“I don’t know. Your mother thinks there’s plenty to live for. But then she’s got her religion. I suppose she has to be like that.”
“She wasn’t always like that.” Josie leaned back, folding her arms behind her head. “And to be fair to my mom, she’s not reallythatreligious. That’s what she says anyway. She says that she loves God and she loves people and that it’snot about religion. To quote her, ‘It’s about relationships.’” She rolled her eyes. “At least that’s what she tells me whenever I make the mistake and call her religious.”
“Yes, she said something similar to that to me.” George set aside the newspaper. “But she does go to church fairly regularly.”
“Yeah, I went with her and Collin once.” She sat back up. “And it really wasn’t too bad. It didn’t really feel like church to me. Not like I remember church anyway. The pastor dude is pretty cool. Don’t tell my mom this, but I actually made a counseling appointment with him. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been a couple of times and will probably go again. He actually gave me some helpful advice.”
“Interesting.” He tried to imagine Josie taking advice from a clergyman. Was she pulling his leg?
“So you’re really not dying, George?”
He sighed and shook his head again. The truth was he’d actually hoped that he was dying. He’d wanted the doctor to say something like “I’m sorry, you’ve got six months to a year left, George.” And then George had intended to live differently. Oh, he hadn’t known exactly what he’d do orhow he’d do it, but he’d make some big changes. Maybe he’d volunteer at the soup kitchen or send money to feed orphans in Africa or even join the local square dancing club. But now that he had this obnoxious “clean bill of health” George had seriously considered taking up activities like smoking and drinking and recreational drugs. Maybe he’d get a motorcycle—and a tattoo. Or try skydiving.
George knew, of course, that he wouldn’t do any of those things. The problem was he didn’t knowwhatto do anymore. Nothing brought him any pleasure. Nothing motivated him. Nothing appeared worth living for. And the truth was, he didn’t even have anything worth dying for. Maybe he was simply a lost cause.
“Can I give you some advice, George?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Well, you seem really down to me. And I’m thinking you need someone to talk to—like a professional someone. Pastor Hal has a counseling degree and he’s really pretty good at it. Maybe you should consider giving him a call.” She got up and went over to his telephone table. After checking on her cell phone, she wrote something down on his notepad, then turned to him. “I’m glad to hear you’re not dying, George. But it could be you need to do something to get yourself back on track.”
“All things are possible.”
She smiled sheepishly. “Take it from someone who’s been in the pit of despair—you can make a comeback.” Then, to his relief, she let herself out. After he locked the door and pulled the blind down on the side window, he sat back down and pondered her words. Was it possible that George Emerson had sunk so low that he was now taking advice fromsomeone like Josie? He looked around his mess of a living room. Maybe so.
For the next week, Willow spent long days in the Rockwell house cleaning, planning, and even helping with some of the painting. Although she called George a time or two to give updates, he continued to maintain an off-putting nonchalance about the renovating. But at least, according to Josie, George was not dying. That was something to be thankful for.
Although George promised to come by to check on the progress, so far he’d not shown his face. Perhaps that was for the best. Willow had no idea how she’d react if George didn’t approve of something already in the works. She knew how persnickety he could be. And she really didn’t like the idea of him showing up while things were torn up and in process, like these last few days when everything was in flux. But by the end of the week, with most of the painting finished and the kitchen nearly in place, she began to hope that he might pop in.
So it was that on Sunday, with no workers around to get in the way, Willow stopped by the house after church and gave George a call. “I know you appear to have no interest in seeing what’s going on up here, but I’d really appreciate it if you stopped by.”
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No. Something is right. The place is really in good shape. And I think you’d enjoy seeing it.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please, George,” she begged. “I’m doing this for you.The least you could do for me would be to stop by. Just give me fifteen minutes of your time—we’ll walk through it and you can—”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll leave straightaway.”
After she hung up, Willow immediately felt nervous. She walked through room after room, taking an inventory of what had been done, pleased with how light and clean it all looked. The walls were painted in light neutral shades that not only brightened the place but added a depth. Some of the worn woodwork was painted a clean milky white, which set off the recently refinished wood floors that gleamed with warmth and character. And the kitchen—that was the best. The tall Shaker-style cherry cabinets with some glass doors reflected the era of the home but were functional in a modern way. The white marble was classic and clean looking, and the checkerboard floors, with concrete tiles in white and gray, looked both modern and classic. She felt certain George would love it—and she couldn’t wait to show him.
She hurried to the front of the house, waiting eagerly in the freshly painted foyer, impatient for George to arrive. Spying him coming up the walk, she opened the tall, oversized door wide and smiled brightly. “Welcome,” she said happily.
George frowned as he came up the walk. “Someone painted the trim,” he said a bit sharply.
“Yes. Doesn’t it look—”
“That trim has always been white,” he snapped.
“Yes, but the white looked so stark. Don’t you think that charcoal gray sets off the red bricks nicely? It’s so classic and brings out the leaded glass—”
“The white trim was just fine.”
“But it was dirty and the paint was cracking and—”
“I could’ve painted it myself. And I would’ve painted it white.” He waved some envelopes at her. “And I assume that’s what these bills are for—”
