Chapter 23
Emmie was so exhausted she practically crawled into her house. She flopped onto the sofa without even taking off her coat. Her legs hanging over its wooden arm and her eyes closed, she focused on the silence. It was what she needed right now. She had made the right decision, asking Graham for some space. Telling off Juliet? Well . . .
She ran through their confrontation again, in a mental play-byplay. Had she really said—?
Oh my God, the look on her face,
Emmie thought. And that one . . . and that one . . . Despite the harshness of the entire event, she started to giggle . . . until she thought of Kevin. Poor guy. She wondered what he was going to do about his marriage. Whatever he chose, she wished him well. He was a good person. She hoped Juliet would see that as well.
Emmie started drifting off. She felt she could sleep through the rest of the month after everything she’d been through today. And hey, she could make that happen—it wasn’t like she had a job to go to or anything.
But it was only an hour later when her phone rang, dragging Emmie out of her sudden deep sleep. It was Annette, wailing for Emmie to “fix it!” Emmie eventually figured out that her friend was holding her to her promise to repair what Wilma had done to her son’s bedroom.
Emmie’s task was pretty straightforward. She had to rip out everything that Wilma had installed: pink polka-dotted white fur throw pillows, brilliant blue storage cubes, a giant red shade on a pendant ceiling light. Bright colors against white—yep, that was Wilma’s signature move of late, that “hearkening back to the mod ’60s” that had already been done to death. It made Emmie wonder why she had ever held him in such high esteem, considered him the unimpeachable authority when it came to interior design. With a little perspective, a little distance, she was able to see that his concepts were tired and outdated. It made her a little more glad to be shut of him.
While Emmie spent the next couple of weeks bringing the bedroom around to her initial vision of the airplane theme, with muted blues, grays, and greens, Annette lectured her about her future.
“You’re going into business for yourself, of course,” her friend declared with finality.
Emmie stopped wallpapering to gape at her. “Why does everybody keep
saying
that?”
“Because you are. You’re a darn sight better than your idiot boss—well, former boss, thank goodness—smarter, more clever, better taste. And damn nicer, too.”
“You are way too kind. Honestly, I’m not sure I could scare up enough clients before I starved to death.”
“You do have a lot to learn about being a ruthless businessperson, I’ll give you that. First you poach John’s other unhappy customers, of course! Heck, they’ll probably be as relieved as I am to have somebody competent take over.”
Emmie thought of the Hudsons and shuddered. “Not really my style.”
Annette studied her. “I have a feeling you’re going to do better than you think.”
Sure enough, work found her, whether she was ready or not, and she had to keep up or be run over. People actually started calling for consultations and estimates. Messages jumping around on Circle-O were from former classmates who wanted to talk with her about remodeling ideas.
It wasn’t hard for Emmie to trace the cause of her career’s sudden momentum back to Annette, and she wasn’t surprised when she discovered her message on Circle-O to all of Jemison High’s alumni, from every graduation year, not just their own. In all capitals. Saying how thrilled she was to have “EMMIE BREWSTER, CLASS OF ’95,” working as her “INTERIOR DESIGNER.” With a link to Emmie’s profile for good measure. No, she wasn’t surprised, but she was grateful.
One person she didn’t communicate with was Graham. She couldn’t bring herself to contact him again, despite the fact that she had promised to. She wasn’t ready, she kept telling herself, even though she missed him, and Sophie, something fierce.
Instead, she decided to focus on work, her friends, and especially her father. They had let their relationship slide for decades, and her mother’s death had nearly been its killing blow. Emmie knew that if she didn’t make an effort to salvage it, they were just going to grow further and further apart until she lost her connection with him altogether. And, as infuriating as he could be sometimes, she didn’t want that.
It helped that Bob Brewster had patched things up with Concetta, so the older woman was often in the mix when Emmie visited her dad. Concetta was a very sweet lady, and Emmie got annoyed only when she occasionally tried to set her up on a date with her nephew, or with “that nice young man who helps out at the senior center”—the one who had very shifty eyes, never spoke, and, at fifty years old, still lived with his parents; Emmie was pretty sure he was a serial killer. But as long as Emmie kept Concetta’s matchmaking efforts at bay, the women got along very well.
Emmie also made a point to be grateful for the little things in life, like being plonked in a middle-school gym to watch Justin Campo play basketball. This was the good stuff, she reminded herself—being with friends, supporting Trish’s family. She tried to get in the spirit of things, but she couldn’t help but think that she’d have a better time at stuff like this if Graham and Sophie were by her side. She tried to push those thoughts out of her head before she got maudlin. Oops. Too late.
Justin stepped in front of a member of the opposing team and deftly stole the ball, and Trish leaped to her feet, clapping. “Yeah, Justin! Good going!” Rick also stood, clapping and whistling through his teeth. When Trish sat back down again, she elbowed Emmie in the ribs. “Try to be enthusiastic about your godchild’s athletic prowess. If he goes pro, his endorsement deals could pay for your nursing home.”
Emmie blinked and murmured, “Yeah, okay. Sure.”
Trish gave her a whap on the arm. “What is the matter with you, woman! You’ve been out to lunch this entire game.” She eyed Emmie suspiciously. “You’re working too hard, aren’t you? Well, all I can say is I told you so.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” her friend said, a smirk on her face, as she returned her attention to the game. The other team had the ball. “Come
on
—defense! Darn that Simmons kid—I swear he lives his life in slo-mo.”
“What do you mean, you told me so?”
“Seems to me somebody, who shall remain nameless, but whose name rhymes with Dish Lampo, kept telling you that you really could start your own business and be decent competition for Wilma. Guess Dish was right. You should thank Dish. And give her presents.”
Emmie smiled and leaned against her best friend. “You are vastly smarter than I am in every way. But I still say this is only temporary—just friends tossing me bones, tiding me over till I find another job.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re wrong. Anyway, so that’s what’s bothering you? You overworked, stressed?”
She sighed. “No. Yes. Sure. Whatever. Watch your kid play.”
Trish started to reply, but Logan leaned across Rick to talk to his mother, because, after all, she was the one who made the decisions . . . and carried the family cash. “I’m hungry.”
“Don’t tell me you want some of that crap PTA popcorn,” Trish said. Logan nodded. “Unbelievable. Tell you what—I’ve got a purse full of foam packing peanuts. Same experience, doesn’t cost a cent. How about that?”
“Mom!”
Trish sighed, exasperated, because her boys already ate her out of house and home every chance they got. She’d often told Emmie she was afraid that when the kids became teenagers and really started chowing down, she and Rick would have to take out a third mortgage just to be able to keep the fridge stocked.
Emmie spoke up. “I’ll buy, Logan. Come on.”
So the little boy scrambled over his parents and eagerly followed Emmie along the bench.
“Bring me back an orange soda!” Trish called, and Rick chorused, “Two!”
Emmie carefully avoided stepping on the feet of the people between the Campo crew and the freedom of the steps. Before she could stand up straight and push her hair out of her eyes, she found she had backed smack into someone else.
She started to apologize while she extricated Logan, when the person grabbed her elbow. “Emmie?”
Oh crap.
“Hey . . . Juliet,” she said weakly. “Er . . . how’s it going?” She glanced one step down to Kevin. He looked at her placidly, his expression revealing nothing.
“It’s going great!” Juliet was her usual bubbly self. Emmie thought of the last time she had seen her, through her shop window—a distraught, broken rag doll, leaning on Kevin, crying, and Emmie wanted to applaud her performance. The woman deserved an Oscar for Best Faker, and a Lifetime Achievement Award for Hiding Emotions.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
“Just enjoying the game! That’s our son down there—on the bench. He hardly ever gets played, but that’s all right.”
“I’m sure he’ll get a chance soon.”
“Yes, well . . .” Juliet murmured, trailing off, obviously unable to sustain a conversation about the nuances of middle-school team sports.
Emmie didn’t realize she was going to apologize to Juliet before she heard herself talking. But there it was, all her fears forcing her to try to make things right with her, no matter what Juliet had done in the past. “Juliet, listen. I have to . . . I mean . . . what I said at the shop . . . I shouldn’t have. It’s none of my—”
“No,” Juliet cut Emmie off softly, but decisively. She was as quiet, as reserved as Emmie had ever seen her, her blue doll’s eyes revealing a depth Emmie didn’t know they could display. “No, Emmie, you were absolutely right. About everything. I just wish . . .” She stopped and looked away. Emmie wasn’t sure if it was because she couldn’t bring herself to finish her sentence, or if she didn’t know
how
to finish it. Then, suddenly, the mask was back in place. Juliet rallied and exclaimed, in her usual bouncy voice, “Anyway, I am
so
glad I ran into you!”
“Oh?” Emmie risked another glance at Kevin. He stood in profile, his mask intact, and although he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his gaze quickly returned to the game.
“Yes! I was afraid I wouldn’t see you before . . . well . . .”
Oh, God, before what?
Now Juliet had her full attention, even though Logan was tugging on her sleeve.
“Well,” she said again, “exciting news! I’m—we’re”—and here she lightly touched Kevin’s arm, and he glanced up and gave her a small, patient smile—“moving. Back to Williamsport.”
Emmie blinked. “Oh! Wow . . . really,” she stammered.
“Yes,” Juliet said, her mouth pursed in her sorry-to-report pout, “it just . . . wasn’t working out here.”
“It” eh? Give the woman yet another prize, this time for Best Euphemism. But all she said was, “I—I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, don’t be. It’s for the best. We need to focus on our
family.
We just can’t do that here in Jemison. Kevin’s business is in Williamsport, and really, it’s our home. And we all need to be together, back home, with no
distractions
, you know?”
However Juliet wanted to allude to it, Emmie understood. And she truly was impressed that they’d decided to try to save their marriage—not to mention relieved that she wasn’t going to be charged with its murder. At the moment, Emmie realized, this had nothing to do with Graham, but everything to do with Juliet and Kevin.
Juliet went on, “Anyway! At least it’s going to be easy to pack up and move back—we never did manage to sell our old house.”
“Oh . . . that’s good . . .”
“And if you know of anyone who wants to buy a really nice house in a great neighborhood here—”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I am
so
sorry we never got a chance to work together on the flower shop. I had been looking forward to it.”
“Right . . . me, too?” Emmie winced as it came out more like a question.
“That’s up for sale, too! Hey, maybe I should go into real estate!” Juliet laughed merrily, and Emmie couldn’t tell if she was truly happy about the changes in her life, or just covering up, as usual. Emmie studied her, and she was surprised to see what seemed to be real happiness—or at least relief—in the woman’s face.
So she said, sincerely, “Juliet, I’m really glad things are working out for you. I wish you the best of luck with everything.”
“Thank you. Ooohhhh!” she squealed and held out her arms for a hug. Emmie awkwardly complied. In her ear, Juliet whispered, “And take good care of Graham, okay?”
Emmie stiffened, but when Juliet released her, she wasn’t looking daggers at Emmie. She had meant it.
“Well! We’d better not block these steps all night!” Juliet said. “I’ll let you go. I’m so glad we got to know one another again, Emmie.”
Emmie gave her a smile as weak as her knees felt, and she and Logan navigated down the steps as Juliet and Kevin went up. When she and Kevin passed, he touched her shoulder and murmured, “Thank you.”
She wanted to respond, but he turned away and hurried up the steps after his wife.