Emmie nodded slowly. “Okay. Good.”
“Uh . . . the guys reinforced the staircase and put the new spindles in yesterday. Did you see them?” She looked past him—yep, those were spindles. “They did some good work, don’t you think?”
She nodded, then said, “I should go—” and started to move past him.
But Graham stepped in front of her. “Wait. Please. I . . . was going to ask you to do something for me. For the house.” She waited. “I know we’ve talked over pretty much every detail, but I realized there’s one thing that we haven’t covered.”
Emmie wracked her brain to figure out what he was talking about. They had conferred on every point—every stick of furniture, every accessory, every color for the walls, every roll of wallpaper, every light fixture, every tile, every appliance. There wasn’t one thing they had left out. Was there?
He glanced past her, at the door she had just exited. “Can you outfit the master bedroom—a bed, mattress, chairs, chests, lamps, whatever else you can think of?”
“I thought you said you were going to use the furniture you had. Did I get that wrong?”
“No, you’re right—I did say that. But I’ve changed my mind.”
“Okay. Sure,” she stammered. “What sort of style did you have in mind?”
“Why don’t you take care of it?”
“What?”
“Just . . . whatever you like best. What you would want to, uh, wake up to. As a woman,” he rushed to add.
Well, that last bit sure was a pin in the ol’ balloon,
she had to admit to herself. For a split second she thought . . . but no. He was asking not for the opinion of Emmie Brewster, Erstwhile Girlfreh, but the opinion of Emmie Brewster, Female, Generic.
Humph.
“I see,” she said, while inwardly she groaned,
Are you
trying
to kill me?
Selecting furniture by pretending to be the mistress of the house, and then wondering who was going to benefit from her artistic skill and personal preferences in the long run, was going to make her crazy.
“Okay,” he breathed, with a tight smile. “Great. Thanks.”
Their conversation essentially over, they both stood there, knowing that it was time for Graham to go back to work and for Emmie to leave, but neither one moved. Emmie fidgeted. “Um . . . I . . . I’m surprised to see how much progress the guys have made on the master bedroom.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Graham said, shoving his hands in his pockets. His nervous gesture. “I asked them to. I liked your design so much, I really wanted to see what it would look like, finished. You know?”
Emmie didn’t know. These were not the sentiments of a professional architect. Those guys were usually more interested in underlayment. Drainage. Supporting walls. Fluidity of form. Making a house strong and sturdy and built to last. They were never preoccupied with finishing touches—not till it was time, anyway. Emmie didn’t want to add to her thoughts,
That’s why I love this man.
That wouldn’t do. At all.
As if from a great distance, a phone started ringing, but that didn’t rouse Emmie, who found herself mesmerized by the steady gaze of his deep blue eyes.
“I think that’s yours,” he said quietly.
She blinked. After a moment, her brain caught up, and she pulled her cell out of her coat pocket. “It’s John. I . . . I have to go.”
She stuffed the phone back in her pocket without answering it and forced herself to keep her eyes downcast as she moved past Graham. She couldn’t get caught up in his gaze again.
And suddenly Graham said in a rush, “Emmie, please. Talk to me. I miss you—”
She opened her mouth, not sure what was going to come out—a rejection? a desperate “I miss you, too”?—when there was another sound. This time
his
cell phone was ringing.
He looked at the screen, then at her. “It’s John.” She started to shake her head, to tell him not to answer, but he pressed a button and said, “Graham Cooper . . . Oh, hello, John. Emmie? Yes, she’s here . . . Did you try her phone? . . . Oh.” He glanced at Emmie. Her eyes must have been as big as saucers, because he said to Wilma, “Well, you know, I think she’s busy with . . . er . . .” Emmie mimed a roller in the air. “Washing windows?” Emmie rolled her eyes and pretended to paint the wall nearest her. Graham tweaked to it. “I mean, with the painters right now . . . Yeah. Can I give her a message? . . . Okay, John. Will do.”
When he ended the call, Emmie asked, “Did he sound angry?”
Graham looked concerned. “Yeah, he did. He said he wants you back at the office right away.”
She swallowed heavily; apparently Wilma was ready for Round Two. “I’d better go.”
“I think I should come with you.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “Graham . . . why? What in the world could you do?” He opened his mouth but remained silent, closed his lips, shrugged. She went on, softly, “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what again?”
“Trying to protect everyone, fix everything.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“What am I . . . ? Are you serious—you don’t see this?” She took a breath and decided to dive in, but leave Juliet out of it this time. “Look at how you fill your life: You fix
everything.
Houses. People. You’re constantly trying to single-handedly save the world.” Graham started to protest, but she rushed on, “You do. Even now—you’re probably completely furious with me, and
still
you want to help fix something for me that isn’t even your fight.”
The handsome man before her was silent, his eyes searching her face for . . . what? She wasn’t sure.
“Look,” she tried again, “you want to help me, to take care of things, make everything better . . . and I could really,
really
get used to that. But I won’t. I can’t. I’m a big girl, and I need to slay my own scary dragons. That’d be John, in case you’re wondering,” she added.
Graham smiled in spite of Emmie’s earnestness. “He is sort of scary, in a dragon-y kind of way. Maybe it’s the . . . you know . . .” He gestured loosely, drawing his fingers into a cone in front of his face. “Maybe it’s the teeth.”
She smiled a little, but stayed on topic. “You understand, right?”
He sighed. “Honestly, no, I don’t understand. I want to help you . . .” He stopped, changed his emphasis. “I want to help
you
, because I—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off. “Don’t say it.”
“Why not, if I mean it?”
“You know why.” Her phone rang again. She tore her eyes away from his anguished gaze, glanced at her phone. “It’s John again. I really have to go.”
Chapter 20
Emmie dutifully took her sorry butt back to the office as fast as her little Honda could carry her. While it had been cathartic reading Wilma the riot act and gloriously stalking out, she knew she was now going to pay for it, and every additional minute she was late getting back was going to cost her even more dearly. So when she flew into the claustrophobic parking lot behind the small brick building that housed Wilman Designs, she nearly freaked out when she saw that somebody had planted a Hummer H3 in her parking spot. (Okay, technically it wasn’t
her
spot, but she figured it was hers by four years’ worth of squatter’s rights.)
She took a quick moment to marvel at how the driver had, in fact, not only successfully squeezed the automotive behemoth down the narrow drive between buildings, but also had managed to swing nearly 180 degrees to park without playing bumper cars with the other vehicles. Then she pulled out to find a spot on the street, vowing to submit an expense report for whatever she ended up paying at a parking meter.
As she drove past the office at a crawl, searching for an open parking space, she caught a glimpse of Wilma through the front windows. She noticed his nervous pacing (thank goodness he wasn’t looking out the window as she passed) and her stomach clenched. And then New Emmie quietly stepped forward. Why should she voluntarily go to her own flogging? She knew it was going to be ugly, and she knew she was going to have to face him sooner or later, but it didn’t have to be now. Dear God, not after the gut-wrenching experience of seeing Graham. She was tapped out.
Emmie swung her car into an open spot down the block, dug out some change for the meter, and started walking—in the opposite direction from the office. There was no time like the present to look for the bedroom set Graham had requested. It was a bit of a hike to get to Rod’s Roost, her favorite haunt for vintage furniture, but she needed to clear her head.
When she pulled on the glass door of the cavernous warehouse, she let out a huge, relieved, satisfied sigh. She inhaled the familiar scent of mildewy fabric, aged leather, and old wood. There was nothing like antique hunting to make her feel better.
She strolled among the furniture, running her fingertips over the decorative tacks on the arm of a low, deep leather club chair and the delicate carving on a fine walnut armoire. Rod’s wasn’t the fanciest place in the area, not by a long shot, and there was a lot of junk mixed in with the good stuff. But with a little bit of patience and persistence, she always found amazing treasures in the dusty corners of the sprawling building.
Rod was in the back, behind the Formica counter, on the phone. He waved to her and she smiled and pointed up. She was headed for the second floor, a vast loft expanse where the bedroom sets were on display. He nodded. She knew he’d follow her up when he was done with his phone call, but for the moment she was glad for some time alone.
It was cold upstairs; some of the grimy windows of the former factory were broken, and at least one or two were still propped open from summer, when the place was stifling and any breath of air was welcome. The dusty floorboards creaked under her snow boots. It was so silent, she would have been a little weirded out if she hadn’t been so familiar with the place. She passed a row of nightstands and wash-basin tables, then dozens of head- and footboard sets leaning up against the walls, as she made for the full suites farther back. As she wandered in the gloom, she heard Rod coming up the stairs behind her.
“Miss Emmaline!” he said in a jovial, lilting voice, puffing a little after his exertion of getting up the staircase. Rod used to be in a Motown group back in the record company’s ’60s heyday, and Emmie could still hear the music in his voice. “To what do I owe this honor today?”
“Hey, Rod.”
“Whatcha looking for?” he asked. “Because I got it. You know I do. And if I don’t got it, I’ll find it, just for you.”
“I know you will.” The briefest of smiles flitted across her face—not her usual reaction to Rod’s kindness.
“Now, what’s the matter, little girl?” he said, frowning. “You don’t look so good.”
She pushed her hands into her coat pockets and shrugged. “I’m fine, Rod. Just one of those days, you know?”
“Aw, now,” he said, “I don’t like to hear that from my best girl.”
“I’m okay,” she reassured him. And the more time she spent in his presence, the better she felt. “Really.”
“Maybe buying up some nice furniture make you happy.”
“It always does.”
“You still working on that old house on West?”
“Yep. Master bedroom this time.”
“Well, whatcha got in mind?”
Emmie said, “Well, Graham—Mr. Cooper—gave me free rein for this one, and I have to admit, it’s a little intimidating.”
“Aw, he trusts you.” Rod winked. “That’s quite an honor.” Then he went to work. “Well, you know we got all these lined up by era. You want 1820s, like the house, you start here and go about halfway back. Mahogany, oak, you name it. You get into the later Victorian stuff, though, it’s dark—heavy. Bedroom big enough to handle it?”
“You have no idea.”
Rod laughed his deep, gurgling chuckle. “Well, all right.” The shop’s phone rang again. “You look around. I be back to check on you. You find something, I know it. And I get you a good deal—you trust your Uncle Rodney now.” And he lumbered back down the stairs, talking the entire time, mumbling variants of what he had just said to her.
Emmie wandered the full length and breadth of the warehouse’s top floor. Rod did indeed have everything, from sets that might have been brought over on the
Mayflower
to bright brass that looked like it had done time on the set of
Miami Vice.
She snickered at one of the more modern pieces, loaded with brass and plastic. She knew she shouldn’t laugh, though. Right now the style was a joke, but give it fifty more years, and it’d be a collector’s item. Not yet, though. Right now it was the height—or depth—of tacky kitsch.
She made her way to the period pieces, considered a sleigh bed, rejected an ornate French Provincial set, toyed with a Shaker theme. What to get? What would Graham like? Then she remembered his instructions—to get what
she
would like. What she would like to wake up to, he said. The images that conjured up in her head made her shiver.
Focus, Emmaline,
she commanded herself. She sighed and closed her eyes, picturing that beautiful bedroom space. What would she pick if it were hers? But dammit, Graham was in her mental picture anyway. So she indulged her fantasy: What would she pick if the bedroom were
theirs
?
And then she knew exactly what she wanted. She went back through the rows of matching furniture. Rod had to have what she was thinking of. He had everything.
Moments later, Rod rejoined her in the loft. He stood beside her in front of her choice, nodding in approval. “Nice,” was all he said.
Emmie gritted her teeth, pushing her hands deeper into her coat pockets and hunching her shoulders against the cold. Why had she decided to walk to Rod’s, again? Oh, yeah—to clear her head. Well, it was clear all right—cleared clean out by the frigid wind that barreled down the street, funneled straight at her between the tall buildings, carrying what felt like splinters of ice jamming themselves into her watering eyeballs and numb cheeks. The only thought in her head right now was to get someplace warm—even the office would be a welcome respite at this point.
She rounded a corner, and the cutting wind eased up. She had left the warehouse district behind and entered the quainter area of the city, with small shops and wide sidewalks. The last time she had strolled around this area was the night of the winter festival, when she and Avery had gone on their date and run into Graham and Juliet. God, it seemed so long ago. And Juliet had dragged them to her shop . . . and she and Graham had had their little tête-à-tête in the back room. Under other circumstances, she would have cherished that memory, especially since she knew now that Graham had already been attracted to her. It cast that evening in a whole new light. As it was, though, the thought of their moment in the shadows just plunged her back into the despair she thought she had shaken off by chatting with Rod.
And then there it was—Juliet’s shop, on the next block. Emmie considered crossing the street. But she steeled herself. New Emmie would never cross the street just to avoid an empty shop. Fer chrissakes!
The wind picked up again, and her eyes watered against the cold. As another blast of frigid air hit her, Emmie turned up the collar of her coat as far as it would go, which wasn’t anywhere near far enough. She buried her nose in the faux fur around the top button and pushed on, occasionally bumping shoulders with other pedestrians because she wasn’t looking up, but instead down into her coat to keep her nose warm.
She stopped at the corner, at least retaining the presence of mind to wait for the light to change so she could cross the side street. She squinted at the crossing sign—still a red hand—and then she focused past it.
Juliet.
Juliet on the sidewalk, shivering in tan riding pants (designer, of course) tucked into expensive-looking leather boots and topped by a deep green chunky-knit turtleneck sweater. Of course only Juliet would still look slim in that hefty a sweater. She had her arms crossed just below her chest, and she was talking with . . . Graham.
Emmie felt stuck to the curb. Even though the stoplight changed, she stayed on the corner while other people bumped around her. She couldn’t take one step forward, wouldn’t get any closer to them. She watched as Juliet reached out a hand and rubbed Graham’s upper arm briskly. She smiled, didn’t she? Emmie could see that. And then she felt her stomach flip over. The couple before her embraced and stayed in a tight hug for a moment.
Graham and Juliet parted, and Emmie knew she had to disappear.
Move,
she commanded herself.
Move before he sees you.
But she was still rooted to the spot by the sight of the two of them together. Why had she ever even dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, Graham had gotten rid of that millstone around his neck? Then again, why had she ever dared to think that he
wanted
to be rid of her?
After exchanging a couple more words, Juliet went back in her shop. As Graham turned to go, he seemed to glance her way. That finally got Emmie to dislodge herself from the corner. She spun around and practically sprinted the other way, on alert for his voice calling her name.
And she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to come after her or not.
By the time she got back to the office, her feet were so frozen she felt as though she were walking on stumps. But she didn’t go inside. Instead, she hurried to her car, jumped in, and drove off. She just wanted to go home and hide . . . and then she remembered that her father was back. She couldn’t bear having to make small talk, hear about his trip, explain to him why she was home in the middle of the day. Good grief, she had no place to go.
She drove to her house, parked on the street, watched the workers come and go. She needed her house back, she decided. Sooner rather than later. Then she could hole up in her sacred space and not come out again. For anything. Ever.
Emmie tumbled out of her car, flew past a couple of carpenters, and burst through her front door. “Mitch!” she called, almost in a panic. “Mitch?”
“Down here!” she heard a voice shout from the basement.
Emmie rushed down the stairs, the same ones Graham had so chivalrously navigated to get her some clothes to wear the day after the fire. Now the steps were clean and dry, and a couple of them had been replaced, the yellowish-green pressure-treated wood, still to be painted, standing out from the others. The basement was brightly lit, the block walls gleaming with a new coat of glossy white paint.
The job foreman was in the corner, fingers hooked in his tool belt, talking with the electrician, who was noodling with something in the breaker box. When she rushed up to him, he said, “Hey, Emmie. What’s up? You okay?”
She nodded and spoke quickly. “I need to get back in the house. To live. Right away.”
He frowned. “Well, we’ve still got a lot to—”
“Please,” she begged. “I just . . . I
need
my house back. Please.” Mitch studied her with concern, and she tried to hold it together and sound calm. “I promise I won’t get in anybody’s way. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll go in to work early and stay late, too; I won’t come home till you’ve left for the day.”
After considering the implications for a few moments, he sighed and scratched his chin beneath his beard. “Okay, how about this. We work double-quick for the rest of the week, and you can have your house on Friday. How’s that sound?”
Emmie’s eyes lit up. “Really?” It was more than she had hoped for.
“Sure.” Mitch smiled gently. “Yeah, we can do that.” He shook his head and chuckled. “My men are gonna hate me, but . . .”
“Oh, please, Mitch.”
“Can you hold out that long?”
“I’ll try.”
With something to look forward to, Emmie’s spirits rose, and she decided she could manage to spend the rest of the day in the office, no matter what Wilma flung at her. On the drive back, she thought of one more thing that would make her feel even better. She pulled into a strip mall parking lot and called Rod.
“Miss Emmaline!” he cried. “Talking to you twice in one day—now that’s a
good
day. You calling with a delivery date for Mr. Cooper’s bedroom suite?”
“Not yet, Rod. I’ll let you know when they’re ready for it. But there’s something else.”
“You name it, little girl.”
“I’ve changed my mind. About the furniture.”
“What’s that you say?”
“I think a different set would suit Mr. Cooper’s master bedroom better. Got a pencil?”