The gallery traffic had thinned considerably, but George decided to use this opportunity to take a better look at the art, slowly making his way back to the refreshment table, where he’d left his umbrella.
“There you are,” Willow said cheerfully as she set a cracker and cheese on a napkin. “I hoped you hadn’t gone home. Did you see Collin?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “We had a nice visit.”
She held up a nearly empty cheese plate. “Here, help me finish this off.”
George started to protest, but stopped. He didn’t mind getting the taste of the kombucha out of his mouth. Even if it was with another strange sort of cheese. At least it didn’t look like the goat cheese. “Did you have a good showing tonight?” He took a cautious bite.
She shrugged. “I think it went well.”
“Do you actually sell anything during art walks? There were so many people, but they looked more interested in talking than buying.”
She chuckled. “We rarely make a sale at these gatherings. It’s more about connecting with the public. But sometimes a customer will return a few days later and make a purchase.” She turned to the young woman who was clearing up the refreshment table. “Mr. Emerson, this is my assistant, Leslie. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Leslie grinned. “Good, I hope you never find out.”
“How about if you lock up for me?” Willow set the cheese plate down. “I want to go grab a cup of coffee and put my feet up.”
“No problem.”
George reached for his umbrella. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”
“Don’t be so quick,” Willow told him. “I thought perhaps you’d accompany me down to Common Grounds.”
“The coffee shop?”
“Yes. They’re having live music there until eleven. And I’d love a cup of coffee.”
“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.”
“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 particularly 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?