Love Finds You in Poetry, Texas (25 page)

No one could deny the feelings between the two now. And it looked as if Sarah Jo had gone to work for him, filling both his shelves and the empty space in his heart. Would wonders never cease?

“Oh, Lord, this is blissful news!” she whispered to the heavens. “Truly, You are the best poet of all! Thank You so much for accomplishing what only You could accomplish. You knew all along!” No doubt about that, at least now. God brought Sarah Jo all the way to Texas to be with Peter Conrad. The Lord had an amazing sense of humor.

Thinking of happy couples caused Belinda’s thoughts to shift to Adeline and Georg. She looked this way and that, making sure they were nowhere in sight, then sprinted up the boardwalk to Poetic Notions. Once inside, she leaned against the wall to catch her breath.

“Belinda, are you all right?” Aunt Hilde drew near, a look of concern on her face. “I was so worried. We were about to send out a posse to search for you.”

“I’m fine.” Belinda gasped for breath. “I...just...I just had to spend some time alone.”

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Greta said, drawing near. “Has something happened?”

“I’m not sure you would believe me if I told you,” Belinda said. “But suffice it to say, Sarah Jo Cummings was, indeed, supposed to come to Poetry, Texas. She is here for a reason, to be sure, and that reason includes both loving and being loved.”

“Ah.” Aunt Hilde grinned, and her eyes narrowed as she pondered Belinda’s statement. “I suspected as much. So, all’s well that ends well, then?”

“Apparently so.” Belinda walked into the back room and reached for her apron, which she quickly tied around her waist. Could the day possibly get any stranger?

Georg closed up shop for the day and walked across the street to Rhyme and Reason. He needed to see a man about a poem, and it wouldn’t wait.

The door was open, but the shop appeared to be empty. Perhaps Peter was in the back. Or maybe he’d already headed home for the day but had forgotten to lock up the shop.

“Anyone here?” Georg called out. When no one responded, he tried again. “Hello! Anyone here?”

He had just turned to leave when Sarah Jo came from the back room, carrying a stack of books. “Well, hello, Georg. What can I do for you on this fine day?”

He looked at her, a bit startled to see her there with her arms full. Was she purchasing them, perhaps, or had she taken to working in the bookstore? Recovering quickly, he said, “Oh, I’m looking for Peter. I need help with...” He shook his head, not wanting to finish. No point in letting Sarah Jo know what he was up to.

Peter arrived at that moment and nodded in Georg’s direction. “Good to see you, Georg. What brings you here this time of day?”

“Actually, I...” Georg shook his head. “I suppose it can wait.”

Sarah Jo looked at him thoughtfully, placing the books on the glass case near the register. “No, you two men go right ahead and talk. I need to get back to the hotel, anyway. Cassie and I are going to have dinner together, and I need to freshen up a bit first.” She gave Peter a girlish smile and a wave then disappeared out of the door, humming a happy tune.

“So, what can I help you with, Georg?” Peter asked.

Georg reached into his pocket, pulling out the poem he had started weeks ago for Corabelle. “Well, I hope you don’t think I’m crazy.”

“Impossible. You are one of the most levelheaded men in all of Poetry.”

“Hmm.”
Debatable.
“I’ve been working on a love poem, but I can’t seem to finish it. I meant to ask for your help with it ages ago, but, well, my situation changed. I no longer needed it.”

“And now you do?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you mind if I took a look at it?” Peter asked.

“No, that’s why I’m here, in fact,” Georg admitted with a shrug. “I need your help.”

He handed Peter the poem and listened as his friend read it aloud:

Oh, lady fair

With golden hair

And winsome smile

You’ve crossed the miles

To meet me here

And now, my dear,

I offer you

My heart so true...

Peter looked up with wrinkled brow. “If you don’t mind my asking, who did you write this for?”

“Well, that’s just it.” Georg sighed, nervous about admitting the truth. “Originally I wrote it for Corabelle. Then I decided to rework it to give to Adeline. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to change it up, but nothing sounds right. Now, well, now I’m not so sure a poem is even a good idea. Seems like no matter what I try, the poem just sounds...ridiculous. Like I’m trying too hard.”

“Maybe you are. Why don’t we go into the back room where we can sit and talk this through?”

“Sounds good.” Georg followed Peter until they reached the small office at the rear of the shop. He’d never been back here before and was astounded at the clutter. Everywhere he looked, there were books and more books.

Peter gestured for him to sit and he did, but he had to move several books to accomplish the feat. Once Peter was seated, he read the poem again, this time silently. Afterward, he looked at Georg.

“I’m going to ask you some hard questions, Georg.”

“Fine.” He took a deep breath and waited.

“You know what the great Anton Chekhov said, don’t you, son?”

“Um, no, sir.”

“He said, ‘Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint.’ ”

“Ah.” Georg scratched his head, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.

“That’s what’s missing here,” Peter said, shaking his head. “The glint.”

Georg had to agree, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

“Talk to me about your feelings for Adeline.” Peter looked over at him, lips pursed. “Forget what you’ve written here. Let’s start from scratch. What do you feel when you’re with her?”

“Well, I...” He shrugged. “I feel like she’s a wonderful person. I really like her a lot.”

“Hmm. Not exactly the stuff love poems are made of.” Peter rose and paced the crowded room. “When you see her face, what comes to mind? Does it make you think of a Greek statue, perhaps, or maybe the Mona Lisa?”

“Not really,” Georg said.

“Some other great work of art, then? Something more abstract?”

Georg shook his head. Though he tried to think creatively, his thoughts were jumbled.

“Let’s talk about her hair,” Peter said. “What does it put you in mind of?”

“Well, as you can see, I’ve mentioned her golden hair,” Georg said with a shrug. “Do you think I should say something else about it?”

“You’ve mentioned that it’s golden, yes, but you haven’t shared what happens to your heart when you see it.” Peter shook his head. “When you see her walking down the lane, does that golden hair inspire you in some way? Does it affect your heart? Are you a better man for having seen it?”

Georg responded with a shrug. “Perhaps if I think on that, something will come to me.”

Peter shook his head. “I see a potential problem here, Georg. You’re missing the most critical part of the equation.”

“O–oh?”

“Yes. The feelings. It is impossible to write a poem without feelings. They are the driving force, in fact.”

Georg groaned. “I guess you’re right. But what can I do about it? You’re good with words, Peter. Surely you can come up with something flattering.”

“Flattering, yes, but if the feelings aren’t there, the poem will sound stilted. There’s nothing I can do to fix a love poem that was never meant to be.” Peter sat and folded the paper, passing it back to Georg. “I’m sorry.”

“So what do you suggest? A poem from a book? Would that do the trick?”

“Georg, let me ask you a question.” Peter stared at him intently. “I hate to ask in such a blunt manner, and it’s really none of my business. But do you love Adeline?”

“Well, I’m only just getting to know her. I don’t suppose I...” He sighed. “I don’t suppose I do, to be completely honest, though the idea of having a woman like that holds some appeal.”

“You know, of course, what the great Henry David Thoreau had to say on the subject, do you not?” Peter crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing.

Georg could feel the sweat on his brow as he responded. “Um, no, actually.”

“He said, ‘How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.’ I do not believe anyone could have said it better. You have not lived what you hope to write. Therefore, you should not write it. You don’t even know your own feelings. Or the lack thereof.” Peter shook his head, clearly frustrated.

“But how do I know what I’m feeling, anyway?” Georg asked with a sigh. “I’ve never been very good with words on paper.”

“‘Put the argument into a concrete shape, into an image, some hard phrase, round and solid as a ball, which they can see and handle and carry home with them, and the cause is half won.’ ”

“I beg your pardon?” Georg looked at him, confused.

“Those were the words of the great Ralph Waldo Emerson. Writing a poem is the equivalent of putting your argument—what you’re trying to say—into concrete form. That way, people—in this case, Adeline—can see it, taste it, feel it. Does that makes sense?”

“Oh, sure. Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

After a brief pause, Peter gave him a pensive look. “As long as we’re being completely honest, let’s steer this ship in a different direction. Let’s use Belinda Bauer as an example.”

“Belinda?” Her name caught in Georg’s throat.

“Yes.” A hint of a smile crossed Peter’s face. He took out a clean sheet of paper and reached for a pen. “Now, tell me what you think when you see Belinda coming into the mercantile each morning.”

“Well, if I must.”

“Just as a demonstration, you understand.” Peter stared at him intently.

“Fine.” Georg raked his fingers through his hair. “Well, my heart doesn’t seem to beat right until I see her. I find myself standing out on the front porch, scrubbing bugs off the window, just so I can catch a glimpse of her. Does that sound crazy?”

“Maybe. But crazy isn’t necessarily a bad thing where poets are concerned.” Peter scribbled a few words. “And then? What about when she walks into the room? When you see her for the first time face-to-face?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Georg nodded. “The rhythm of my heart comes back into alignment. I can breathe again. It’s almost like she brings order to my life.”

“Could you be more specific?”

Georg closed his eyes and tried to picture it. “I think it’s her smile. Her smile lights up the place and strengthens me, especially on days when I’m down. And there’s something about the sound of her voice that puts one in mind of angels singing. There’s really no way to describe it accurately without sounding ridiculous.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Peter scribbled a few more words. “Now, tell me about her hair.”

“Her hair?” Georg grinned, leaning back in his chair. “To be honest, it has plagued me since she was a girl.”

“Plagued you?”

“Yes. Those long pigtails were always such a temptation. I can’t tell you how many times they tormented me.”

“Oh?” Peter wrote something down then looked over at him. “How so?”

“When I sat behind her in class, I wanted to dip them in the inkwell.” Georg laughed. “I reached for them at least a hundred times but never could go through with it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew it would hurt her feelings, and I couldn’t do that.” Why, just the thought of hurting her brought pain. “Sometimes I sat on my hands just to avoid the temptation. Isn’t that ridiculous? But I could never hurt her. Never.”

“Mm-hmm.” Peter scribbled something else. “And why is that?”

“Well, because she was my friend.
Is
my friend.” Georg shook his head, now overcome with emotions. “That’s not completely true. We’re not friends these days, and frankly, I don’t know what to do about it. I think maybe I’ve lost her friendship.”

“How does the idea of losing it affect you?” Peter asked.

“It’s killing me, if you want the truth of it. Every day I go without speaking to her, I feel like I’m losing air. If I go any length of time like this, I’m going to shrivel up and...”

“And die?” Peter gazed into his eyes.

“Sounds overly dramatic, but yes.” Georg rose and began to pace. “Can we go back to her hair for a minute?”

“Of course.”

“When I see those loose wisps around her face, I see a woman who is so concerned about the needs of others that personal vanity is swept aside. She cares more about others than fussing. Not that her hair doesn’t look nice. On the contrary, there are times when the sun picks up three different colors in the strands of her hair.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen such a beautiful contrast of colors. If you look closely, you’ll find strands of deep gold and soft yellow. There are even tiny slivers of brown running throughout. In the summertime, the lighter colors are even more pronounced. They remind me of the wheat in Samuel Bromstead’s fields.”

Peter continued to scribble. “And if you had to describe her personality, what would you say?”

Georg paused and smiled. “That she could win over a total stranger with her enthusiasm for life and for people. That her outgoing nature is like a church bell on Sunday morning, calling people to service. That, at times, her heart is an open book begging to be read, and at other times, she is a mystery novel pleading to be solved. And that I could go on reading that book for years and probably still not scratch the surface of who she is, because there is such depth to her.”