Toward the end of the week, Willow felt like she’d managed to put thoughts of George Emerson behind her. For the most part anyway. She’d almost convinced herself that they were just too different to ever be truly compatible. Some claimed that opposites attract, but what about staying power? How could you sustain a relationship with someone so completely different? It was ridiculous.
“Do you want to come to Mr. Emerson’s retirement party this afternoon?” Collin asked Willow on Thursday morning. He was about to head off for his last official day of high school. “It was in yesterday’s announcements. Everyone’s invited. Teachers, parents, kids, custodians, lunchroom ladies.” He chuckled as he picked up his book bag.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Come on, Nana,” he urged. “I have a feeling that Mr. Emerson doesn’t have many friends. It might mean a lot to him if we went.”
“So, you’re going?”
“Sure. My way of thanking him for that letter.”
“What about baccalaureate tonight?”
“That’s not until seven. Mr. Emerson’s party is at 3:30. In the school library.”
“Well, I suppose if I’m not busy ... I could come.” Even as she said this, Willow wasn’t so sure. Besides the fact that she had nothing in common with Mr. Emerson, he appeared to have sent her a clear and distinct message. He was not interested in her. Not in the least.
Still, Collin’s invitation stuck with her all morning. By midday, she knew she should go. After all, George had been an excellent teacher for Collin and he’d written the letter she’d begged from him. Shouldn’t she at least show her gratitude? Plus, she suspected that Collin was right. A man like George probably had few friends.
As she poked around her messy studio, attempting to organize the clutter and chaos and still wishing for those big cherry cabinets, she got an idea. She’d take George a little retirement gift. Okay, it wasn’t exactly little, but she felt it would be perfect. Something to perk up George’s stark little bungalow. Oh, he might very well hate it. But that would be his problem. Now if only she could find where she’d tucked away that stack of oversized paintings.
Willow dug around the piles and boxes, creating even more messes, until she finally unearthed some old paintings that she’d wrapped in a drop-cloth. She thumbed through the canvases until she found it. She’d painted this in college. The subject had been a rusty old turquoise-blue pickup truck. She’d set it in an overgrown field of bright orange poppies. Something about those two bright colors had spoken to her back then. And she actually still liked it. But this painting was large and cumbersome—not something shecared to display in her gallery and too big for her apartment.
She couldn’t explain it, but something about the piece reminded her of George Emerson. Perhaps it was metaphorical. The broken-down yet charming pickup was going nowhere—and although George wasn’t exactly broken-down, he did act somewhat stuck. But the cheerful optimism of the prolific poppies encompassing the truck promised better things, happier days. Anyway, she hoped so.
She wasn’t sure how George would react, but something about the truck and poppies had George Emerson written all over it—and she was determined to present it to him today. As she wrapped it in kraft paper, prettily tying it with strands of dyed raffia, she was glad that her signature was obscured by the frame. That way if George sincerely hated it, he needn’t be concerned that she’d take it personally.
As she loaded the canvas in the back of her SUV, she chuckled to herself. Whether this was a white elephant gift or an insult, she wasn’t sure. But as she parked near the high school and extracted her bulky package, she realized she didn’t particularly care. Let George sort it out.
Willow had dressed a bit more conservatively today. For her, anyway. This morning she’d donned an off-white dress and espadrille sandals. She’d perked the ensemble up with turquoise and coral beads, silver bangle bracelets, and big hoop earrings. Some might think her ensemble too youthful for a woman her age, but Willow had never concerned herself with conventions. If she felt good—what else mattered?
Although she did feel slightly conspicuous as she went through the security station, she told herself it was onlybecause she was going in while everyone else was rushing out. She quickly explained to the security guard that her parcel contained a gift for Mr. Emerson’s retirement party. “Nothing toxic or dangerous or explosive,” she teased. “Well, unless someone hates art.”
The guard gave the package a few pokes and squeezes then finally nodded. “I guess we won’t need to open it. Have a nice time.”
She thanked him and proceeded toward the library. Her plan was to be congenial but not overly personal. She would simply present her gift and chat a bit, then make an excuse to leave shortly thereafter. That would satisfy Collin, and George would probably be relieved to see her go. But when she got to the library, which she’d expected to be filled with well-wishers, there was no sign of a party.
“Can I help you?” a woman with a bored expression asked.
“I thought there was a retirement party for—”
“Oh, that’s in the conference room.” The woman nodded toward the back.
Willow thanked her then headed back. As she got nearer to the open conference room door, she expected to hear voices, but like the rest of the library, it was eerily quiet. She entered the conference room, expecting to be greeted by crepe paper banners and colorful balloons, but all she saw was a sheet cake on the table with a handful of stiff-looking people congregated around it.
Relieved to see Collin and Marissa were there, Willow smiled brightly at George. “Happy retirement, Mr. Emerson!” She held out her parcel. “A little something from Collin and me.” She winked at her grandson. “Well, not exactly little.”
“Thank you.” George’s smile looked more forced than usual. “It was very nice of you to join us.”
“Open it,” someone said.
“Yes, of course.” George stiffly took the package from her. “Please, have some cake, Willow. It has lemon filling.”
As Willow helped herself to a piece of cake, George opened the package. To Willow’s relief, there were several oohs and aahs from the party guests as the paper fell away. But George looked stunned as he stared at the painting—and not in a good way. “Thank you,” he solemnly told her. “This is very thoughtful.”
Willow attempted some lighthearted small talk, but no one in this group was particularly congenial. Or perhaps, like her, they were simply uncomfortable—and suddenly the “party” began to break up. Excuses about cleaning out classrooms and preparing for tonight’s baccalaureate ceremony were made and, before Willow could excuse herself, it was simply her and George and Collin standing in front of the half-eaten cake.
“I’m not sure how I’ll get this home,” George said as he carefully folded up the wrapping paper. “I walked and—”
