“I mostly create textile arts. As well as a little painting, and sometimes I’ll dabble in sculpture and pottery—if I’m in the mood for getting muddy.” She grinned.
“Interesting.”
“Do youlikeart?” She peered curiously at him. He didn’t particularly strike her as the artistic type.
“I believe art is like beauty—it’s discerned by the eyes of the beholder. I’m certainly no expert, but I know what I like.”
She reached into her bag again, pulling out one of the flyers for that night’s event. Like her business card, it was slightly rumpled. “Then you might want to come to this.”
His brow creased as he read the page. “An art show?”
“Yes. It starts tonight at seven. And there’ll be food and music and all sorts of fun things. All the galleries listed therewill be open until nine. It’s called Final Friday. Kind of experimental, but lots of places do it. I’m hoping it’ll work out and we’ll do it every month. Warner needs to wake up when it comes to the arts.” She smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I moved back here.”
“To wake up Warner?” His brows arched.
She chuckled. “Something like that.” She closed her bag and squared her shoulders. “Well, I don’t want to take any more of your time, Mr. Emerson.” She stepped away from him, pausing long enough for him to invite her to call him by his first name. But when he didn’t, she simply thanked him for his help with Collin’s college letter and said a cheery goodbye.
As she walked through the now-deserted hallway, she wondered about Mr. Emerson. He was so completely unlike anyone she’d ever known. And she’d known a lot of characters in her lifetime. But what made this odd man tick? And why did he act so uptight ... and sad? And—the most pressing question—why did she feel this strange and unexpected attraction to him and what in the world did she plan to do about it?
three
By that evening, George had convinced himself that the only reason he was going to the art walk on Main Street was because it provided him an honest excuse for turning down Lorna Atwood’s persistent dinner invitation. He’d told a little white lie by claiming he had other plans. Of course, he’d intended to make his words true by doing something. But now he actually had an activity. The trick would be getting out the front door without crossing paths with her again.
George had donned his favorite charcoal tweed blazer over a light blue shirt and burgundy tie for this evening’s festivities. Someone had once told him that wearing blue brought out his eyes. Not that anyone was likely to notice that tonight. But as he peered out his kitchen window to determine if Lorna Atwood was lurking nearby, he felt rather dapper. And seeing that her well-lit porch appeared to be deserted, George put on his favorite fedora then slipped out onto his own porch.
Lorna Atwood had been right about one thing—theweatherman had predicted showers for this evening, and it was already clouding up. So armed with his sleek black umbrella, George made his way down his walk.
“Mr. Emerson,” Lorna called out with a note of victory in her voice. “How nice to see you tonight.”
“Good evening,” he said crisply, wondering where she’d popped out from and how hard it would be to extricate himself from her company. “Are you going out?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” she chirped. “Since you couldn’t come to dinner, I decided to walk into town tonight. I heard there are some activities and live music. Kind of a summer kickoff.”
“Oh?” George paused.
“Are we walking the same direction?” she asked. “Perhaps we can keep each other company along the way.”
“I, uh, if you’ll excuse me, I just remembered something that I forgot inside. Something I needed to take with me tonight.”
“I can wait.”
“No, no, you go on without me. It will take me a few minutes to get it ready.” He tipped his head politely. “Good evening.” Then, turning abruptly, he hurried back into his house. Feeling like he’d just dodged a bullet, he was relieved that he hadn’t actually lied. He glanced at the clock to see that it was nearly half past seven now. No time to waste.
George went over to his Olivetti typewriter, the same one that had gotten him through college. The letter he’d started typing this very afternoon was still in the carriage and very nearly finished. Without removing his hat, he sat down, typed the last two lines then carefully rolled it out, gave it a solidproofread, and signed his name. As he fanned the page to help the ink to dry, he felt a tinge of guilt. He hadn’t really intended to give the recommendation letter to Willow West this evening, but it had provided a handy excuse for avoiding Mrs. Atwood.
Satisfied that the ink was dry, he carefully folded the letter, inserted it into a legal-sized envelope, and pennedMs. Willow Weston the front. He was curious as to why she’d kept her maiden name but assumed it had to do with being an artist. And it certainly had a rather pleasant ring to it. He slipped the envelope into his jacket’s inner pocket and, relatively certain that Lorna Atwood would be well on her way by now, set out to stroll to town.
Because the Willow West Gallery was on the other end of town, George decided to go there first. Hopefully it would lessen his chances of bumping into Lorna Atwood as she wandered through town. Main Street was surprisingly busy with pedestrians meandering along the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Strains of music floated out of some of the shops’ opened doors. And the oak trees along the sidewalk were lit up with tiny white lights, giving the town a rather festive appearance.
George felt uneasy as he entered the Willow West Gallery. Almost as if he was an unwanted intruder, crashing a gathering that he’d not been invited to attend. Of course, that was ridiculous because Ms. West had personally invited him. Besides, he had something to give her. The gallery was quite large, well-lit, and attractive, but surprisingly full of people. They were clustered in small groups, and most of them had drinks and appetizers in hand,acting very much like this was a party. Maybe he really was crashing.
With various walls and dividers, the space felt somewhat maze-like, but George attempted to blend in with the art-lookers, pausing to study various paintings, sculptures, and fabric creations. Although a number of them had Willow West’s name on the little white description cards, most of the items appeared to have been created by other artists. And the prices on everything sounded a bit outrageous. George could be wrong, but he doubted that anyone in Warner would fork out that kind of money on art.
“George Emerson!”
He turned to see Lorna Atwood directly behind him. Had she followed him here? Was she turning into a stalker? “Oh, hello again,” he said a bit stiffly.
“Well, isn’t this interesting.” She gave him a sly grin. “Here we are at the same event. It seems almost fortuitous. I didn’t know you were a patron of the arts.”
