CHAPTER SIXTEEN
E
MMA
WASN
’
T
GOING
to let Will in after that drive-by kiss of his.
It shouldn’t have left her body on fire. It shouldn’t have targeted and disabled her speech center with arrow-like accuracy. It shouldn’t have lingered in her thoughts.
She’d meant what she’d told him. She was leaving as soon as she knew Granny Rose was going to be okay.
But—
Emma cut off the thought. She locked the doors downstairs and watched for him through her second-story open bedroom window, perched on the sill. She rotated the ice pack she’d made downstairs from one bruise to another—her cheek, her elbow, her thigh. Thank heavens her ankle wasn’t sprained. It ached, but it wasn’t swollen.
Will emerged from the trees by the river right on time, his expression as grim as the black T-shirt that hugged his chest.
“Hey,” she called down to him. “I’m good. Thanks for checking. Go on about your business.” She waved him off.
Will shaded his eyes as he looked up at her. “You are my business for the rest of the day.”
His declaration sent the same speech-muting arrow to her brain that had disarmed her in the bathroom. By the time she’d regained her senses, he stood in her bedroom doorway.
“How’d you get up here? I locked the doors.”
He brushed back a lock of wet hair, the normally bright gold color muted to a somber almost brown. “Everyone in Harmony Valley keeps a spare key above the back door,” Will said as he stepped inside.
The room seemed to shrink, along with Emma’s ability to breathe.
She shifted the ice pack to her cheek. Maybe she did have a concussion, because she could almost imagine him closing the distance between them and kissing her again. Deeply this time, with more opportunity for her hands to explore the hard planes and contours of his body.
Will paced the room, taking in the empty canvas, empty walls, twin bed and her open, messy suitcases. “Nice light in here. I can see why you chose it. But why aren’t any of your pictures on the walls?” He touched the canvas perched on the easel. “And why is this blank? Everyone always talks about you painting nonstop when you’re here.”
If he hadn’t kissed her... If he hadn’t barged into her bedroom... If she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her again.... That was a lot of “ifs.” But without them, Emma might have deflected his question. As it was, she was caught totally off guard. “I haven’t been in a creative mood.”
The cameos she’d sketched in crayon of her grandmother and hidden in the back of the closet didn’t count.
He studied her face, his scrutiny causing her to blush beneath the ice pack, because she knew he knew that deep down she wanted a real kiss.
It was a relief when Will released her from his gaze, once more taking in the blank walls and canvas. “Blocked, huh?”
Emma shifted the ice pack to her elbow and didn’t answer.
“Does the empty canvas taunt you until you want to throw it in the trash?”
His insight surprised her. “You have no idea.”
“I hear people get over blocks if they take a break from their work.” His blue eyes held understanding, not sympathy. “Try something new.”
“Thanks for the advice.” She
had
been trying something new—working with crayons. Not much market for Crayola art, but it might keep her sane in her old age.
“Well...you know...” He ran his finger down the side of the canvas. She imagined him running that finger down her neck, along her collarbone. “I’m going through something like that myself.”
Emma laughed. “When does a computer programmer get blocked?”
He gripped the corner of canvas so tight she thought he might stretch it out of shape. “Who do you think comes up with the idea for a game or an application?”
Shrew, thy name was Emma. “I’m sorry. I don’t know much about technology.” Which was why—when added to her passion to create and her inability to protect those around her—whatever was going on between them would never amount to anything. They were worlds apart. She loved her iPhone for its beauty and simplicity. He probably loved his for the amazing things it could do.
Will retreated to the opposite side of the room, putting his hands behind his back and leaning up against the wall, speaking as if he read her mind. “I may not know much about painting, and you may not know much about computer programming, but we’re more alike than you think.”
“Being alike doesn’t matter. Without forgiveness, whatever this is between us—” and hopefully she wasn’t making a fool of herself by admitting she thought there was something “—it can’t go anywhere.”
Somewhere along the line, this computer nerd had perfected the dark and dangerous look.
Emma needed to remember that as much as Will’s attention excited her, if he never forgave her for the accident....
“Do you blame Mildred for what happened to me today?”
His eyes stroked over her, leaving a heat trail even the ice pack couldn’t extinguish. “Mildred caused the accident. Of course she’s to blame.” His words were spoken almost absentmindedly, as if his thoughts weren’t totally on the conversation.
Regret clenched its cold fingers around Emma’s throat, making it hard to speak. “You don’t say that in the same tone of voice you use when you talk about Tracy’s accident. Or about me causing it.”
Will’s gaze hardened.
He didn’t forgive her. And chances were he never would. She had to swallow more than once to get the words out, to lay down boundaries that they’d both breached. “Your lack of forgiveness combined with my goals means you have to stop looking at me like that.”
“I’ve tried to stop, but I don’t think I can.” His voice was soft and hard at the same time, but his eyes had that lost look, like they’d had the other day when he’d talked about being afraid of spiders. “Tell me about your goals, Emma.”
This was where she made a stand for what was important to her. This was where he’d realize how poor a choice she was for a relationship—with him or Tracy.
“Whatever was going on in my head the day of the car accident, it was all about those mountains instead of the road and our safety. And now I can’t even mentally compose a painting without the fear of that day overtaking me.” She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I can’t look around me without seeing the complex layers and color. I’ve never been able to look at a forest and not see the trees. To have lost the ability to express the beauty I see around me is like cutting away a piece of who I am. Do you know what that’s like? It’s more than a block, it’s an emptiness where I used to be.” She drew a shuddering breath. “But that doesn’t matter. Now that I’m sure Tracy will be okay... And after I’m sure Granny Rose is fine, I’m going away. I need to be alone for a long time.” Understatement. She was going to be alone forever if that was what it took to reclaim her art.
“So you want to be alone? You need time to get yourself together? I can give you that.”
“I’m not asking you to wait for me.” Emma gripped the ice pack. “I’m choosing my career over family. And...and...close relationships. That’s why I can’t kiss you.”
To his credit, he considered her words before responding. “You’re going through a rough time. But you’ve been painting for years and no one ever got hurt around you. Your art and your personal relationships can coexist.”
She refrained from rolling her eyes. Barely. “This from the person who won’t let me drive Tracy shopping. How different would you feel if Tracy had died? Or if Granny Rose was hospitalized after being chained to a park bench all night? I know you believe I should never be trusted with someone else’s welfare ever again.”
“I thought I heard voices up here.” Granny Rose stepped into the room, saving Emma from saying or doing anything more. “Emma, are you talking to yourself again?”
“She’s not alone.” Will’s gruff voice startled Emma’s grandmother.
“You!”
Granny glanced at the bed, which Emma had made first thing in the morning—thank goodness—before turning her gaze to Will. “What are you doing in here?”
“Checking up on Emma. She crashed her bike on Parish Hill.”
Granny Rose rushed over to Emma, lifting her bruised and scraped arms and examining her similarly abused face. “You’re sure he didn’t hit you?”
“Granny, Will may be many things, but he wouldn’t hit a woman,” Emma scolded. “I ran off the road and wiped out pretty good. I was lucky Will was there.” Not that she could bring herself to look at him while she reassured her grandmother she was fine a dozen more times.
In her concern for Emma, Granny forgot about Will, who was still standing against the wall. But Emma could feel his eyes upon her, feel the heat he refused to quell in his gaze. Was he that determined to get in the last word when Emma had so clearly summed up what was best for the both of them?
Finally, her grandmother stopped fussing and went downstairs to make her famous triple-chocolate cure-all—chocolate-chip cookies, brownies and hot chocolate. It would have been safer to follow her, but Emma had never played it safe. It was true what Will had told her days before by the river. She was willing to twirl near the fire.
“Now that she’s home, I should be going.” He pushed himself upright. “But think about this, Emma. You didn’t drive your grandmother to the town square and handcuff her there. You didn’t hand Mildred her car keys. Give the old girls credit for their own actions. This idea you have about sacrificing your relationships to be some kind of lonely, eccentric Picasso is giving power to a silly fear.”
Emma shook her head.
“The Emma I grew up with wouldn’t let fear get the upper hand. She’d dig in her heels and battle back.” He moved into the doorway. “That’s the Emma I’ll kiss again, despite my better judgment. Despite Rose and Tracy and the trade-off you think you have to make to get your art back. She’s there. Inside you. And I will kiss her again. And next time...” His eyes captured hers, an intense clear blue that laid claim. “I’ll take my time.”
His words plundered her principles and robbed her murmured denial of anything resembling conviction.
* * *
“W
HAT
DO
YOU
mean you don’t want to dance?” Granny Rose demanded later that afternoon. She opened the screen door and gestured for Emma to follow her out.
“I took a tumble on Parish Hill. I could barely make it down the stairs.” Who’d have thought Emma would miss Will transporting her from one floor to the other? Emma sat on the bottom step trying to convince her battered body it could make it back to her bedroom, where she’d continue to reject Will’s words about fears and kisses. Dancing? Out of the question. “I’m walking like an old lady.”
“I’m offended by that remark. Now, come out on the porch. You had a cup of hot chocolate, two brownies and three chocolate-chip cookies. You need to work them off.” Granny patted her tush. “So you took a tumble? Let’s work out the kinks and move on.”
How could Emma move on when she kept remembering the intensity of Will’s gaze? The thrilling threat of a kiss? The annoyance she felt that he didn’t believe she had to be alone forever to pursue her art.
“Well, look who’s here. It’s Tracy.” Granny let the screen door bang behind her. “I hope you’re ready to dance. Emma’s in a feel-sorry-for-me funk. She has nothing to be funky over. It’s not like she held a protest and no one came. Would you like to dance with me?”
“Yes.” Tracy’s voice was rich with silent laughter.
Emma dragged her sorry sack of bones out on the porch.
The big-band sound of Glenn Miller’s orchestra spun out of the phonograph, spilled out the open front window.
Emma waved at Tracy, who was grinning as she let Granny Rose lead.
Tracy was out of breath after the first song. “Cut in.” She gestured to Emma before collapsing on the porch swing, her legs chicken skinny beneath her blue denim shorts.
“Go easy on me.” Emma shuffled forward.
“Why?” Her grandmother held out her hand. “You should always dance like it’s your last day on earth.”
Soon Emma’s muscles had warmed to the point where she didn’t whimper with each step. After two dances, she begged for a halt, and Granny Rose went to the kitchen for water and cookies.
“Will. Told me. Are you. Okay?” Tracy pointed to Emma’s bruised face when Emma sank onto the swing.
“I was dancing like it was my last day on earth.” It almost had been.
“You fell. Race...racing Will?”
Emma nodded. “I’m not very good at keeping people safe, even myself.”
“That’s. Not true.” Tracy scowled and pounded a fist on her thigh. “Don’t. Believe what. Will says.”
“It’s true.”
Tracy made a frustrated sound. “He bosses. Me. He orders. Me. He makes. Me mad.” Tracy panted with the effort to get the words out. “You. Too.”
“Sometimes,” Emma allowed. He could have ordered her into his arms this morning or the other day beneath the willow tree and she might not have minded. “But there’s truth to his words. I can’t explain what happened in the car that day, but my mind wandered and you got hurt. And now I’m struggling to paint and you’re struggling to talk. And you have so much to say.”
“Will wants. Me to. Have. Shock. Therapy.” Tracy touched her forefingers together and made a zapping noise. “Bye-bye. Brain.”
Emma grabbed Tracy’s hand. “You tell him you won’t do it unless he does it first.”
That made Tracy laugh.
“There’s got to be other methods. Maybe you just need practice. I’ll videotape you reading speeches. You can get up on stage with Granny’s production of
The Music Man.
”
“Ha! Seventy-ty-six. Trom-bones,” Tracy tried to sing, and then shook her head. But she was smiling.
“Now, that’s what I like to see.” Granny Rose carried a tray with three glasses of water and a plate of cookies. “Two girls sharing confidences on the porch. It’s like old times.” She set the tray on the table. “What were you talking about? Boys, I bet. You used to stay up all night talking about boys and wedding dresses. Those sleepovers made you the best of friends.”
“Granny, we’re not thirteen.”