Courting Mr. Emerson

by Melody Carlson

  “Well, he let me down.”

  She nodded. “I’m sure it must feel like that to you. But your story isn’t done, George. You might be living like it’s done. I know how you’ve frozen yourself into some sort of safety capsule, like you’re living all alone in a time warp, but your story isn’t finished yet. I believe you’ve got a lot more living and experiencing to do.” She stood. “But I didn’t mean to preach at you. I hope I haven’t said too much.”

  She could see he was in pain and hated to think it was because of her. Willow went over to his chair and, after giving Baxter a good stroke, she wrapped her arms around George and just held him for a long moment. “For some reason God has put you on my heart, George, and I can’t help but think that means he’s trying to show you how much he loves you. He must love you very much.” Then without belaboring her point further, she stood up straight, smiled down on him, and quietly departed, praying for him all the way home.

  Willow was barely out the door when George broke into tears. Not just trickling-down-the-cheeks tears, but a full-blown sobbing and wailing that was so loud that even Baxter was startled. He hopped down to the floor, looking up at George with a curious expression of concern. George wasn’t completely sure what had triggered this reaction in him, but as he continued to cry and sob like a little child, he hoped this wasn’t going to become a permanent condition. And he hoped Lorna couldn’t hear him. Fortunately his windows were closed.

  He went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, then actually blew his nose with a hand towel, which was so out of character, but he continued to cry. Was this a side effect of the tai chi class? Or the result of opening old wounds and revisiting old hurts? Or was it that hug from Willow that had unhinged him like this? And what she’d said about how much God must love him?

  George honestly did not know what had triggered this strange reaction. But what he did know was that he needed to get control of himself. Perhaps, for the sake of his own emotional health, he should give up tai chi for good. And maybe he should return to his avoidance of Willow West at all cost. He needed to get control again—even if that meant locking his doors and locking everyone and everything out.

  George’s hands shook as he poured himself a glass of milk. Milk always had a calming effect on him. But he could barely swallow against his sobs. He set the glass down and leaned over, and gripping the counter’s edge, he attempted a slow, deep breath. Somehow he needed to get control again. He couldn’t let this emotional outburst get the upper hand. He continued to try a few more deep breaths, but finally, feeling miserable and hopeless and weak, George stumbled off to his bedroom, fell into bed, and even though it wasn’t yet seven o’clock, cried himself to sleep.

  Although Willow felt terrible about George’s painful story and a bit guilty for having left him in such a desperate way, she knew that the only thing she could really do for him, at the moment, was simply pray. So as she carried a tall glass of iced tea out to her terrace, she did pray. Quite specifically, she asked God to make himself real to George. What more was there to say? She had too much respect for God to go on and on—as if God were dense and couldn’t understand what she’d just asked. She knew that God was big enough and smart enough to do something to get George’s attention—and she believed that he would. And so, she left it in God’s hands.

  But as she lay back in her comfortable lounge chair, sipping her green tea, she wondered at what she’d just heard. She’d suspected that George had faced sorrows in his life, but she’d never guessed there’d been so many. In some ways, it was no surprise that the poor guy had reached the conclusion that God did not exist. It was simply less painful. Or so he thought. Hopefully God would prove him wrong.

  As Willow looked at the beauty around her—the little world she’d created up on a neglected rooftop that had smelled of tar and cat urine—she thought about God’s beautiful world. The oceans and mountains and forests and meadows . . . right here in Oregon where George had spent his entire life. She wondered that George hadn’t observed the beauty around him, that he hadn’t questioned how such a place could’ve simply evolved. But it was possible that his pain had blinded him. It certainly had trapped him. Poor guy.

  George woke with a start and tried to get his bearings. It was dark and stuffy and warm—and although he was fully dressed, he was in his bed. He sat up and shook his head, trying to remember the dream. It had been an amazingly good dream. So much so that George felt disappointed to be awake. As he got out of bed and turned on the bedside light, he was surprised to see that it was past midnight. He rubbed his hair. Had he really been asleep for more than five hours? Baxter looked up from where he was still curled up on the other side of the bed, gazing curiously at George—as if to ask why he was getting up at this time of night.

  George felt hot and dry and rumpled as he padded, barefoot, to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. As he sipped the cool, sweet drink, he tried to remember the dream. He’d been in a beautiful place—light and bright and unlike anything he’d ever seen before. He’d felt a sense of peace and calm . . . and a sort of weightlessness . . . like all his troubles had evaporated. As he set the empty glass down he remembered something. His mother had been there. She’d been smiling happily and stroking his hair like she used to when he was just a boy. It had been such a good, happy feeling. He wished he could get it back.

  As he opened some windows to let some cool air into the house, George tried hard to hold on to the pleasant dream. But it was like trying to hold on to the gentle summer breeze wafting in—it just slid right past him. Feeling a rumble inside of him, George returned to the kitchen to make himself a peanut butter and honey sandwich. But before sitting down to eat it, George realized that he felt like something was missing in his dark, quiet house. Something that he wanted, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

  Leaving his sandwich behind, George went into the living room and opened the cabinet that stored all the old vinyl LP records. Perhaps it was music that he needed. He remembered telling Willow that, once he retired, he planned to listen to music again. And yet he hadn’t. George looked over the two rows of albums that had once belonged to Alex and, seeing one that looked far more dog-eared than the others, he pulled it out. It was Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water. He stared at the two guys on the cover—they looked like they’d been pulled straight out of the seventies . . . and yet they looked like someone he could know right now. He slid out the vinyl record, placed it on the old turntable and, hoping that everything still worked, turned it on.

  The first song was “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and, although George knew that he must’ve heard this song before, he didn’t really remember it. It was like hearing it for the first time. The lyrics were so amazing that he had to sit down just to listen. The words sounded like they’d been written just for him. Despite the warmth of the summer evening, George felt goose bumps from head to toe. Although he feared he was hallucinating or about to suffer some fatal condition like a stroke or heart attack, it felt as if the words to that song were being sung by a higher power. God, perhaps?

  He listened to the song three more times then turned the whole thing off and, just sitting on the sofa with his hands dangling between his knees, he shook his head. What had just happened? Was it possible that God Almighty—if he did exist—could speak to George through Simon and Garfunkel?

  Still feeling slightly delirious, but hungry, George went back to the kitchen and ate his sandwich, washing it down with milk. Then he took a long shower and, feeling bone-tired and wrung out, he returned to bed . . . in the hopes that the beautiful dream would return and continue.

  twenty-three

  Every time Willow thought of George during the next few days, she simply shot up a brief but earnest prayer. She’d consider checking on him, but then something would distract her. Collin needed help filling out the rest of the college paperwork, as well as some morale boosting over his recent breakup. And Josie wanted company
down in the studio while working on painting projects. So Willow threw herself into pottery and actually produced some nice gallery pieces. Besides that, Willow had to train the new girl who was working in the gallery. Haley was smart enough, but she lacked confidence. To make matters worse, Joel hadn’t scheduled himself for many hours and Leslie had taken off several vacation days. By the weekend, Willow felt the need for a vacation herself. Fortunately, the gallery would be closed on Monday. And Leslie would be back on Tuesday.

  Although Willow did miss George, which was a bit like missing a toothache, she reminded herself that his life was not nearly as jam-packed and busy as hers. He had a sweet cat to care for . . . and a hammock to lie in. If he’d wanted to spend time with her, he certainly knew where to find her.

  By Sunday morning, though, her curiosity got the best of her. Especially since Josie appeared concerned as well. “Every time I call his phone, he never answers,” Josie had complained the previous evening. So Willow decided to stroll over and say a friendly hello. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind the intrusion. She suspected that she’d pushed him too hard during their last encounter—he probably was simply establishing his boundaries by placing some time and space between them. And that was fine. If he still wasn’t ready to talk to her, she would simply continue on her stroll.

  When she got to George’s house, Willow tried ringing his doorbell and knocking loudly, but he didn’t come to the door. Now she was feeling concerned. So much so that she went around to peek over his fence, only to see the hammock empty.

  “George isn’t home,” the neighbor called out as Willow came back around. “He’s been gone all week.”

  “Gone?” Willow shaded her eyes to see Lorna watering a pot of petunias. “On vacation? Did he take Baxter with him?”

  “I don’t mean gone as in gone-gone. Not like a vacation.” Lorna dropped her hose and walked over to the edge of her lawn. “But he goes out each morning—quite early. And he takes Baxter with him. Totes him along in a carrier case. Stays gone all day.”

  “Really? But you don’t know where they go?”

  “I asked George about it, but he just said he was taking care of business. Very mysterious.” Lorna chuckled. “But then you know how George likes to keep to himself. Strange fellow, but likeable, and he’s a good neighbor.”

  Willow simply nodded. But, as she left, she had a good guess where George might be spending his days. She turned down the street that led up the hill to where the Rockwell Mansion was situated. That had to be where George and Baxter were holed up. She was curious as to why and hoped he wouldn’t resent her checking on him, but friends popped in on friends.

  The big, old house looked just the same on the outside—somewhat neglected, lonely, and rather sad. The place had such a look of abandonment that Willow doubted that George really was inside. But she rang the doorbell and waited. When no one answered, she tried again, then tested the door to find that it was unlocked, which felt rather un-George-like. Was something wrong?

  “George?” she called out as she tentatively went in. “Are you here?” She looked around the elegant foyer, surprised to see it now filled with all sorts of old furnishings, cardboard boxes, and general clutter. With no order or appearance of a plan, it looked as if someone had blown up a storage unit.

  She peeked in the living room, only to see more pieces of furniture and clutter piled all around. George must’ve gotten over his attic anxiety. She called out again, but he still didn’t answer. He was probably in the attic, hopefully not trapped and buried in debris. She went up the stairs, pausing briefly to admire the family photographs along the stairway wall. His grandmother had a good eye for photography. These photos were real treasures, and Willow felt relieved he hadn’t removed them. But she did wonder what he was up to. Had he decided to sell his family home after all? Although it made sense to do so, she felt sad to think of him letting it go. She knew he loved the old house . . . or at least the memories.

  “George?” she called from the third floor. Then she spotted an open door and a steep wooden stairway that had to lead to the attic. She was about to holler again when she saw George, dusty and dirty with cobwebs in his hair, coming down with an old rocking horse in his arms.

  “Willow!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sorry, I just let myself in. But I was worried about you,” she confessed. “I stopped by your house and Lorna said you were—”

  “How did she know I was up here?” He dusted his hands off on his equally dusty trousers.

  “She just said you were gone, that you go out each day and take Baxter with you. I sort of guessed the rest.”

  “Oh.” He nodded a bit stiffly. “Well, how have you been?”

  “Very busy.” As she followed him and the rocking horse down the two flights of stairs, she gave a brief description of her overly full week. “Looks as if you’ve been rather occupied too.”

  He set down the toy. “Yes. I decided it was time to get busy and clean this place up. It’s way overdue.”

  “So do you plan to sell the house?”

  He rubbed a hand through his uncharacteristically messy hair. “I’m not sure yet. I just want to thin out some of the junk. I’ve set aside a pile for Josie. I planned to call her in a day or two to come look through the items.”

  “Do you need any help with this?” She tried not to grimace. “It looks a bit overwhelming.”

  He sighed. “I’ve actually considered calling a dump truck to haul it all away.”

  “No.” She firmly shook her head. “There are obviously a lot of great things here, George. But it looks like too much for just one person. You know that Josie was eager to help. And I’ll bet Collin would help too. He’s got Monday and Tuesday off.”

  George frowned at the crowded foyer. “The trouble is, I honestly don’t know what to do with all this stuff. I try to sort it out, but then I get frustrated.” His expression looked frantic. “I just wish it would all go away.”

  “You should have an estate sale, George. Maybe you could use the proceeds for fixing up that kitchen and—”

  “I can’t do that. I’m no salesman. It’s been hard enough bringing this stuff down. I can’t organize a sale. I have no idea how to price this junk.”

  “It’s not all junk,” she protested. “I’m sure there are some valuable items here.”

  “I removed the valuables years ago,” he said. “My grandmother’s jewelry and important papers and all that sort of thing. I worried the house could be burglarized. Although that never happened.”

  “Even so, you don’t want to throw away items that you could sell instead. I worked at an antique sale back in college, so I know a thing or two about what’s valuable and what’s not.” She held up a finger. “And I have a good friend, maybe you know her—Betty Harris. She used to have an antique shop here in town. She’s retired now, but I bet we could recruit her help.”

  “I don’t know . . . doesn’t sound worth it to me.” George looked so overwhelmed that Willow’s heart went out to him.

  “You need help, George. It’s too much for one person. Let Josie and Collin and me help. We can recruit a few others too.” She glanced toward the packed living room. “We should start by selecting what pieces you’d want to keep.”

  “I don’t want any of it! Not a single stick.”

  “Nothing?” This was worse than she thought. George was losing it.

  He waved both hands. “I just want it to all go away.”

  Willow felt worried. It was as if something in George had snapped—or was about to snap. “George,” she said slowly. “Do you believe that I’m your friend?”

  He nodded somberly.

  “Then, can you trust me?”

  He shrugged. “I think so.”

  “How about if you let me organize your estate sale? I’ve been a businesswoman for more than twenty years. I can handle this for you.”

  He looked close to tears now. “It’s too much to ask.”

&n
bsp; “I’m your friend, George.” Willow spotted Baxter cowering between an old trunk and a rocking chair. “I think you and Baxter should go home. You take a nice, long shower, and let me start working on this in an organized manner. I’ll get Josie and Collin over here to help with the heavy stuff.”

  “I can’t just leave you—”

  “Just take a break, George. Come back whenever you feel like it.”

  “I guess I could use a break.” He removed a grimy handkerchief to wipe his brow. Then he handed her the keys, loaded Baxter into his cat carrier, and left. Of course, as soon as he was gone, Willow wondered . . . Had she bitten off more than she could chew? But she was used to challenges. In fact, she rather enjoyed them. It was something that had often frustrated Asher. But after a few years, they learned to give each other their space and their freedom. In the end, it had strengthened their marriage. Perhaps helping George like this would strengthen their friendship.

  First Willow called Josie, asking her to come lend a hand. “And you can collect some treasures while you’re here. George has made a nice little pile for you to choose from.” Then she called Collin, explaining how overwhelmed George was right now. “I know you work until two today, but if you feel like helping afterward, I could really use your muscle.” After he agreed, she asked him to drive her car over so they could load some things into it.

  Next Willow slowly strolled through the maze of boxes and furniture, going from room to room and trying to put together a plan for an estate sale. Finding a tablet and pen in what appeared to have been a den—although it was so cluttered it was hard to tell—she began to make notes. Then she called her friend Betty and explained the situation.