“That must’ve been nice.” Willow sighed.
“How did your family have meals?”
She chuckled. “Well, I think I’ve told you that my family was quite nontraditional. I suppose my parents were ahead of their time. Early hippies. I was raised on a communal farm.”
“Oh yes, I do recall you mentioned that once. I thought perhaps you were jesting.”
“Not at all. It was a real commune with shared gardens, shared chores, shared meals—the works.”
“Did you have siblings?”
“Yes. An older sister, but she hated commune life. She left the farm when she was fifteen.” Willow shook her head. “I haven’t seen her since.”
“But you went to high school at Warner?”
“My parents moved back here. It was my mom’s hometown and I think there were some problems at the commune. Plus my parents were worried about my education and that I’d end up running away like my sister. Unfortunately, I was so independent and wild, I was a handful for everyone. And then when I got pregnant with Josie, well, my parents insisted on raising her while I went to college. I have to give them credit for helping me get my education, but I sometimes wonder if it might’ve been better for Josie if they hadn’t.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, when I finally finished college and got on my feet, Josie was about six. I wanted to have her with me, but my mom convinced me she would be better off with them. And maybe she was . . . although I suspect they spoiled her some. Probably an attempt to make up for where things went wrong with my sister and me. Of course, it all unraveled for them when Josie became an adolescent and started to rebel. That’s when my parents shoved her off on Asher and me. And by then . . . well, we tried, but I think it was too little too late.”
“Do you think that’s why Josie is, uh, the way she is?”
Willow explained about the counselors and shrinks that Josie had seen during her teens, about the diagnoses and treatments. “But nothing really helped.”
“I’ve had students like that,” George admitted. “More so, it seems, in recent years. It makes me question the state of the world. Are we degenerating? If so, is it due to environmental factors . . . or just a general decaying of humanity?”
“Those are big questions.” Willow set down her empty coffee cup. “Speaking of big questions, I’m curious about your interest in Ralph Waldo Emerson. Besides the name connection, do you really embrace his philosophy?”
“I did in my youth. But to be honest, it’s been years since I really studied his works. Although I still believe in independent thinking and living freely.”
“Living freely?” She frowned at the immaculate kitchen around them. She hadn’t failed to notice how carefully George kept everything in its place. So much so that she felt certain he had some form of obsessive-compulsive tendencies—although she was reluctant to ask.
George sighed. “As freely as one can, I suppose.”
“From my understanding, Ralph Waldo Emerson was an atheist,” she said cautiously. “Do you embrace that as well?” Although she hoped that George would say no, she knew it wouldn’t be a deal breaker in their friendship. Not at all.
“I suppose I’m an atheist.” He frowned. “To be honest, I don’t give religion much thought.”
“I used to be an atheist,” she confided. “But looking back I believe it was simply a cry out to God for him to prove to me that he was real.”
“And did he?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Most definitely.”
“So now you have no doubts?” George looked skeptical.
“Well, I’m human. Of course, I have doubts. But my faith outweighs them.”
“So do you believe everything in the Bible?” he asked.
“I’m not much of an expert on the Bible, but I’m not sure I take it all literally.”
“Really?” George looked genuinely surprised.
“Oh, I believe it’s inspired by God. Although there are parts of the Old Testament that I don’t understand. But I do love the New Testament. Especially the words of Jesus. Those Scriptures ring true and clear to me.” She cringed slightly. “I’m sure my theology doesn’t line up with a lot of well-meaning Christians. To be honest, I’m not usually this open about my beliefs. Although I do chat with God about these things.”
“You chat with God?”
She chuckled. “Well, yes. I try not to wear him out with every little thing, but if I need to talk to him, I do.”
“Interesting.”
She felt somewhat embarrassed. “I’m not usually this transparent with people about my faith. Well, except for Collin. He makes fun of me sometimes. But I just remind him that we’re all on our own spiritual journeys and as long as we’re moving forward, we really shouldn’t compare ourselves to each other. And we shouldn’t judge.”
“This is all very interesting.” George rubbed his chin. “I’ve never heard anyone talk like that about religion. My grandparents were very involved in church. As was my mother. But as I grew older, I identified more with philosophies like Ralph Waldo Emerson’s. He had little use for religion or God. Felt they were like crutches that crippled people. I began to feel the same way as I grew older. Religion let me down. So why should I trust in it? That’s the first step in living independently.”
“Independently of God?” she asked.
He slowly nodded.
“I suppose I thought I was rather independent too,” she admitted. “But at the same time I was uneasy inside . . . and, I think, rather lonely.”
“Lonely?” George’s brow creased, but his gaze was intense. “You do not strike me as a lonely sort of person, Willow.”
“No, I suppose not. But I believe I was lonely for God. I had this hunger. Nothing filled it up. Not my family, not my art, not the adventures I sought. It was only when I invited God into my life that the empty place was filled.” She looked at George to see that, although he was still listening, he appeared confused.
“I’ve said too much.” She stood, gathering up their dishes. “And I’ve used up too much of your time—on your first official day of retirement too.” She smiled. “But I do thank you, George. I feel ever so much better now. I suppose I needed to preach that little sermon to myself. Thank you for graciously listening.” She set the dishes in the sink. “Can I help you wash—”
“No, no, this is a one-man job.” He studied her closely. Probably still trying to make sense of all that she’d just said. Poor man.
“Then I will let you get back to your day. And I better go home and find out what’s going on with Josie. Hopefully she hasn’t disturbed Collin with her troubles . . . or burned the place down.”
“What?” George looked alarmed.
“Oh, she’s a smoker. And she keeps forgetting my rules to take it outside.” She glumly shook her head. “Thank you again, George. You’re a good listener.”
As Willow walked home, she felt concerned. Oh, not so much that Josie would be smoking in the apartment. Willow felt worried that perhaps she’d said too much to George. Overwhelmed him once again. And so she prayed for God to straighten things out with George. After all, these matters of faith were between them. And then, as she got nearer to her building, relieved to see no smoke or fire engines, she prayed for Josie, imploring God to help her lost child find her way. Because, for certain, only God could do that.
George washed and dried the dishes and wiped down his kitchen. Then, suddenly feeling bone-tired and weary, he sat down in his easy chair in the living room and stared up at the painting of the pickup in the poppies. He felt discombobulated. That was not a word he’d ever used to describe himself before. But he felt so thoroughly confused, bewildered, perplexed, and befuddled . . . only discombobulated really fit.
He knew it was because of Willow. This feeling of being turned upside down and inside out only happened when he spent time with her. Even when he’d enjoyed being with her, he always was left with a very unsettling feeling when it was all
over and done with. He wondered if that was similar to how an addict felt. Did they get a sense of enjoyment while strung out on their destructive substance of choice, then experience a terrible letdown afterward? And, really, was he comparing his friend Willow to cocaine? If she was like cocaine, shouldn’t he be keeping a safe distance from her?
Thinking about such things only made him more confused. So George got out of his chair and, instead of mowing the lawn or putting his wet laundry into the dryer, like he knew he should do, he walked to town. He went into the hardware store and, after looking about for a bit, purchased a hammock. One of those ropey ones that looked as if someone had tied hundreds of knots.
“Are you certain this is sturdy enough to safely hold me?” he asked the sales clerk as she rang it up. She was a hefty woman, so he thought she should know.
She just laughed, assuring him it was sturdy enough to hold a much heavier person. “Or even two people.” She gave what looked like a flirty wink.
George paid her in cash, then, with his hammock under one arm, marched triumphantly toward home. He’d never owned a hammock before. Never even been in one that he could remember. But for some reason, the idea of being retired with time to relax and unwind . . . well, it seemed to suggest that a hammock might very well be a necessity. Now if he could just figure out how to safely hang the contraption. And hopefully in a spot where Lorna Atwood wouldn’t be able to gape over the fence at him.
As George turned down his street, he wondered . . . Was he lonely? Certainly, he spent plenty of time alone. He’d be spending even more time alone now that he was no longer a teacher. But spending time in solitude didn’t necessarily mean he was lonely. Had Ralph Waldo Emerson been lonely? Or had he simply embraced a lack of companionship as a sign of true independence? Perhaps George would lie in his new hammock and read one of his old Emerson books. He could just imagine himself like that. A man of leisure reading up on philosophy. Now wouldn’t that be something!
However, as soon as George got inside his house, he felt compelled to finish his laundry. He’d never let it sit in the washing machine this long before. As usual, he removed the laundry items one at a time, giving each piece a firm shake before placing it in the dryer. These appliances were thirty years old, but according to the repair man who serviced them from time to time, the new models—thanks to all their electronic gizmos—were not nearly as dependable or as easily fixed as these old ones.
With the laundry situation under control, George went out to the backyard to scope out a good place to hang his hammock. The options were decidedly limited. And no spot promised the privacy he’d hoped for. He was just measuring the distance between a pear and apple tree when he noticed that his lawnmower was still sitting by the back porch, ready to go.
Naturally, even though the grass wasn’t very long, George felt compelled to mow and rake the yard. And then it was time for his final load of laundry—sheets and towels. By the end of the day, his new hammock, still encased in its plastic, remained where he’d set it on his back porch. Perhaps he would hang it tomorrow.
Despite Josie’s claim that she did not want to remain in Warner, by the end of the day, she was still here. And even though the stress level was higher than ever, Willow was actually somewhat relieved. She knew Josie was a powder keg. But she also knew that Josie needed help. Now if she could only get Collin to understand.
“All I know is that I can’t stand to be around her,” Collin told Willow as the two of them had a quiet dinner out on the terrace. Fortunately, Josie had declined Willow’s invitation to join them, claiming she wanted to be alone right now. After spending the last few hours in Willow’s apartment pacing angrily about—raging about her selfish boyfriend and this “stinking small town” and her horrible life and even the hot, humid weather—Josie looked like she’d worn herself out. But before she stormed off to her apartment like a wounded victim, she loaded herself up with leftovers from last night’s party. There were no worries she would go hungry.
But at least Josie was still here . . . and still talking. For some reason that gave Willow hope. It had been a relief to dine alone with Collin—except that his nose was seriously out of joint. “I don’t see why she’s still here,” he said sullenly as they finished up their meal.
“I understand your feelings,” Willow said quietly. “I’ll admit that Josie isn’t easy to be around. And I don’t expect you to spend too much time with her. All I want is for you to remain somewhat neutral. It won’t do any good to engage with her. Not right now anyway. She’s too hotheaded for a civilized conversation.”
“It’s hard to remain neutral when someone attacks you.”
“I know.” Willow cringed to remember how nasty Josie had been to Collin when he’d popped in to talk to Willow this afternoon. She’d treated him more like a brother than a son. As if they had a sibling rivalry going on. Naturally, Collin had been hurt. “I’m sorry she’s being so difficult.”
“Even Mr. Emerson got fed up with her.” Collin brightened. “Wasn’t that awesome how he stood up to her last night?”
“It was certainly surprising.”
“Maybe she needs people to stand up to her,” Collin suggested. “Maybe she’s run roughshod over everyone all these years, and now it’s time for her to get hers. I’ll bet that’s why Garth left. He couldn’t take it anymore.”
“You could be right about that. And it’s possible she needs people to stand up to her like you’re saying. I’m just warning you to go easy for now. But you’re smart, I’m sure you’ll figure out the best way to interact with her.”
“Meaning she’s going to be here awhile?” He frowned.
“I don’t know for sure. But she doesn’t really have anyplace else to go. No one else who will take her in.”
“But she acts like she hates us. And she says she hates this town. What good is it for her to stay in Warner?”
“I honestly don’t know. All I know is that she needs to be loved—unconditionally.”
“Well, don’t expect me to love her.” Collin set his glass of iced tea down with a bang. “I hate her.”
“I know. You’ve already told me that. I’m just asking you to be patient.”
“Right now, all I want is to avoid her. That reminds me of something. You know how you wanted me to work at the gallery this summer?” he asked. “I’ve been rethinking that.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, if Josie’s living here, I want to keep a distance from her. But besides that, Mr. Emerson mentioned something last night. I told him I wanted to work this summer, and he said there’s a HELP WANTED sign in the bookstore. I thought maybe I’d go apply for a job there. You know how much I love books. I think I’d fit in better there than in the gallery. Besides, I really don’t know much about art.”
“You know a lot about art, Collin. You grew up with it all around you. Besides my art, I took you to all the galleries in the Bay Area and—”
“I know. That’s not what I mean, Nana. The truth is I’m not that interested in art. No offense. I mean I like your art. But art in general, well, it’s just not that important to me. Not like books and literature.”
“Then, of course, you should apply at the bookstore.” Willow forced a smile for his sake. “They’d be lucky to get you.”
“And it might diminish the chances of bumping into my mother. For some reason I cannot imagine she’d show her face in a bookstore. She probably doesn’t even know how to read.”
“Oh, Collin.” Willow chuckled. “But you’re probably right about her lack of interest in books.”
“So you won’t be mad at me for not working in the gallery?”
“Not at all, Collin. I really do want you to do what’s best for you. But now I better start looking for someone to help out. From what I hear, town gets busier in the summer.”
“Maybe Josie would like to work for you.” Collin snickered like this was a great joke.
“That might actually work.”
; “You gotta be kidding, Nana. You’d let Josie terrorize your customers?”
“Valid point.” Willow cringed to imagine Josie tearing into some unsuspecting visitor to the gallery.
“Hey, maybe Marissa could work for you. She’s looking for a summer job. And she actually likes art.”
Willow brightened. “That, my boy, is not a bad idea. Why don’t you tell Marissa to pop in and talk to me about this? I mean, if she’s genuinely interested.”
Collin’s eyes lit up. “Do you like her, Nana? Not just for my sake. I mean do you really like her?”
Willow smiled. “I do like her. Very much. From what I’ve seen she’s a kind, thoughtful girl.”
“And she’s intelligent.”
“Sounds like what I need in the gallery. I just hope she’s interested.”
“I’ll go call her right now.” Collin collected their empty dishes. “Thanks for dinner. Want me to help clean up in the kitchen?”
“No, you go call Marissa. That’s helpful enough.”
After Collin left, Willow remained out on the terrace. It had been an extra warm day, but a slight western breeze brought a refreshing coolness with it, and the sky was just getting rosy with the promise of a beautiful sunset. Willow took a slow, deep breath, leaning back on the padded lounge chair with tired contentment. Everything had been so crazy and hectic these past few days, she relished this quiet moment to herself, up here in her lovely garden with the gurgling sound of the nearby fountain. How perfectly delightful to be alone.
thirteen
By Sunday afternoon, following about an hour of measuring, calculation, and careful contemplation, as well as two trips to the hardware store—first for chain lengths, then for S-hooks—George managed to hang his hammock between the pear and apple trees. But getting into the contraption presented a whole new challenge. The confounded thing would simply not remain in place. Each time he was about to climb in, it would sway precariously away from him, and he would barely escape. Finally, after several unsuccessful attempts, he was nearly settled when the obstinate hammock suddenly flipped over, dumping him to the ground. George stood up, clenching his fists in frustration and controlling the urge to spew some unsavory language.
Courting Mr. Emerson Page 11