Courting Mr. Emerson

by Melody Carlson

  “Yeah, that’d probably be good.”

  She said good night, then went into her apartment. She hadn’t mentioned the details of her unfortunate conversation with George, but it was almost like Collin knew. Perhaps George had told him.

  George felt discouraged as he got ready for bed. It had taken a lot of nerve to go knock on Willow’s door tonight. He knew the gallery was closed and, according to Collin, Willow was home. But when she didn’t answer, George felt certain it was because she didn’t want to see him. He imagined her inside her apartment, peering through the little peephole in her door, still seething over George’s recent intrusion. She was finished with him. And he’d honestly believed that he was finished with her as well. But then time passed . . . and George’s thoughts often drifted to her.

  He knew it made no sense, but he missed her. And he felt badly about the other night when he hadn’t bothered to go over to say hello at the fireworks display. Both Collin and Josie had told George that she was there. But George had remained stubbornly in his borrowed lawn chair, surrounded by Lorna’s lady friends. Admittedly, it had been somewhat amusing to be the only male in the company of those women. At least at first. But as the evening wore on, their gossipy chatter had grown increasingly tiresome. So much so that George had wanted to cover his ears and run. Oddly enough, Lorna had proved the least aggravating and most interesting of the group. At least she could talk about her recent trip with her sister. They’d gone to Yosemite National Park and a few other places. Finally the fireworks started, and although he hadn’t appreciated the loud booms, George had preferred that noise to the women’s grating voices. By the time it was over, he’d been eager to get home. He’d missed Baxter.

  “I guess it’s just going to be you and me,” he told Baxter as he put his toothbrush in its holder. As usual, Baxter was perched on the toilet tank, watching with intelligent feline interest . . . and perhaps an expression of sympathy in his jade-green eyes. “A couple of bachelors living the quiet life.” He went out to the living room to turn off the light, pausing to look at the painting above his couch. It was funny. He remembered how jarring that painting had been initially. Oh, he’d been drawn to the subject matter because of Alex’s old pickup. But the oversized and colorful painting had felt intrusive at first. Yet now, he was used to it. And if someone removed it from his wall, he would most certainly miss it. In fact, he’d be upset to see it gone. Interesting.

  Perhaps it was possible to adjust oneself to new things after all. And perhaps it was possible to pursue a relationship with someone as strange as Willow West. Except she acted like she wanted nothing to do with him now. Who could blame her? George knew he was by no means typical. He was standoffish and stuck in his ways and, according to some people, downright peculiar. But being a fan of Ralph Waldo Emerson, George had excused his atypical lifestyle as “individuality.” He marched to his own drummer. If it made people uncomfortable, they could simply keep their distance.

  Willow enjoyed sleeping in on Monday morning. She took her coffee out to the terrace, taking time to water her plants and do a little garden maintenance. She loved being out here in the cool of the morning. At the west edge of her terrace she’d planted dozens of sunflowers as a sort of screen. Already they were blooming profusely. They would look perfect in George’s turquoise-blue vase, which she hoped had made it safely through last night’s firing.

  As an experienced potter, she knew about the surprises that sometimes came with the opening of a kiln. Occasionally a pot would have an air bubble that resulted in an explosion that ruined the other pieces. Or the timer could malfunction, and the items could be under- or overcooked. Glazes could run or drip or crack or flake. You never knew what you’d get. But that was actually one of the things she loved about pottery. You had to expect the unexpected. Sort of like life.

  As she got her second cup of coffee, she made a mental to-do list for the day. She wanted to offer Josie an enticing payment in exchange for some good janitorial maintenance in the gallery. She needed to make appointments with the job applicants and hopefully make a decision by the end of the day. She also wanted to work in her studio. And she really wanted to go to the new tai chi class that Lulu from church had just started. She’d even told Lulu that if she had the class late in the afternoon, she’d come. So Lulu had scheduled it at four.

  Besides all that, Willow needed to take her peace offering to George. Naturally that was at the bottom of her list. Although it was somewhat encouraging that George had come by last night, after all was said and done, she wasn’t sure if it had been to see Collin or her. And she didn’t want to ask Collin. Still, she was determined to take him the vase . . . if it hadn’t exploded. And if the vase was ruined, she might take that as God’s hint to back off from George. For all she knew, George would probably be grateful.

  It was midafternoon by the time Willow accomplished almost everything on her to-do list. To her pleasant surprise, the contents of the kiln had fired perfectly, and the turquoise vase was gorgeous. It was even more gorgeous filled with sunflowers of varying shades—everything from bright yellow to a rich russet. Willow’s plan was to drop off the peace offering then continue on to tai chi class. The perfect excuse not to linger and make a nuisance of herself. She’d even written a short apology note just in case George was out.

  Dressed in her black yoga pants, a neon green tank top, and flip-flops, Willow drove over to George’s house, hoping that she could just leave her gift by his front door. But she was barely on the porch when the door opened and George, dressed casually in khaki pants and a blue shirt, stepped outside. He even had on sandals. With socks, of course, but still, they were sandals! Willow tried not to stare.

  “Hello.” George’s smile looked genuine.

  “This is for you.” She held the vase out to him and immediately launched into her somewhat rehearsed and lengthy apology. “I want to say I’m sorry for the way I acted after you helped Collin to get into Whitfield College. I was very unkind and most ungracious. Instead of being grateful, like I should’ve been, I took offense for feeling left out. But Collin is so pleased about his college plans, I not only owe you an apology, but a great deal of gratitude. Please, accept my peace offering.”

  George blinked as she handed him the vase. “Thank you. This is very nice.”

  “The flowers are from my terrace, and I made the vase,” she said quickly. “Remember? You saw me take it off the wheel when you visited my studio.”

  “It’s really beautiful, Willow. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

  “I wanted to . . . it’s my little peace offering.”

  “Well, I feel like I owe you an apology too. Do you have time to come inside? You can say hello to Baxter.”

  “Just for a few minutes. I need to be at tai chi at four.” She followed him in.

  “Tai chi?” George said as he placed the vase in the center of his wooden coffee table. “I’ve heard that’s a good form of exercise, but I really don’t know anything about it.”

  “A friend of mine is teaching a class.” She knelt to pet Baxter, scratching the top of his head and his chin while he purred. She stood and looked at George. “Hey, you should come with me. It’d be fun.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” George suddenly looked uneasy.

  “Really, George. You’d probably like it. It’s supposed to be relaxing—as much for the mind as the body. And it’s good for older people.” She grinned. “Not that we’re old. We’re not. Come on,” she urged. “We’ll be tai chi buddies.”

  “Maybe next time,” he said with a promising smile. “I—uh—I’m not really ready for this today.”

  “But this is the first class, George. So everyone is a beginner. If you wait to come, you’ll have to catch up.” She poked him in the chest. “Besides, you’re dressed casually. You look ready to me.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Come on, George. What’s the worst that could happen? If you don’t like it, you never have to go agai
n. But if you don’t go today, I bet you’ll never go.” She glanced at his wall clock. “It starts in fifteen minutes.” She tugged on his arm. “Tell Baxter goodbye and come.”

  To her surprise, George quit protesting and came. As she drove over to the church, which was actually a restored barn, she chatted to George about her latest happenings, telling him about Josie’s progress as an artist and how Collin appeared to be recovering from his heartache.

  “The tai chi class is here?” George frowned as she pulled into the gravel parking lot. “I thought this was your church.”

  “Well, it’s a lot of things. Kind of an activity center and everything.” She parked and hopped out. “Come on, George, we don’t want to be late.” But as they hurried across the parking area, she felt a stab of concern. What if the class was women only? Or what if George resented her pushiness? Had she been a camel’s nose again? But how else did one get George Emerson out of his rut?

  To Willow’s relief, George wasn’t the only male in the class. Lulu’s dad, Donald, was there. He was probably close to eighty but in great shape and took a real interest in George. The class was surprisingly soothing and, although the motions were slow and not overly physical, Willow felt like she’d had a bit of a workout when the class ended. But a good sort of workout. And she really appreciated how Lulu incorporated God into the meditative part of the exercises. “That was wonderful,” she told Lulu afterward. “Thank you.”

  “Do you think your friend liked it?” Lulu asked quietly. George was in the back of the room talking to Donald. “I couldn’t tell by his expression.”

  “Hard to say,” Willow told her. “But I’ll find out.”

  “It would be nice if he kept coming. Dad was worried he’d be the only fellow.”

  As Willow drove George home, she asked what he thought of tai chi. “I realize I sort of kidnapped you,” she confessed. “I hope it wasn’t too torturous.”

  “It was okay. As you know, I don’t believe in God, so I didn’t particularly appreciate Lulu’s references to faith and Bible verses and such. But I must admit that the mental and physical part was good.” He sighed. “And I do feel more relaxed. It’s too bad she couldn’t just leave her religious propaganda out of it. I doubt that was how tai chi was meant to be practiced.”

  Willow felt sad to hear him talk like this. She was familiar with George’s claims of atheism and knew his beliefs differed from hers, but somehow she perceived him in a different sort of light. He had a kind and generous spirit. He seemed vulnerable . . . like a wounded wayfarer on his own faith journey. One that she hoped would eventually lead him to God. But hearing him going on like this about the tai chi class was disheartening. Almost like a setback. Maybe it had been a mistake to take him with her today.

  twenty-two

  Willow wasn’t quite ready to give up on this conversation about God and faith with George. Even if it felt uncomfortable, it was important. Besides, she genuinely cared about George. “I’m curious,” she said slowly as she drove through town. “I know you don’t believe in God, George, but you mentioned your grandparents were churchgoing people. It makes me curious as to how you arrived at your atheist philosophy.”

  “Time . . . and life. It just makes sense to me.”

  “It’s ironic. I grew up in a family that never darkened a church door. I was a wild, crazy girl who never had faith of any kind. For most of my life too. But I eventually hit a place where I needed a higher power in my life. And when I discovered that God was really real, well, I grabbed on tight and I’ve been holding on ever since.”

  “Interesting.” George sounded more bored than intrigued. But Willow was not dissuaded. Not yet anyway.

  “I’m wondering about something.” She parked in front of his house. “I’ve decided it takes a lot of faith to be an atheist. Even more faith than it takes to be a believer.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, you’re putting your trust in your own belief that God does not exist.” She turned off the ignition and looked at him. “What if you get to the end of your life and find out you’re wrong—you discover that God is real, but you’ve banked all your bets on the conviction that he’s not real. What then?”

  “What about you?” George countered. “Haven’t you banked all your bets on the possibility that God is real? What if he’s not?”

  She considered this. “Well, at least I’d be able to say that I lived a good life. That I was happy and at peace. That I tried to love everyone and practiced forgiveness. I didn’t live in fear. And I fully appreciated the beauty around me and utilized my natural talents. So if by chance God wasn’t real, at least I’d have enjoyed a rich and full life. Can you make that same claim?”

  George didn’t respond, but his brow was furrowed.

  “So you see, my belief wouldn’t have hurt me. What about yours?”

  He continued to stare straight ahead in stony silence.

  “But, George, if God is real—like I believe he is—I will be exceedingly thankful that I did believe in him. Not only because of a satisfying earthly life, but because I’d like to continue a loving relationship with God throughout eternity.”

  “That’s a very long time.” George sighed.

  “It would be a much, much longer time if you had to spend eternity without God. I can’t imagine being separated from God’s love for even a day.”

  “Here’s the truth, Willow.” He turned to her with a very somber expression. “If I believed in God, I would have to believe that he is a hateful, selfish, mean God.”

  “But he’s not. He’s loving and gracious and kind and—”

  “I must disagree. If God does exist, which I cannot accept, then the only explanation would be that God must hate me.”

  “How can God hate you?” She frowned. “God is love. He loves all his creation, George. He loves you.”

  “No . . .” He turned away, reaching for the door handle. “If you’re right and God is real, he’s had it out for George Emerson. He’s gone to great lengths to torture me. And for that reason, it is easier and less painful for me to not believe in God.” George got out of her car.

  Willow refused to allow the conversation to end like this. “Wait,” she called out. Running to catch up, she followed him into the house. “You can’t leave me hanging like that. You owe me an explanation, George. What did you mean? What makes you so certain that God hates you?” She sat down on his sofa and waited.

  George slowly sat in the easy chair across from her with a very perplexed expression. “Do you really want to hear this, Willow?”

  “Of course, I do. And just so you know, I have no plans for the evening. I have all the time in the world.”

  “Well, I plan to keep this as brief as possible.” He folded his arms in front of him. “First of all, there were my parents. They took my brother and me to church every Sunday. The same church my grandparents belonged to. My mother was kind and good and quite serious about her faith, but my father . . . well, he was a good guy when he wasn’t drinking. He’d been drinking the night he and my mother were killed in the car accident. I was six at the time and my grandparents told me that God needed my parents, that was why he took them up to heaven. But I missed them—especially my mother. I missed them so much that it seemed mean and selfish of God to take my parents from me.”

  “That must’ve been terribly hard.”

  He nodded. “Then my grandparents, as you know, took Alex and me in. And they continued taking us to church and time passed and I had nearly stopped questioning God about taking my parents. Then Alex went to Vietnam. I was ten when he died.”

  Willow felt another wave of sadness. “Oh, George, how horrible for you.”

  He nodded again. “So now God had taken all of my immediate family. I had two questions. One, did God hate me so much that he wanted them but not me? Was I not good enough? Or, two, did he hate me so much that he would take the people I loved from me?”

  “I can understand that—especi
ally from a child’s perspective.”

  “I became pretty closed up after Alex died. For the next few years and into adolescence, I learned to keep my feelings to myself. Otherwise, my grandparents would either preach at me or send me to the reverend for counseling. Simply out of concern.”

  Baxter jumped onto George’s lap and, as he petted his cat, he continued. “I didn’t start to open up again until college. During my senior year I dated a girl who took her faith very seriously. I loved her so much that I began to attend her church and my heart toward God softened. We became engaged.” George pursed his lips. “Then she died.” He shook his head glumly, but his eyes were misty. “After that, I knew that if God existed—although I no longer believed he existed—then he must really hate me. It was quite clear. Everyone I loved dearly had died. Even my best friend, you remember him, Greg Walters . . . he died too. From cancer. Not long after my grandparents both passed away. That felt like the final blow.”

  “Oh, George.” Willow felt tears trickle down her cheeks. “I had no idea you’d been through so much pain. So much loss. No wonder you believe the way you do.”

  “So can you still tell me that God is real?” He looked at her with sad eyes.

  She wiped her tears with her hands. “All I can say is that there are a lot of horrible things in this world, George. You can’t deny there are atrocities like the Holocaust and terrible wars and famines and natural disasters and serial killers and all sorts of other horrors. But just because those things exist doesn’t mean that God doesn’t. That’s like saying the sun doesn’t exist because it gets dark at night. Or that because there is evil means there isn’t good.”

  He barely nodded. “That’s true.”

  “We live in a beautiful world, but it’s got some flaws. We’re human so we’ve got flaws too. And God doesn’t control us, George. He gave us free will. And our choices—or someone else’s choices—come with consequences. But I honestly believe the bad things can help us to turn to God. We get to a place where we realize we’re not enough. We know we can’t do this on our own. We are forced to admit we need God. And then we cry out for his help. That’s what happened to me. When Asher got sick and I knew I was losing him . . . that was when I found my own faith. I needed God—I cried out to him. And he answered. He didn’t let me down.”