“That’s right. When I was a kid, the mill nearly shut down, thanks to all the government’s logging restrictions for spotted owls and such. My grandfather was always complaining about how the government was running him out of business. So to my way of thinking, my grandparents weren’t really that rich.”
“So are you saying your grandparents were the Rockwells?”
“That’s right. My mother’s parents.”
Willow peered curiously at him. “I thought the Rockwells were quite wealthy. Does that mean you’re rich?”
“No, no ... that was long ago. The timber industry tanked when I was in high school. My grandfather sold the mill. I think that’s what paid my college tuition. The buyers kept the Rockwell name and retooled the mill to manufacture doors and windows. From what I hear they’re doing quite well nowadays.”
“What about the Rockwell house?” she asked. “Is it on the historic register?”
“No.”
“I noticed the house looks a little run-down and neglected. Did your family lose that too?”
“No. That’s where we’re going right now. That’s where my grandfather’s workshop is located. They left the property to me.”
“You’re kidding. That’syourhouse?”
He barely nodded, still stuck on her previous comment. “So do you really think the house looks run-down and neglected?”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you’re the owner, George.” She grimaced. “But I always loved that house. Whenever I see it, I wish that someone would show it some love and fix it up. Most of the other historic homes on the hill have been restored.” She poked him in the arm with a teasing look. “Maybe you’ll have time for that, once you’re retired.”
“I’ll have plenty to keep me busy before long.” As they turned up his grandparents’ street, he felt suddenly overwhelmed. Almost like he was drowning—or about to. Likehe couldn’t catch his breath. What was he doing with this woman? And taking her to see his grandparents’ house? Had he lost his mind?
Willow was interesting, but rather intense. Perhaps too intense for him. What would she say when she saw his family home up close? What if she criticized or made too many suggestions—or laughed? He knew he wouldn’t handle that very well. Especially after a sleepless night. What if he turned grouchy and defensive and spoke his mind? He wished he hadn’t invited her along and desperately tried to think of a way to derail this now. He was about to make an excuse to go back home when he heard a jangling sound.
“That’s my phone.” Willow paused to reach into her jeans pocket. “Sorry.” She peered down at it. “Oh, it’s the gallery—I have to take it. Excuse me.”
Wanting to be polite, George stepped away from her, trying not to eavesdrop as she talked to her assistant about something that sounded urgent.
“I’m sorry.” Willow repocketed her phone. “That was Leslie. She needs me at the gallery. I need to head back to town.”
George nodded, feigning disappointment. He actually felt enormous relief. “No problem.”
“Some other time then?” Willow smiled hopefully.
“Of course.” George thanked her again for the breakfast and they said goodbye. Feeling that a weight had been lifted, he continued on toward his grandparents’ house. Somehow he needed to put the brakes on this friendship with Willow. She was nice enough and part of him was seriously intrigued. But a larger part of him was horrified and terrified and stressed beyond words. Willow West was just what he did not need in his life. She was the type who would poke andprod and stir things up. Although he didn’t like to compare her to Lorna Atwood, she was not completely unlike his pushy neighbor. Women like that were troublesome. George had spent the last three decades avoiding that sort of trouble, and he didn’t intend to start inviting it now.
Besides, he reminded himself as he went up the hill to his grandparents’ house, he had the end of school and his retirement to think about. He had one week to empty his office, calculate his students’ grades, and say a final farewell to his career. He didn’t need a demanding relationship to complicate things.
seven
It didn’t take long for Willow to take the hint. George Emerson was giving her the cold shoulder. She’d called his house after church the next day, inviting him to join her and some friends for tea on her terrace, only to be told he had “other plans.” Then, on an after-dinner walk with Collin on Monday, they’d “casually” strolled down George’s street. Collin spotted George sitting on his porch, but by the time they got closer, George had disappeared inside. He probably thought she was stalking him. And maybe she was.
Despite her dismay, Willow knew she had to let it go. Really, did she need someone like George Emerson in her life? She had so much going on, so many projects to complete, the gallery to run, new friends to spend time with ... Why would she bother with someone who appeared to want to hold her at arm’s length anyway?
And yet, each day in the following week as she went about her business, she thought about Mr. Emerson. In the morning, she made excuses to walk with Collin partway to schoolin the hopes of spotting him. And in the afternoon, after school had let out, she would often take a stroll through town, hoping to spy him on his way home. Maybe she really was a stalker. It was embarrassing.
George was surprised at how much he’d managed to accumulate in his office at school. Mostly books and paperwork, because he’d long since given up on displaying personal items there. He’d kept a few framed photos at first, but students’ comments eventually motivated him to remove them. Either the kids would poke fun at something or become overly interested. He soon learned it was best to leave his personal life—as if he had one—at home. Still, by Wednesday, as he was lugging yet another heavy box of books through the school’s foyer, he felt weary to the bone.
“Mr. Emerson.” Mrs. Malcolm paused to hold the door for him. “That looks like a heavy load.”
He nodded and, thanking her, passed by. “Books.”
“Hopefully you parked nearby.”
“No car,” he huffed as he went down the front steps
