Chapter 16
The doorbell rang, and Emmie’s father started grumbling as he looked through the window and realized the Campo family and their patented brand of chaos was about to descend upon his normally quiet home.
“Dad!” Emmie hissed. “Be nice!”
“I’m always nice,” he muttered, ambling to the door.
Even though Emmie was responsible for an entire Christmas Eve dinner, keeping her father from grumbling, amusing three children, and spending the evening with Graham without bursting into flames (he had accepted her invitation without hesitation), Emmie felt much more relaxed than she had before her fancy cocktail party. Somehow everything came together easily: food in the oven, house decorated thanks to Graham’s help, presents under the tree.
As she finished setting the dining room table with her mother’s china, she paused to examine a strange feeling that had been growing deep inside her all afternoon. What in the world was it? And then she realized: It was contentment. Happiness, even. About everything. Despite the fact that her house was half destroyed and she was living back home with her dad for the time being. For the first time in a long time, she got the feeling that even the unpleasant stuff was going to work itself out, and she liked the feeling. She liked it a lot.
Trish and Rick bustled in with their sons and, when Justin and Logan lost their bashfulness (about one minute after they arrived), they repeatedly asked Bob Brewster whether he had any video games.
“I said no the first time you asked! Keep it up, and I’m going to dig out our old Pong console!”
That stopped them in their tracks for a moment. “What’s that?” Logan asked, while his brother demanded, “Is that new?”
“It’s the best,” Bob said in mock seriousness, but with a twinkle in his eye.
They almost bought it, till Emmie scolded her father for teasing the children and Rick told his boys to get out their own Nintendos and stop bothering Mr. Brewster. Trish sent Rick back out to unload the car, which Emmie considered suspicious. When they first walked in the door, the Campos carried in some gifts, numerous bottles of wine, and Trish’s butternut squash casserole that Emmie loved so much. What else could they have to contribute?
While Rick went back to the car, Trish turned to Emmie and said, “Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll keep an eye on the turkey.”
Emmie frowned. “I am changed.”
“I mean get ready for dinner.”
“I am ready for dinner.”
Trish sighed, exasperated. “Will you please go upstairs and . . . freshen something!”
“But—”
“Just do it!” her friend ordered, pushing her toward the stairs.
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“Because I said so, missy. Now
get
.”
Emmie went, only because she knew she couldn’t fight Trish. While she wasted some time upstairs, she heard noises from below that sounded like dishes clinking and bags rattling. Then more voices—new ones. Had Graham arrived already? She barreled down the stairs with one shoe still in her hand.
Only the kids were in the living room, pummeling each other with the couch throw pillows, so she checked the dining room. There were Trish and Rick—and Avery and Adam.
“Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, blessed Yule, happy Kwanzaa, and whatever else goes on in December,” Avery said, crossing to her and kissing her on the cheek. “Hope you don’t mind us barging in.”
“What’s going on?” Emmie asked, hugging Adam and taking in the added seats and settings at the table, the relegation of three place settings to a newly appointed kids’ table, and more side dishes than she remembered making.
Trish said, “Well, we thought we’d try to wipe out the memory of that . . .
other
party. Avery and Adam were traumatized, too, you know, even though it wasn’t their house that got torched.”
Adam looked around furtively. “You aren’t expecting any drunk blondes to show up tonight, are you?”
As Emmie laughed, Trish went on, “So I invited these guys and made some extra food. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? You could’ve made the whole meal as far as I’m concerned.”
“Everything’s ready. We can eat as soon as Graham and Sophie get here.”
Avery cocked an eyebrow at Emmie. “Oh
really
?” Emmie blushed. “Oh
really
!” he repeated. “I want details. Pour me a glass of something and start talking.”
Emmie glanced nervously at the front door. “But he’s going to be here any minute.”
“So talk fast. Go!”
Emmie tried to fill him and Adam in as best she could while craning her neck at every random noise outside in case it was Graham and Sophie climbing the porch steps. She had pretty much covered everything when she caught a glimpse of someone tall at the front door and her stomach leaped accordingly. This time Graham had come to her gathering, no fuss, no bother, with his young daughter, yet another bottle of wine, and, best of all, a big smile on his face.
Emmie took Sophie’s coat and crouched down in front of her. “I’m really glad you’re here, Miss Sophie,” she said to the girl, who looked pleased to see her but overcome by bashfulness at the unfamiliar setting with unfamiliar people. “I’m going to introduce you to two special friends of mine named Justin and Logan, and then maybe you could help me investigate a package by your plate in the dining room—whaddya say?”
Emmie had picked up an inexpensive beaded bracelet (yellow, of course) for her and some trading cards for the boys, as well as some Christmas crackers, so once the kids had been introduced, they merrily set to pulling those apart even before the meal started. Soon enough the three were acting like old friends—especially when Sophie informed the boys that she could whip their butts at Mario Kart.
Graham was happy to see Avery again, and pleased to meet Adam, and soon the wine was flowing and the adults were having as good a time as the children. Trish discreetly directed Graham to the chair beside Emmie’s, and they enjoyed some private conversation between bites of turkey and stuffing as well as contributing to the general raucousness that Trish and Rick inspired. It was so contagious that even Emmie’s father found himself forgetting that he was supposed to be maudlin about the holiday, and was soon laughing and telling as many jokes as the rest of them.
When dinner was over, Emmie leaned against Graham’s arm and enjoyed his fond look as he gazed down at her. She felt warmer and safer than she had in ages. Those unfamiliar feelings of happiness and contentment that had made their presence known earlier in the day were definitely real. This was enough. Nearly. As everyone was pushing away their half-finished pie—or, in her father’s case, scraping the plate clean of the crumbs from his second piece—she announced, “Presents!”
She asked the children to help her distribute them, but once they had found their own gifts, they were a lost cause; the boys focused on tearing open their Nerf guns to the exclusion of their distributing duties. As the adults unwrapped their trinkets—and Avery and Adam insisted that the only thing they wanted from Emmie was another bottle of wine opened—Emmie turned to Sophie, who was looking a little lost.
She took the girl’s hand and said, “There’s something for you upstairs. It was a little too big to bring down here.”
Sophie’s eyes lit up at the magic words “a little too big” and allowed herself to be led up the stairs. Graham followed, also curious. Emmie turned on the light in her room and ushered the little girl inside. Sophie looked around for a second before her eyes were drawn to a big red bow—the siren song of Christmas presents.
“A little bird told me you’ve been wanting a dollhouse,” Emmie said, and Sophie spun around to look at her, as if she had forgotten Emmie and her father were there. She nodded mutely. “Well, then, I hope you’ll like this one. It was mine when I was little.”
Sophie stood still, gazing at it from across the room, so Graham gave her a tiny nudge. “Go ahead.” And his daughter ran toward it. She eagerly peeked in the windows and poked at the door. Graham gently turned the dollhouse, showing her where it latched and how to open the one wall on its hinges. In quick order, Sophie discovered the homemade touches—and laughed at the beanbag chair—as well as the family of four that Emmie had hunted down in a box of toys that had survived periodic purges over the years. “Wow,” she whispered, more than once.
“Emmie . . .”
She turned to Graham, who was looking at her in amazement. Emmie was certain every inch of her was melting and spreading all over the floor. That look, those eyes . . .
“I can’t believe you did this,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t have. It’s yours—a piece of your childhood.”
“And now I play with real houses,” she said. “So I want Sophie to have this one.”
Graham’s gaze was full of gratitude, but still he hesitated. “That’s too generous, Emmie. It’s such a nice piece—an heirloom.”
Emmie thought,
Well, it’ll still be in the family when we’re married, won’t it?
But she only said, “I
really
want Sophie to have it. Honest.”
After a moment, he said, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Think she likes it?”
“Oh, I think maybe. Whaddya say, Sophie girl? Do you like it?”
“I
love
it. Can I really have it?”
Emmie knelt down beside her. “Well sure! But it’s gonna cost you.”
“Cost me what?”
“A hug.”
The little girl immediately flung her arms around Emmie’s neck, gave her a tight, grateful squeeze, then went back to the dollhouse.
Emmie looked up at Graham; he was smiling as well, happy that his daughter was happy. He started to say something to Emmie when his phone rang. As he pulled it out of his pocket, he said, “Sorry,” and answered it quickly. “Graham Cooper. This had better be good.”
Emmie showed Sophie how to turn the lights on in the dollhouse, which also lit up the “fire” in the fireplace, eliciting even more oohs and aahs, while Graham edged out into the hallway to focus on his call. Emmie watched as Sophie touched every stick of furniture, every fixture, every accessory, then studied the dolls closely.
The little girl frowned. “This mommy doll has yellow hair.”
“Yep. Why? You don’t like it?”
“I want her to have brown hair. Like yours.”
“Why is that?”
Sophie shrugged, still studying the doll. “I just do.”
“Well,” Emmie said, “I happen to know of a really great store where they have all kinds of things for dollhouses, including dollhouse families. We can go there, and you can pick out a new family—one with a mommy with brown hair. And maybe we can get a few new pieces of furniture while we’re there too, hmm?”
Sophie brightened again. “Can we go now?”
“Oh, the place isn’t open on Christmas Eve! But I promise we’ll go there soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
While Sophie played with the dollhouse, Emmie, hearing Graham speaking a little louder, peeked into the hallway. He shrugged as if to say “sorry” again, and held up his finger in a one-more-minute gesture. Emmie went back into the bedroom to give him his privacy. She had a sneaking suspicion who was on the other end of the line.
Sophie, working busily, had taken the bow off the roof, but something else was in its place—the mommy doll was perched precariously on a gable, her bent legs sticking up in the air.
“What’s up with the mommy doll?” Emmie asked as casually as she could. “You hate her yellow hair so much you banished her to the roof?”
I know one particular blonde I’d like to banish to the roof,
she thought.
“No,” Sophie answered plainly. “That’s heaven.”
“Oh?”
“My mommy died,” she said, still matter-of-factly. “Did you know that?”
“I did. Your daddy told me.”
“And he said she’s in heaven, so that’s where that mommy is.”
“I get it.” Emmie sat in one of the kiddie chairs and studied Sophie. She didn’t seem upset—she was just dealing with her mother’s death as best she could, and for her, that meant stating the facts. Emmie took her cue from the girl. “You know what? My mommy died, too.”
Sophie stopped playing to look her in the eye. “Really?”
“Really. A little over a year ago.”
“Did you cry?”
“Oh, sure. She was my mommy, after all.”
“I cried, too.”
“I’ll bet you did. It’s only normal to cry.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Yes, I do. I’ll always miss her. But I know that someday it won’t hurt as much as it does now.”
“I miss my mommy, too.”
“You know, you’re very lucky to have such a great daddy who loves you so much.”
“I know,” Sophie replied. “Do you have a daddy?”
“Who do you think that old guy downstairs is?” Emmie laughed.
“That’s your daddy?”
“Sure he is!”
Then she laughed. “I thought he was your grandpa!”
“What’s going on in here?” Graham’s voice came from the bedroom doorway. He crossed to his daughter and put a hand on her head. “Not tired of it yet?”
“Daddy!”
“Okay, okay, just checking. Hey, look, you two, I’ve got an emergency to take care of. Nothing huge; I should be back by the time you guys whip up some turkey sandwiches. Soph, would you be okay hanging with Emmie till I get back?” No answer. “Sophie?”
Sophie, so wrapped up in playing with the dollhouse, barely heard him. “Sure, Daddy. I’m fine.”
Her father rolled his eyes. “Stupendous. Good to know that you’ll miss me so much. Emmie? Is that okay?”
Emmie made an are-you-kidding face. “Of course! We’re doing great here. Go, do your stuff.”
Graham breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. Hey, before I go, it might be wise if I brought that downstairs; otherwise she’s going to trap you up here.”
Graham gently wrested the dollhouse away from his daughter, reassuring her it would arrive on the first floor in one piece, and, hoisting it carefully, headed for the stairs, his daughter following closely. After Graham put the dollhouse in a clear spot on the living room floor and kissed his daughter good-bye, Emmie followed him to the door.