Mr. Emerson frowned. “No ... Greg passed away about ten years ago.”
“Oh ... I’m sorry to hear that.”
He nodded. “As am I.”
“Didn’t you have a war hero brother?” She wanted tochange the subject. “Alex Emerson? For some reason, I remember that name.”
His brow creased. “Yes, but I’d be surprised if you knew him. Alex was ten years older than me.”
She suddenly recalled why she remembered the brother’s name, but she didn’t want to admit it. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a graceful way to deflect the conversation.
“How did you know about him?” Mr. Emerson pushed.
“The truth?” She grimaced.
“That’s always the best policy, don’t you think?”
“Well...” She winced inwardly. “My parents were ... well, they were hippies. We lived on a commune. And we participated in war protests sometimes, and this one time, when I was just a girl, we were visiting my grandparents right here in Warner. We demonstrated by the Vietnam Memorial at the city park ... and I remember reading that name. It was the most recent one on the stone. And I can’t explain it, but I felt so sad for him. I remember wishing that he’d never enlisted.”
“Alex didn’t enlist,” Mr. Emerson said soberly. “Do you recall the Vietnam draft lottery? How they drew birth dates and numbered them for the draft?”
“Sure.” She nodded.
“Well, Alex’s birth date was the second date drawn. He was drafted into the army right after graduation.” Mr. Emerson sighed with a faraway look. “He went overseas with a buzz haircut, shiny combat boots, and a brave smile ... and came back in a wooden box.”
“Oh ... I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, so was I.” He shook his head.
“I really am sorry. You lost your brother and your bestfriend.” Despite herself, she reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. “That must’ve been very hard.”
He simply nodded.
Now she didn’t know what to say. She awkwardly pulled her hand down then reached for her macramé bag. “I sort of lost track of this town after high school,” she said nervously. “I spent a year in Berkeley but felt like I was floundering. Then my parents talked me into transferring to an art college.” She waved her hand in a dismissive way. “But I’m sure you’re busy, Mr. Emerson. I don’t want to bore you with the silly details of my life. I’m just so glad you’re willing to write a letter for Collin.” She reached inside of her bag, extracting a slightly wrinkled business card.
“There’s no rush for the letter, but I thought perhaps you’d do it before school lets out. You know, so you don’t forget. I’m sure you have big summer plans—celebrating your retirement and all.” She handed him the dog-eared card. “That’s the info for my art studio and gallery. You may have noticed it on Main Street.” She pointed to the card. “Named after me. Willow West. Anyway, it’s probably the best way to contact me. Or just send the letter to the email address on the bottom. I can print it out.”
“Then I’d have to do that before school ends since I don’t have public email.”
She blinked. “Seriously? No email?”
He nodded. “I’m rather old-fashioned. I view computers as a necessary evil. I use them when I must, like here at school, but you won’t find those electronic devices in my home.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t even own a cellular phone.”
“Wow.” She wasn’t sure if this was impressive or just plain nuts. “How do you communicate?”
“I have a landline phone that works just fine. And if I need to write a letter, I use a pen, or if I’m writing something longer, I use the same Olivetti typewriter that took me through college.”
She grinned. “That’s actually sort of cool ... and very unusual.”
“People give me a hard time for it, but I just happen to like it.” He shrugged. “And I think my life is less stressful as a result.”
“I can understand how it might reduce some anxiety.” She put her purse strap over a shoulder. “And if I could get away with something like that, I think I would too. But for my business, well, I feel it’s necessary to have an online presence.”
He studied the card. “You’re an artist?”
