disappointment. He actually felt enormous relief. “No problem.”
“Some other time then?” Willow smiled hopefully.
“Of course.” George thanked her again for the breakfast and they said goodbye. Feeling that a weight had been lifted, he continued on toward his grandparents’ house. Somehow he needed to put the brakes on this friendship with Willow. She was nice enough and part of him was seriously intrigued. But a larger part of him was horrified and terrified and stressed beyond words. Willow West was just what he did not need in his life. She was the type who would poke and prod and stir things up. Although he didn’t like to compare her to Lorna Atwood, she was not completely unlike his pushy neighbor. Women like that were troublesome. George had spent the last three decades avoiding that sort of trouble, and he didn’t intend to start inviting it now.
Besides, he reminded himself as he went up the hill to his grandparents’ house, he had the end of school and his retirement to think about. He had one week to empty his office, calculate his students’ grades, and say a final farewell to his career. He didn’t need a demanding relationship to complicate things.
seven
It didn’t take long for Willow to take the hint. George Emerson was giving her the cold shoulder. She’d called his house after church the next day, inviting him to join her and some friends for tea on her terrace, only to be told he had “other plans.” Then, on an after-dinner walk with Collin on Monday, they’d “casually” strolled down George’s street. Collin spotted George sitting on his porch, but by the time they got closer, George had disappeared inside. He probably thought she was stalking him. And maybe she was.
Despite her dismay, Willow knew she had to let it go. Really, did she need someone like George Emerson in her life? She had so much going on, so many projects to complete, the gallery to run, new friends to spend time with . . . Why would she bother with someone who appeared to want to hold her at arm’s length anyway?
And yet, each day in the following week as she went about her business, she thought about Mr. Emerson. In the morning, she made excuses to walk with Collin partway to school in the hopes of spotting him. And in the afternoon, after school had let out, she would often take a stroll through town, hoping to spy him on his way home. Maybe she really was a stalker. It was embarrassing.
George was surprised at how much he’d managed to accumulate in his office at school. Mostly books and paperwork, because he’d long since given up on displaying personal items there. He’d kept a few framed photos at first, but students’ comments eventually motivated him to remove them. Either the kids would poke fun at something or become overly interested. He soon learned it was best to leave his personal life—as if he had one—at home. Still, by Wednesday, as he was lugging yet another heavy box of books through the school’s foyer, he felt weary to the bone.
“Mr. Emerson.” Mrs. Malcolm paused to hold the door for him. “That looks like a heavy load.”
He nodded and, thanking her, passed by. “Books.”
“Hopefully you parked nearby.”
“No car,” he huffed as he went down the front steps
“No car?” She sounded shocked as she followed him down. “Don’t tell me you’re going to lug those books all the way home like that.”
“That’s my plan.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” She pointed to the parking lot. “Let me give you a ride.”
George was too tired to object. “Thank you, Mrs. Malcolm. That would be most welcome.”
She led him to a blue sedan and, after he was comfortably seated, he let out a long sigh. “I feel like I’m getting very old,” he confessed.
“I heard you’re retiring.”
“Yes. I didn’t feel old enough for retirement before. But now I think it’s probably for the best.” He paused to give her directions to his house.
“But you’re not that old.”
“I’ll be fifty-five this summer.”
“That’s not very old.”
“So I keep hearing.”
“I just turned forty-five.”
He turned to look at her. He would’ve guessed her to be older. Not that he planned to say as much. “It won’t be too long before they’ll start pressuring you to retire,” he warned her. “What with the recent budget cuts and all.”
“Well, I’ve been considering it anyway. When my husband passed away, I had planned to quit. But my son encouraged me to keep working. He thought it was good for me. I don’t know.”
“I suppose if there’s something else you want to do . . . retirement could be good.”
“Aren’t you looking forward to it?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose I am right now. I don’t know how I’ll feel by September.”
“Yes, there’s something to be said for our line of work—especially when you’re single and living alone.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, you spend the whole day surrounded by people. Some that can be very obnoxious and irritating and stressful. You know what I mean?”
He nodded.
“Then you go home to your nice, calm house with no one interrupting or challenging you. No laughing or teasing or stomping about. Just peace and quiet.” She let out a long sigh. “Well, it makes you grateful.”
“I suspect you’re right about that.”
“Even if all you have to look forward to is a microwave meal. It’s still a relief to dine in a peaceful place.” She chuckled. “Although I’ll be having homemade beef Stroganoff tonight.”
“Homemade beef Stroganoff? Isn’t that a lot of work?”
“I made it yesterday for my sister’s birthday. She loves my Stroganoff. Anyway, I’ve got loads of leftovers.” She turned to him. “Hey, do you like beef Stroganoff?”
“I used to. My grandmother made it, but I haven’t had it in ages.”
“Then you must have some tonight.”
“Well, I, uh, I don’t know, Mrs. Malcolm—”
“Please, call me Patty.”
“Well, it’s just that—”
“I won’t take no for an answer. Let this be my retirement gift to you. I even have leftover birthday cake. Trust me, you won’t be sorry. We will dine in style tonight.”
George didn’t know how to dissuade her, and she’d already turned her car in a direction that he could only assume was toward her house. Besides that, he’d only had an apple for lunch. He was hungry. Hopefully she made a good Stroganoff.
Before long, she was driving through a neighborhood where every tan and beige house looked exactly like the next one. He was about to ask her if she ever got lost in the maze of identical dwellings, but then she turned in to a driveway. “Here we are,” she said cheerfully. “This is going to be such fun.” She led him into a living room with tan walls and an enormous beige sofa shaped like an L. “You make yourself comfortable while I get things ready,” she said. “And don’t mind the cats.”
“Cats?”
“Yes, there are three of them. Sammy and JoJo are very friendly. But Gordie, well, not so much.”
George swallowed nervously as he sat on the sofa. He was not terribly fond of felines. And that was putting it mildly. Oh, he’d liked an amazing cat once . . . but his cat, Buddy, had been one in a million. He’d never known a cat like that since. He hoped Patty’s cats would sense his chilly attitude and keep a safe distance. But before long, a large, furry cat was rubbing against his legs, coating his dark blue pants with white hair—and another scrawny gray cat hopped onto his lap and was suddenly kneading his thighs with sharp claws that felt like they could draw blood. Did these animals carry diseases? When was his last tetanus shot?
“Oh my,” Patty declared. “It looks like you’ve met my babies. That’s Sammy on your lap and JoJo down there.” She set a plate of cheese and crackers on the table. “Help yourself to appetizers while I go heat up the Stroganoff.”
As desperately as George wanted to bolt for the door and dash home, he knew it was pointless. Not only was his box of books still in the back of her car, this subdivision was at least five miles from town. Best to just get this over with . . . as painlessly and quickly as possible. He was about to reach for a cracker when the fuzzy white cat leaped onto the coffee table and began to sniff at the plate. George’s appetite vanished. Just as JoJo helped himself to a piece of yellow cheese, George pushed Sammy from his lap, rescued the plate of appetizers, and carried them into the kitchen.
“I thought I should come keep you company,” he told Patty. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She smiled as she slid a pan into the oven. “My late husband always liked to sit in the living room while I fixed dinner. I assumed you’d like that too.”
“Not particularly.” George sat down at the breakfast bar. Eying the appetizers, he tried to remember which side of the plate the cat had been working on, hoping it was safe to eat from the other side. He was about to take a cracker when, once again, the big white cat leaped—clear up to the breakfast bar. “What!” George jumped in surprise.
“Oh, JoJo,” Patty scolded gently. “You know you’re not supposed to jump on the counters.” She chuckled. “At least when we have guests.” She shooed the cat down then apologized to George. “Cats are impossible to train. And to be honest, I don’t mind them. Do you like cats, Mr. Emerson?”
“Well, I, uh—”
“And do you mind if I call you George? Mr. Emerson is such a mouthful.”
“No, no, I don’t mind.” George wanted to say what he did mind—and that was ill-mannered cats. To distract himself, he looked around Patty’s kitchen. It was one of those modern ones with silver appliances and black stone countertops that felt strangely cold and showed off JoJo’s white hairs. As George leaned down to blow over the countertop, sending some of the lightweight cat hairs flying, he noticed the pigs. They were everywhere. Pig potholders, pig salt-and-pepper shakers, a pig cutting board, and a pig cookie jar, just to name a few. “You appear to like pigs,” he said absently.
“Oh yes. I adore pigs. I grew up on a farm and raised them for 4-H projects.”
“Interesting.” He couldn’t think of anything less appetizing in a kitchen. Well, except for cats maybe.
“Some people think pigs are dirty, but they are actually rather clean.”
Probably cleaner than cats, George thought as JoJo jumped onto another part of the kitchen counter. At least pigs would be limited to the floor. He suddenly imagined a herd of miniature swine crawling about the floor. Patty continued to chatter away, clearly delighted to have company and, although George tried to act congenial, his head was beginning to throb with a headache . . . and the never-ending evening continued.
By the time they were seated at the dining table, with cats still roaming around his ankles, George felt slightly ill. He tried to maintain small talk about school and whatnot as he poked at his not-quite-hot beef Stroganoff. He wasn’t sure if it was him or the food, but it all tasted bland and heavy and greasy. Nothing like his grandmother used to make. And when Patty mentioned her sister’s leftover birthday cake, George patted his midsection and claimed he couldn’t eat another bite.
“I’m afraid this last week of school has worn me out,” he told her.
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I’m still not done with grades.”
“So, perhaps we should call it a night.”
To his relief, Patty was already going for her purse and car keys, and soon they were on their way, with Patty cheerfully carrying the conversation as she drove.
“I’m so glad we got to spend this time together,” Patty declared as she pulled up to his house. “Even if it was a relatively brief dinner. I hope you’ll come over again, George. And it won’t be leftovers next time. I make a mean meatloaf, if I do say so myself. Maybe after you’re settled into your retirement and aren’t feeling so worn out.” She turned to smile at him. “Because I suspect we have a lot in common.”
“Well, thank you again.” He got out of the car. “I’m sure you need to get back to finish your grading.” He retrieved his box of books from the backseat. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” Then, without waiting for her response, he closed the door and hurried toward his house. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this glad to get home. Patty was right about one thing. A peaceful, calm, and quiet house—preferably without cats—was most welcome at the end of a long day.
As he set the box of books down on his coffee table, George felt like he was not only a confirmed bachelor, but he was a lost cause when it came to women. “Let this be a lesson to you, Mr. Emerson,” he said aloud as he set his books into the bookshelf section of his cabinet. “Keep yourself to yourself . . . unless you want trouble.”
But as he closed the cabinet, he suddenly remembered how Willow had run her hand over this very door. He remembered some of the feelings he’d experienced while being with her . . . at the coffeehouse . . . in his own backyard over breakfast. It was nothing like the way he’d felt with Patty tonight. He shuddered to think of Patty’s insufferable cats and homely pigs. He wondered what Willow’s habitat might be like. She probably kept tropical birds . . . or a peacock perhaps.
eight
Toward the end of the week, Willow felt like she’d managed to put thoughts of George Emerson behind her. For the most part anyway. She’d almost convinced herself that they were just too different to ever be truly compatible. Some claimed that opposites attract, but what about staying power? How could you sustain a relationship with someone so completely different? It was ridiculous.
“Do you want to come to Mr. Emerson’s retirement party this afternoon?” Collin asked Willow on Thursday morning. He was about to head off for his last official day of high school. “It was in yesterday’s announcements. Everyone’s invited. Teachers, parents, kids, custodians, lunchroom ladies.” He chuckled as he picked up his book bag.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Come on, Nana,” he urged. “I have a feeling that Mr. Emerson doesn’t have many friends. It might mean a lot to him if we went.”
“So, you’re going?”
“Sure. My way of thanking him for that letter.”
“What about baccalaureate tonight?”
“That’s not until seven. Mr. Emerson’s party is at 3:30. In the school library.”
“Well, I suppose if I’m not busy . . . I could come.” Even as she said this, Willow wasn’t so sure. Besides the fact that she had nothing in common with Mr. Emerson, he appeared to have sent her a clear and distinct message. He was not interested in her. Not in the least.
Still, Collin’s invitation stuck with her all morning. By midday, she knew she should go. After all, George had been an excellent teacher for Collin and he’d written the letter she’d begged from him. Shouldn’t she at least show her gratitude? Plus, she suspected that Collin was right. A man like George probably had few friends.
As she poked around her messy studio, attempting to organize the clutter and chaos and still wishing for those big cherry cabinets, she got an idea. She’d take George a little retirement gift. Okay, it wasn’t exactly little, but she felt it would be perfect. Something to perk up George’s stark little bungalow. Oh, he might very well hate it. But that would be his problem. Now if only she could find where she’d tucked away that stack of oversized paintings.
Willow dug around the piles and boxes, creating even more messes, until she finally unearthed some old paintings that she’d wrapped in a drop-cloth. She thumbed through the canvases until she found it. She’d painted this in college. The subject had been a rusty old turquoise-blue pickup truck. She’d set it in an overgrown field of bright orange poppies. Something about those two bright colors had spoken to her back then. And she actually still liked it. But this painting was large and cumbersome—not something she cared to display in her gallery and too big for her apartment.
She couldn’t explain it, but something about the piece reminded her of George Emerson. Perhaps it was metaphorical. The broken-down yet charming pickup was going nowhere—and although George wasn’t exactly broken-down, he did act somewhat stuck. But the cheerful optimism of the prolific poppies encompassing the truck promised better things, happier days. Anyway, she hoped so.
Courting Mr. Emerson Page 6