twenty-seven

The next morning, George jumped in alarm to hear his doorbell ring—not just once, but again and again. Shocked to see that it was past eleven and embarrassed to still be in his pajamas, he didn’t know what to do. Whoever was on his porch, now pounding on his door, could easily peek through the window and see him crouched by the bookshelf. Poor Baxter had scampered off when George jumped in surprise, but short of slinking down to the floor and crawling behind his chair, George had no place to escape as the pounding and doorbell ringing continued. Who on earth was it? George picked up the newspaper, attempting to shield himself with it.

“George Emerson!” a female voice called out. “I know you’re in there. Let me in before I break the door down!”

He peered over the top of his newspaper to see that it was Josie, now pounding on the window next to the door. Relieved that it wasn’t someone else, George reluctantly opened the door. “What do you want?” he growled.

“I want to know what the heck is wrong with you.” She pushed past him.

“The only thing wrong with me is people who burst in like—”

“Why did you come to the gallery last night, then not even say hello?” she demanded as she flopped down onto his sofa like she owned the place. “I saw you there. Mom did too. You walked in then walked out. Just like that.” She shook her finger at him. “Bad manners if you ask me.”

“And you should be the expert.” He glared at her.

“Seriously, George, what’s up?”

“I simply changed my mind.” George sat down in his chair, gathering up and neatly folding his newspaper as if the rest of the room wasn’t in complete disarray. Not that Josie would care. She wasn’t big on tidiness either.

“I don’t believe you.” She leaned forward, peering at him with a skeptical scowl. “Something is bugging you, George. My mom is worried. And so am I.”

“Willow is worried?” He stopped folding the newspaper.

“Yes. She’s gotten it into her head that you might be dying.” Josie rolled her eyes. “And now I broke my promise to her. I swore I wouldn’t tell you about that.”

He blinked. “She thinks I’m dying.”

“Well, you’ve been acting pretty weird. I mean weird for you. And you’ve been going to the doctor. And, well, she remembers how it went down when Asher died. I mean, her husband was obviously a lot older than you. But I guess the way you’re acting has got Mom worried.” Her brow creased. “You’re not dying, are you, George?”

He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“You sound disappointed.”

He shrugged.

“Do you want to die?” she demanded.

“No, no—not exactly. But I suppose I don’t know what I have to live for.”

Josie frowned. “What does anyone have?”

“I don’t know. Your mother thinks there’s plenty to live for. But then she’s got her religion. I suppose she has to be like that.”

“She wasn’t always like that.” Josie leaned back, folding her arms behind her head. “And to be fair to my mom, she’s not really that religious. That’s what she says anyway. She says that she loves God and she loves people and that it’s not about religion. To quote her, ‘It’s about relationships.’” She rolled her eyes. “At least that’s what she tells me whenever I make the mistake and call her religious.”

“Yes, she said something similar to that to me.” George set aside the newspaper. “But she does go to church fairly regularly.”

“Yeah, I went with her and Collin once.” She sat back up. “And it really wasn’t too bad. It didn’t really feel like church to me. Not like I remember church anyway. The pastor dude is pretty cool. Don’t tell my mom this, but I actually made a counseling appointment with him. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been a couple of times and will probably go again. He actually gave me some helpful advice.”

“Interesting.” He tried to imagine Josie taking advice from a clergyman. Was she pulling his leg?

“So you’re really not dying, George?”

He sighed and shook his head again. The truth was he’d actually hoped that he was dying. He’d wanted the doctor to say something like “I’m sorry, you’ve got six months to a year left, George.” And then George had intended to live differently. Oh, he hadn’t known exactly what he’d do or how he’d do it, but he’d make some big changes. Maybe he’d volunteer at the soup kitchen or send money to feed orphans in Africa or even join the local square dancing club. But now that he had this obnoxious “clean bill of health” George had seriously considered taking up activities like smoking and drinking and recreational drugs. Maybe he’d get a motorcycle—and a tattoo. Or try skydiving.

George knew, of course, that he wouldn’t do any of those things. The problem was he didn’t know what to do anymore. Nothing brought him any pleasure. Nothing motivated him. Nothing appeared worth living for. And the truth was, he didn’t even have anything worth dying for. Maybe he was simply a lost cause.

“Can I give you some advice, George?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“Well, you seem really down to me. And I’m thinking you need someone to talk to—like a professional someone. Pastor Hal has a counseling degree and he’s really pretty good at it. Maybe you should consider giving him a call.” She got up and went over to his telephone table. After checking on her cell phone, she wrote something down on his notepad, then turned to him. “I’m glad to hear you’re not dying, George. But it could be you need to do something to get yourself back on track.”

“All things are possible.”

She smiled sheepishly. “Take it from someone who’s been in the pit of despair—you can make a comeback.” Then, to his relief, she let herself out. After he locked the door and pulled the blind down on the side window, he sat back down and pondered her words. Was it possible that George Emerson had sunk so low that he was now taking advice from someone like Josie? He looked around his mess of a living room. Maybe so.

For the next week, Willow spent long days in the Rockwell house cleaning, planning, and even helping with some of the painting. Although she called George a time or two to give updates, he continued to maintain an off-putting nonchalance about the renovating. But at least, according to Josie, George was not dying. That was something to be thankful for.

Although George promised to come by to check on the progress, so far he’d not shown his face. Perhaps that was for the best. Willow had no idea how she’d react if George didn’t approve of something already in the works. She knew how persnickety he could be. And she really didn’t like the idea of him showing up while things were torn up and in process, like these last few days when everything was in flux. But by the end of the week, with most of the painting finished and the kitchen nearly in place, she began to hope that he might pop in.

So it was that on Sunday, with no workers around to get in the way, Willow stopped by the house after church and gave George a call. “I know you appear to have no interest in seeing what’s going on up here, but I’d really appreciate it if you stopped by.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No. Something is right. The place is really in good shape. And I think you’d enjoy seeing it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Please, George,” she begged. “I’m doing this for you. The least you could do for me would be to stop by. Just give me fifteen minutes of your time—we’ll walk through it and you can—”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll leave straightaway.”

After she hung up, Willow immediately felt nervous. She walked through room after room, taking an inventory of what had been done, pleased with how light and clean it all looked. The walls were painted in light neutral shades that not only brightened the place but added a depth. Some of the worn woodwork was painted a clean milky white, which set off the recently refinished wood floors that gleamed with warmth and character. And the kitchen—that was the best. The tall Shaker-style cherry cabinets with some glass doors reflected the era of the home but were functional in a modern way. The white marble was classic and clean looking, and the checkerboard floors, with concrete tiles in white and gray, looked both modern and classic. She felt certain George would love it—and she couldn’t wait to show him.

She hurried to the front of the house, waiting eagerly in the freshly painted foyer, impatient for George to arrive. Spying him coming up the walk, she opened the tall, oversized door wide and smiled brightly. “Welcome,” she said happily.

George frowned as he came up the walk. “Someone painted the trim,” he said a bit sharply.

“Yes. Doesn’t it look—”

“That trim has always been white,” he snapped.

“Yes, but the white looked so stark. Don’t you think that charcoal gray sets off the red bricks nicely? It’s so classic and brings out the leaded glass—”

“The white trim was just fine.”

“But it was dirty and the paint was cracking and—”

“I could’ve painted it myself. And I would’ve painted it white.” He waved some envelopes at her. “And I assume that’s what these bills are for—”

“You told me to have them sent to—”

“These are things I could’ve done myself,” he declared as he stormed through the front door.

“But you said you didn’t want to—”

“Oh, no!” He stopped in the foyer with a horrified expression. “No, no, no.”

“That old dark wallpaper is gone and the woodwork has been re—”

“This is just terrible.”

“But it looks lovely, George. So fresh and clean and—”

“I cannot believe it.” He walked on through to the living room. “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no.”

Willow began to feel sick inside. “George, you knew what we were doing—”

“This is horrible. Just horrible.” He continued on through the dining room, muttering complaints about everything. “Everything gone. Everything changed. No, no, no.”

“I don’t understand,” Willow said meekly. “You wanted the house updated. I told you exactly what we were do—”

“Oh, no.” George stopped in the kitchen, covering his mouth with his hand. “Did that contractor do this? That Cliff Grant?”

“Well, yes. Cliff has overseen everything. But he’s just doing what I asked of him. And the cabinets were made by—”

“It’s all wrong.” He stomped out, mumbling under his breath. Then, after going quickly through the other first-floor rooms, he marched up the stairs, complaining with each step. “Everything’s gone,” he finally said. “Everything is changed. It’s all gone. All wrong. All changed.”

“But that’s what you wanted,” Willow tried again. “You said you—”

“You should’ve known I was having a hard time.” He looked at her with tear-filled eyes. “I was in a bad way, Willow. In no position to deal with all this.” He waved a hand toward an empty bedroom. “Everything is gone.”

“I know, but—”

“Never mind. I have to go.” And then without giving her a chance to say another word—not that she knew what to say—George ran down the stairs.

After hearing the front door slam, Willow sat down on the top step and cried. Of course, George was absolutely right. She should’ve recognized that he wasn’t himself. Probably in the midst of some sort of midlife crisis or mental breakdown. She should’ve just backed off . . . given him room to recover. Instead, she’d been a camel’s nose. She’d charged along in her usual bossy way, always ready for a challenge, eager to tackle the world, nothing too hard, nothing too big . . . and now this. She’d spoiled everything.