“Oh, really? And what do you know about it, old married lady?”
“How do you think I’ve managed to stay married this long?”
Emmie and Avery put their hands over their ears. “Okay, that’s enough,” Emmie said. “I’ll go in if you promise not to elaborate. Avery, help me?”
“You know, contrary to popular belief, not all gay men enjoy dressing straight women’s lady parts like they were life-sized Barbie dolls.”
“Oh, come on. Please?”
Avery sighed heavily. “All right. But you have to give me some sort of idea of what Graham likes.”
“Excuse me?”
“What he likes. You know. Lace? Satin? Classy? Trashy? Wholesome? I’ll bet he’s a wholesome kind of guy, isn’t he?”
Emmie said nothing, just marched past the flannel and fleece pajama sets and hoodies and headed for the serious lingerie at the back of the store. Avery and Trish rushed to catch up with her, and she hid her blush by rooting around in a sale bin in the middle of the floor. She didn’t hide it very well, however.
“Oh. My. God,” Avery said. “Do
not
tell me you haven’t slept with him yet.”
Emmie remained silent and examined a striped cotton bra in her size. Avery took it out of her hands and threw it back in the bin.
“You haven’t, have you? And no clearance bins.”
“It’s only been a week!”
“Two,” Trish corrected.
“Whose side are you on, Campo?”
“Well, you’ve gotta admit, it is a little unusual.”
“Especially for a woman your age,” Avery added.
“What’s
that
supposed to mean—I’m not long for this world, so I’d better get my jollies before I take a dirt nap?”
“No! Just that . . . you know what you want at . . . your age. And you don’t make a fuss and get all insecure or paranoid or whatever. You just go for it. Well, you should, anyway.”
Emmie put her hands on her hips, indignant. “Has it ever occurred to you that I care enough about Graham to want to take this slowly?”
Avery only considered for a nanosecond. “Um, no. And your headlights are on.”
Emmie slammed her coat closed again and went to another rack. Trish and Avery followed, grinning like idiots. “It just so happens,” she said, “that something like that isn’t exactly easy to . . . arrange, when he’s got a child at home, and I’m”—she shuddered involuntarily—“you know. At Dad’s. For the time being,” she rushed to add. “So what am I supposed to do? Attack him on the couch after my father’s asleep? Sneak him into my twin bed? Jump him in the back of his Subaru? What?”
Trish and Avery burst out laughing. “Okay, none of those options sounds all that good,” Trish admitted.
“There are these newfangled things called hotels, you know,” Avery said.
Emmie made a face. “‘Get a room’? Too icky.”
“You want to look into farming the kid out for a night,” Trish suggested.
“Where? They’ve got all-night daycare or something, just for couples who want to get it on?”
“You know, that isn’t a bad idea. Could be a great franchise,” Avery said, moving to another rack of lingerie.
“As a matter of fact, there is something like that,” Trish said. “They’re called slumber parties. More fun for the parents who get to ship the kids off than the kids themselves. And that bit of wisdom comes to you courtesy of my upcoming book,
Raising a Couple of Rug Rats without Losing Your Mind.
So you’re welcome.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s very nice to tell Graham to get rid of his kid for a night, do you?”
Trish considered. “Yeah, I suppose that would be his call. Your bringing it up would put you into the category of Wicked Stepmother a little early.”
“That’s too bad,” Avery murmured, selecting a few lingerie sets for Emmie to try on. “I was kind of curious about Graham’s, um, talents.”
“Oh, like I’d tell you,” Emmie scoffed, putting Avery’s selections back on the rack.
“Come on! Give me a little something.” He pulled the sets back off the rack.
Emmie studied him. “Okay, here’s a little something: He’s straight.”
“I know
that.
Good grief, I spent half a semester hoping I was wrong. Of course, it was nearly impossible to tell. He was an equal-opportunity ignorer—didn’t notice the girls hanging off of him, and didn’t notice the boys, either.”
“Like you?”
“Can you blame me? Here, try these on,” he directed, pushing her toward the dressing rooms.
Once the salesgirl had let her into one, Emmie said, as she wrestled with the first bra, “Well, of course he ignored the students drooling over him, no matter what his sexual persuasion. He was still grieving for his wife, for God’s sake.”
That is,
she thought to herself,
till Juliet steamrolled him. Poor guy.
She took a look in the mirror, turned sideways, and sucked in her stomach. Not bad. She might be able to let Graham see her in this, a comfortable silver-gray demi and matching bikini accented with blue curls and swirls.
“How is it?” Avery called.
“It’s all right,” she answered, sounding a bit surprised.
“Well? Show it off.”
“No!”
“Emmaline, let’s review: I don’t care about your lady parts. Now let’s
see
.”
With a sigh, Emmie yanked open the dressing room door and flung her arms wide. “There! Happy?”
Avery grimaced. “Too much coverage. Try on the other ones while I look around some more.”
“No push-ups!” she called. “And no thongs or other things that’ll give me a wedgie! And no animal prints!”
“If you don’t at least try on a leopard-print bra, the terrorists win,” Avery called back.
“
No
leopard print!”
“Why do you hate America?”
Emmie slammed the door and grabbed the next bra.
After half an hour, Emmie reluctantly burned a three-digit amount into her credit card balance and walked away with a startlingly small amount of fabric to show for it. On the plus side, she had escaped the mortification of having to try on, let alone buy, anything with garters or weird straps and, true to her word, Trish let her steer clear of see-through lace in some lurid color that would just make her look ill. Instead, she went for the more modest satin-and-lace combos with little bows, girlie flower patterns with lace trim, and some boy shorts—once she realized that they made her butt look pretty incredible.
“Now the best part,” Trish announced as they left the store.
“Deciding where to eat lunch?”
“Inviting Graham over for some nookie.”
“Will you cut it out!”
“We’ve established that spontaneity goes out the window with a kid in the mix. You have to schedule it.” Trish reached into her purse and then muttered, “Damn. Hey, Emmie? Do you have your cell phone on you? I promised . . . babysitter . . .” she drifted off as she dug around in the depths of her bag.
“Yeah, sure,” Emmie said, handing it to her. “Forget yours again?”
“Mm,” was Trish’s noncommittal answer. She scrolled through Emmie’s phone, pushed a button, then after a moment said, “Graham? Hey, it’s Trish—just using Emmie’s phone. How’ve you been?” Emmie lunged for her cell, but Trish was faster; she dodged away from her and lifted her elbow so her shorter friend couldn’t grab it, all the while talking cheerfully with Graham. Teenage girls loitering nearby nudged one another, admiring her technique. After some generic chitchat, Trish said, “So, Graham, I think Emmie wants to ask you something. Here she is. Talk to you soon, okay? Take care! Bye.” And she handed the phone to her friend, who grabbed it, glaring.
“Hi?” Graham said tentatively, not sure who was going to be on the other end of the line. Emmie, scooting away from her laughing friends, reassured him that it was indeed her this time. “What in the world is going on? Where are you?”
Emmie sighed. “In hell, I think.”
“What’s up? You don’t sound like you’re in the office.”
“I’m not. Just getting some lunch at the mall. Are you at the house?”
“I was, earlier. I’m knocking off a little early to spend some time with Sophie.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah—just making the most of her time off from school. We might go to a movie. Um, Emmie? Did you . . . have Trish call for you just to say hi?”
“Oh! Uh, well, no . . .” she drifted off when she spotted her friends across the mall, hopping up and down and making rude gestures, apparently to remind her of what she should be talking about. “That is . . . I was just wondering if you’d like to . . . um . . .”
“Get together?”
That’s one way to put it,
Emmie thought. “That’s a great idea. When, do you think? Are you busy this week?”
“I’m pretty free. My dad went on a cruise for a few weeks, actually.”
There we go,
she thought. A great way to telegraph that she had the house to herself without coming right out and saying she had the house to herself. Also a great way to feel sixteen years old again.
“You know,” he said brightly, “you’re more than welcome to join me and Sophie for New Year’s Eve. It’s no big deal—just us and a pizza and the ball drop on TV. And I’m afraid Sophie’s a lightweight—she gets hopped up on sparkling cider and then passes out around nine o’clock—but if you’re interested . . .”
“I’d love to,” Emmie said. She couldn’t think of a better way to spend New Year’s Eve.
Of course, when she shared this great plan with Trish and Avery, they were hardly enthusiastic.
“What?” she demanded. “It’s wonderful that he likes me enough to ask me over to spend time with him and his daughter.”
“We said
nookie
,” Trish reminded her. “Pizza and the ball drop is not nookie.”
“Unless that’s what the kids are calling it these days,” Avery sniggered.
“Nookie can wait,” Emmie said primly, her nose in the air.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see how you feel after
weeks
go by without a chance at a little sumpin’. You’ll be going insane,” Trish declared.
Emmie didn’t want to admit to her friend that she just might be right.
Chapter 18
When Emmie arrived at Graham’s apartment on New Year’s Eve, cradling a bottle of champagne for them and a bottle of sparkling cider for Sophie, she was more nervous than any “nookie plans” would have made her. Graham was letting her join in on a family tradition; she thought that said “commitment” far more than any other gesture she could imagine.
The temporary Cooper household was in a divided house on the edge of a questionable neighborhood, although their building was well kept. Three brass mailboxes hung on the porch wall, with a doorbell under each one. She pressed the one under the slip of paper that said “Cooper” and waited.
Within a minute, she heard footsteps thundering down a staircase. Graham pulled open the door with a smile. “You found the place all right! I’m so glad you’re here. And Sophie’s looking forward to it, too—she can’t wait to show you what she’s done with the dollhouse.”
He took the bottles from her and gestured up the stairs, and Emmie made her way up, looking around at the fairly bleak front hallway. “This is nice,” she said politely.
“It’s awful.” Graham laughed. “Imagine—me, an architect, living in a house that’s been carved up—and so crudely. I keep wanting to fix it,” he said, as they reached the landing and he opened the apartment door for her. “But it was all I could find on such short notice.”
“Emmie!” Sophie barreled into her and gave her a death-grip hug.
“Whoa there,” Graham said, peeling his daughter off. “Let the poor woman take her coat off.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Emmie said, and she really didn’t. Graham took her coat, and Emmie said to Sophie, “Okay . . . now.” And when Sophie hugged her again, she was able to hug her back, just as tightly. “How are you, my girl?”
“Great! It’s New Ear!”
“I heard that rumor. Happy New Year.”
“You’re not supposed to say that yet. Not till midnight. Daddy said I can stay up till midnight, and I’m going to. We’re going to get a pizza. And some ball is going to fall off a building. Just on TV,” she clarified, in a serious tone, in case the idea frightened Emmie.
“Well, that sounds like a great time. Count me in.”
“What do you like on your pizza?” Graham asked as he picked up the phone.
“Anything but stinky little fish,” she replied, mostly for Sophie’s benefit.
And sure enough, the little girl wrinkled her nose. “Ewwww.”
“Ah, you guys don’t know what’s good,” Graham said with a wink, waiting for the pizza place to answer. “But all right, we’ll skip the stinky little fish . . . this time.”
While he placed their order for non-stinky-fish pizza, Sophie said to Emmie, “We never have a party on New Ear.”
“What are you talking about? I think pizza with you is a great party.”
“No, I mean a big party, like the kind you see in movies, with fancy clothes and balloons and stuff. Know why?”
“Why?”
“Because daddy asked mommy to marry him on New Ear once, so today always makes him sad.”
Emmie didn’t know how to answer that. Yet again, Sophie didn’t seem maudlin about anything to do with her mother, just stated the facts quite plainly. Emmie glanced over at Graham, who had finished his call and heard everything his daughter said. There was silence for a moment. Then he busily put the phone back in the charger and collected himself.
“I agree with Emmie,” Graham said. “I think the three of us and a pizza—and maybe a Disney princess movie before the ball drop?”—here Sophie nodded eagerly—“is the best kind of party there is.”
“Can I pick the movie? Can I pick the movie?”
“You’re the authority,” Graham said, ruffling his daughter’s hair. “Go ahead.”
While Sophie sorted through a pile of DVDs by the television, Graham glanced at Emmie. “Sorry about that,” he murmured.
“Don’t apologize. I’m sorry that . . . well, I don’t want to pry, and—”
“No, you should know. Sophie’s right.” He led her into the sparsely decorated living room and directed her to the couch. Graham sat beside her. “I proposed to Kat in Times Square. How cheesy is that?”
Emmie smiled gently. “I don’t think it’s cheesy at all.”
“Not very original, though.”
“I’ll bet she loved it.”
He glanced down and shrugged. “It was what she wanted. So I obliged. At least we didn’t end up on TV, with the cameraman egging her on to flash her engagement ring or anything. It was more private than that. It’s funny how being in a huge crowd can be private.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
“Yeah, well.” He paused. “Look, it’s not like I sit in the dark and stare out the window every New Year’s Eve or anything.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“Well, I want to. You deserve to know.”
“Movie’s starting!” Sophie called from her perch about five inches in front of the TV.
“Oh, not
this
one again!” her father groaned.
“Daddy! It’s the best!”
“I know, sweetie. Can you sit back just a little? It looks like you’re trying to climb into the TV.”
Sophie giggled but scooted back on the rug a couple of feet, and Emmie smiled at the sight of the little girl bouncing to the opening zydeco tune of
The Princess and the Frog.
“Well,” she whispered to Graham, “she’s got good taste in music.”
After watching the movie for a few minutes, Graham asked Emmie, “Have you ever been to New Orleans?”
“Nope, never have. You?”
He nodded. “I went down to help after Hurricane Katrina.” Emmie, amazed at this little bit of information that he tossed off so casually, sat up and gave him her full attention. “Incredible place.”
“I can’t believe you went there—right after the hurricane?”
“Not
right
after, no. When the rebuilding started. I knew a couple of contractors there, and I wanted to help out, so I went. It was kind of soon after Kat and I got married, but she wouldn’t let me come back, said she was fine, and it worked out all right.”
“What’s New Orleans like?”
“Beautiful, in a complicated way, I guess you could say. I’d sure like to go back sometime, just as a tourist, to enjoy the sights, the food.”
Emmie nodded and reached out a hand toward his. He squeezed her fingers.
“Maybe you could come along, see it for yourself . . .”
She grinned, but didn’t answer, because Sophie called, “Daddy! You’re missing the good parts!”
He leaned over and whispered into Emmie’s ear, “It’s the part with the princess dresses. She can never resist princess dresses.”
“Girl after my own heart,” Emmie whispered back, keenly aware of how close they were to each other now. She made a mental note that she would get Sophie the biggest, yellowest, poofiest princess dress when she was flower girl at their wedding. What could she say? She liked to plan ahead.
Just as Graham predicted, after Sophie ate half a slice of cheese pizza and drank three cups of sparkling cider, she ran around like a madwoman—including giving Emmie a whirlwind tour of their little apartment and a full report of the decorating she had done on the dollhouse—then landed on the couch in a heap between the two adults and conked out long before midnight.
Graham carried her off to bed, while she weakly protested in her half sleep, “Noooo, I want to say Happy New Ear,” and Emmie busied herself with putting the leftover pizza away. She started to run the water to wash the plates, but Graham caught her.
“Now, now, none of that,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind.
Emmie leaned back against him.
If he kisses my neck, I will jump him right here in the kitchen,
she thought, and then had to restrain herself when he did just that. She sighed and turned in his arms. “Sophie’s asleep?”
“She is indeed asleep. And
you
must come over here with me.” He pulled her back into the living room and sat her down on the couch once more. He reached up to turn off the floor lamp next to the sofa, leaving the room lit only by two strings of fairy lights, one around each window, and the glow of the muted TV. Graham looked deeply into her eyes, which set her heart hammering.
“So,” she said, and her voice caught. She cleared her throat. “What’s new?”
He ran his index finger through the hair at her temple, then drew it along her cheek and chin. He kissed her, trailing his finger along her neck, over her collarbone, and down into her blouse, over the curve of her left breast. A little “eep” escaped from her, and she forced herself to pull away from his kiss.
“Now, how in the world is that at all fair?” she reprimanded him.
“What?”
“You expect me to keep my composure when you do . . . that?”
“You don’t have to keep your composure with me.”
“Ahem. Your daughter is asleep in the next room.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. I am a regular Boy Scout when my daughter is within a ten-mile radius.”
“Yeah? They give a merit badge for breast exams?”
“Okay, you’re right,” he conceded. “I just . . . can’t help but wonder what’s under that pretty shirt of yours.”
“A backhoe, a lava lamp, a potted African violet, and the lost treasure of Atlantis, what do you think?”
“You know what I mean.”
“And you know precisely what’s in the current no-fly zone. You entered that territory a couple of weeks ago.”
“Only briefly. I prefer to explore at my leisure.”
Ooh, an opportunity to bring up a delicate subject. Emmie jumped on it. “Well, nothing we can do about that tonight, but . . . since I have the house to myself for another couple of weeks, wanna come over sometime?”
Graham’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely.”
“Really?” Emmie was sort of surprised it was just that easy.
“Maybe next week sometime? I’m taking Sophie to visit my sister in Albany tomorrow.”
Emmie was fascinated by the fact that he had a sister and wanted to hear more about her, but the news that he was going away was, suddenly, incredibly depressing. “Oh. How long will you be gone?”
“Just through the weekend. Sophie starts school again on Monday. Going to my sister’s first, and on the way back I’m going to check in on a couple of Habitat for Humanity jobs I’m advising on, near Syracuse. So it’s a thruway type of vacation—there and back—nothing thrilling. I don’t think I ever told you I had a sister, did I?”
She shook her head. “Just the one?”
“Yep. She’s a couple of years younger than I am, married, has a boy and twin girls. Our parents live in Phoenix but visit the grandkids whenever they can. They don’t like to come back east in the winter, though. I’m hoping they’ll be able to see the house when it’s done. And that,” he said, “is the full Cooper family report.” He studied her with a small smile. “I wish you weren’t holding down the fort for John while he’s gone; I’d love for you to meet my sister. I think you’d like her a lot.”
“I bet I would. Maybe another time?”
“Definitely. So,” he said, moving closer to her again, “how about I . . . visit you”—and here he waggled his eyebrows till she started laughing again—“sometime next week?”
Any disappointment Emmie felt at the thought of him leaving town disappeared at his touch. But after a few moments, she pulled away to look around for a clock. “Oh, God, what time is it? I shouldn’t be here; you need to get some sleep if you’re going to drive across the state tomorrow.”
“Uh-uh,” he murmured, gently turning her face back to his. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”
“It’s almost midnight,” she whispered.
“Then I should get that champagne you brought. We need to toast what is shaping up to be a really great new year. Be right back.”
Emmie straightened her clothes and smoothed her hair. Yes, she had to agree that it looked like the new year was going to be incredible. She heard the muted
thoomp
of the champagne cork giving way, then Graham returned with the open bottle and two juice glasses. “Sorry,” he said as he poured the champagne. “The fine crystal is still in storage.”
He handed her one of the glasses, and they watched the new year arrive on the silent TV. While the bundled-up partiers in Times Square jumped up and down and waved at the cameras sweeping over the crowd, Emmie and Graham toasted the turn of the year and rang it in with Passionate Kiss No. 397 of the night.
Any more of that, Emmie realized, and she was going to start wondering just how deep a sleeper Sophie really was . . . but no. She did not need to be responsible for the permanent psychological scarring of a six-year-old if she woke up and saw something that shouldn’t need to be explained for another half dozen years at the very least. No way, no how. So, taking a deep breath, she removed Graham’s wandering hands. He gave her an exaggerated disappointed look, but kissed her again anyway. When she had completely turned to a puddle of goo, he sat back, rested his elbow on the back of the couch and his head on the heel of his hand, and said, “Okay, let’s have a conversation.”
“You suck.”
“There is one thing I want to talk about.”
Emmie blinked at his serious tone. “Go on.”
“What I said that night when we were decorating the tree . . . I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of desperate weirdo or anything—someone who declares his love for a woman after knowing her for ten minutes.”
Emmie pretended to contemplate this seriously for a moment. “Mm, I guess you don’t seem the type.” Then she smiled and nudged him. “Come on, I’m fine with it . . . as long as you don’t try to deny what you said.” She put a dramatic hand to her forehead. “I’d be completely distraught.”
She meant it as a joke, but he said, “I . . . can’t deny it. There, I said it. Sort of said it. Too much too soon?”
“No,” she murmured.
“Yeah, but what about the guy code—I’m supposed to be all sorts of cool and aloof, keep you guessing and all that. That’s what keeps women interested, right?”