Willow nodded. “Yes, that’s what I want it to be—fun. And somewhat unexpected, but without insulting the house.” Even as she said this, Willow couldn’t help but wonder ... what if she insulted the house’s owner? Perhaps she already had.
George felt lost as he walked back home. Not literally lost, since he obviously knew his way. But he felt lost inside ... asif he had no idea of where he was going ... or why. Lost and confused. And it was doubly frustrating because he’d really made an attempt to regain his old self this evening. After getting his yard back into shape yesterday, he’d spent most of today catching up on his housework. Then he’d decided to clean himself up and pay Willow a visit. But she’d been with that man again. Cliff Grant.
George had mentioned that name to Lorna yesterday. Just in passing while they’d worked on the yard together. He’d casually said that Cliff Grant was doing some work for him on a family piece of property. He didn’t reveal anything about the property since he had no intention of telling Lorna all the details of his life. But when her eyes lit up at the name, George gently pressed her for more information. “I hope he’s a good contractor ... trustworthy and all. You never can tell.”
“I don’t know about his work ethics, but Cliff Grant’s a real looker, that’s for sure.” Lorna leaned on her bamboo rake handle with a dreamy expression in her eyes—reminiscent of certain girls from George’s teaching days whenever a good-looking jock passed by. Not terribly mature. “And he’s one of our town’s most eligible bachelors.”
Hadn’t people once referred to George as “an eligible bachelor”? Not lately, of course. Perhaps never again. The bloom was most definitely off that rose by now. “What do you mean—mosteligible bachelor?” George asked Lorna.
“It simply means that men like him are in high demand. In a town where single women greatly outnumber single men, a man like Cliff Grant is quite a catch.” Lorna pursed her unnaturally pink lips—the color reminded George of a plastic yard flamingo. “Quite a catch.”
“Do you know him personally?”
“I’ve never actually met him, but I’ve seen him around town. I sure wouldn’t mind meeting him. My friend Gayla went to school with him. She says that he’s been divorced a couple of times and always has a new girlfriend. So apparently he’s looking around. If he’s Gayla’s age, he must be pushing fifty, but I think he looks a lot younger.” She patted her platinum hair and looked hopefully at George. “Any chance you could arrange an introduction? Say, how about we visit your family’s property together and just happen to bump—”
“No, no. Sorry, that’s not possible.” George bent down to start his mower again, loudly revving the engine and setting his focus on keeping the mow-lines of his lawn perfectly uniform. But her comments had concerned him so much that his lawn appeared to have been mown by a drunkard. Not only that, but it had motivated him to clean himself up, put on a suit, and pay Willow a visit at the gallery. Only to discover it was too late. Judging by the way she’d looked at that suave Cliff Grant, the way their arms had been entwined ... George knew it was too late. And now he felt worse than ever. He felt like completely giving up. What was the use?
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?”
