“You told me to have them sent to—”
“These are things I could’ve done myself,” he declared as he stormed through the front door.
“But you said you didn’t want to—”
“Oh, no!” He stopped in the foyer with a horrified expression. “No, no, no.”
“That old dark wallpaper is gone and the woodwork has been re—”
“This is just terrible.”
“But it looks lovely, George. So fresh and clean and—”
“I cannot believe it.” He walked on through to the living room. “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no.”
Willow began to feel sick inside. “George, you knew what we were doing—”
“This is horrible. Just horrible.” He continued on through the dining room, muttering complaints about everything. “Everything gone. Everything changed. No, no, no.”
“I don’t understand,” Willow said meekly. “You wanted the house updated. I told you exactly what we were do—”
“Oh, no.” George stopped in the kitchen, covering his mouth with his hand. “Did that contractor do this? That Cliff Grant?”
“Well, yes. Cliff has overseen everything. But he’s just doing what I asked of him. And the cabinets were made by—”
“It’s all wrong.” He stomped out, mumbling under his breath. Then, after going quickly through the other first-floor rooms, he marched up the stairs, complaining witheach step. “Everything’s gone,” he finally said. “Everything is changed. It’s all gone. All wrong. All changed.”
“But that’s what you wanted,” Willow tried again. “You said you—”
“You should’ve known I was having a hard time.” He looked at her with tear-filled eyes. “I was in a bad way, Willow. In no position to deal with all this.” He waved a hand toward an empty bedroom. “Everything is gone.”
“I know, but—”
“Never mind. I have to go.” And then without giving her a chance to say another word—not that she knew what to say—George ran down the stairs.
After hearing the front door slam, Willow sat down on the top step and cried. Of course, George was absolutely right. She should’ve recognized that he wasn’t himself. Probably in the midst of some sort of midlife crisis or mental breakdown. She should’ve just backed off ... given him room to recover. Instead, she’d been a camel’s nose. She’d charged along in her usual bossy way, always ready for a challenge, eager to tackle the world, nothing too hard, nothing too big ... and now this. She’d spoiled everything.
twenty-eight
By Monday morning George was in a bad way again, and he really wanted to talk to someone. Someone beyond a cat. Not that Baxter wasn’t a sympathetic listener or a great comfort. But George needed a fellow human to talk to. That in itself was unusual. But why should he be surprised? Nothing about this summer or his “retirement” had been usual. That, he knew, was mostly due to Willow. But she was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.
George paced back and forth in his living room, feeling somewhat like a caged lion—toothless, declawed, and aging, but still full of some sort of pent-up rage that made him feel trapped and slightly frightened. Eventually he noticed a name and phone number by his telephone. He picked up the pad, remembering that Josie had jotted this down. Ironic that he’d take the advice of an unstable woman who’d spent her adult life as a grunge groupie, but just the same, George dialed the number and asked for Pastor Hal. When a friendly male voice answered, George stammered through an explanation of why he’d called, finally saying, “I’m not a part ofyour congregation, but I’m a friend of the West family. They recommended you as a counselor and—”
“Let’s meet for coffee,” Pastor Hal said. “How about Common Grounds at ten thirty? Does that work?”
“Sure,” George agreed. That would give him just enough time to clean himself up and walk over there.
Just before ten thirty, George stood at the counter of Common Grounds wearing a suit and tie and ordering the “house coffee” as if he were a perfectly normal sort of fellow. At least that was how he hoped he looked. The barista had just served him his coffee when a short, bald man walked in. “Hey, Hal,” the barista called out. “You want your regular?”
“Thanks.” He grinned. “I’m meeting a guy named George here.”
George went over to introduce himself and, after a warm, firm handshake, Hal led them to a table in the back. “So tell me about yourself,” Hal said as they sat down. George stammered a bit but explained he was newly retired from teaching and possibly having some adjustment issues. He paused as the barista set down Hal’s coffee, some fancy drink with whipped cream on top. “My wife tells me that this coffee is more like dessert in a cup.” He chuckled, then took a sip that topped his upper lip with a white mustache. He wiped it with a napkin and smiled. “So you’re having a rough summer?”
George wasn’t sure he’d said that, but since it was true he nodded.
“And you called a pastor for some counsel?”
George sighed. “Rather ironic, since I consider myself an atheist.”
