Heart Block (4 page)

Emory shot Lucy a wry look, smiling internally at the irony. “Says the girl who has at least another hour, probably three.”

“Hey, that’s why you pay me the big bucks. Plans for tonight? Hot date? Please say no. I haven’t had a date in months and I’ll die.”

“Nope. You’re destined to survive. I need to head over to Mother’s and see how it’s coming. I think I’ll pick up a pizza first. Starving. Today got away from me and I never caught up.” She rubbed the back of her neck in defeat.

“Did you use the service I suggested?”

“Yeah. They sent someone over. She seems competent enough. She dances.” Emory smiled as she thought back to the scene she’d interrupted earlier in the week.

“I’m sorry. She dances?”

“Never mind.” She waved off the comment. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

When she arrived at the house this time, she considered knocking so as not to startle Sarah. Exhaustion precluded those plans, however, and Emory opened the door with purpose. Hunger trumps manners, she thought. Everyone knows that.

She was impressed actually, to see Sarah’s car still parked out front. She thought there was a strong chance she would have left for the day. Apparently, Sarah shared Emory’s strong work ethic. She wasn’t in the least bit prepared, however, for the mountainous display of boxes that greeted her in the entryway. Emory gazed in amazement at nearly one hundred tightly packed boxes, stacked systematically along each wall. Upon further examination, Emory could see that affixed to each box was a typed up label detailing each and every item the box contained. As she studied one of the labels, still in amazement at the organization she was witnessing, Sarah appeared carrying yet another labeled box.

“Oh, hey, Emory,” she said cheerfully. “Better day at work today?”

“A little, thank you,” she answered absently. Her mind was still focused on the overwhelming progress Sarah had made in just the few days since she’d been to the house. “Did the agency send you help?” She set the pizza on the small table.

Sarah glanced at the boxes and then back to Emory. “No, still just me. But not to worry, I’m getting there little by little.”

“I’ll say. I can’t believe you’ve done all of this. I’m utterly shocked.”

Sarah, who now seemed to understand that Emory was impressed and not concerned, smiled. And it was a nice smile. Warm. “I just try to stay systematic with my approach so as to not overwhelm myself. One room at a time.”

“And the labels?”

“Right. I hope it was okay that I used the PC in the office to print them out. I thought it would make it easier if I cataloged each item for you, just in case. There’s a master list of everything I’ve packed and that can be cross-referenced with the box numbers located on the upper right hand corner of each label. The boxes are stacked in order as well, so if there was an item or keepsake I didn’t know to set aside for you, it could be easily located and retrieved.”

Emory didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry. Should I have checked with you first?”

“No, no. This is just more than I had imagined. I have to admit, I’m beyond impressed.” And she was. She liked the way Sarah had come in and taken it upon herself to organize such a detailed system. This woman was a go-getter.

Sarah beamed even brighter at Emory. “Thank you.” And then she appeared to relax a little. “I was worried you’d be upset. You seem like someone who likes things done a certain way.” She turned then moved back into the living room and began taping up yet another box.

Emory was intrigued by the comment and couldn’t resist following Sarah into the next room. “What makes you say that?”

Sarah gestured to Emory’s designer suit. “You run a very successful company and didn’t get there by accident.”

“True. But I could never have implemented all this. I’m the least organized person you’ll ever meet. That’s what I have assistants for.” As the comment left her mouth, she heard how arrogant it sounded. For some reason, the idea of hurting Sarah’s feelings didn’t sit well with her and she scrambled to take back her words. “What I mean is—”

Sarah looked up and offered a tilt of her head, accompanied by a soft smile. “It’s okay to have assistants who do things for you. If you didn’t, you’d never be able to focus on your job and run your company.”

Emory nodded once, and stared at her shoes, a little off-kilter in a very strange way. She felt like she’d drawn a line in the sand between her and Sarah, and she didn’t like it. Why in the hell she cared what Sarah thought of her, she had no idea. Shaking it off, she lifted the box in an offering of peace. “Pizza?”

Sarah hesitated, but her eyes gave her away. She was starving, Emory could tell.

“Go ahead, please. You’re bound to be hungry. It’s close to seven.” Sarah still seemed reluctant. “Tell you what. I’m going to sit on the patio and enjoy the view while I eat. Why don’t you fix a plate and join me? That way you can fill me in on your progress and I can answer any questions you have. It’ll be a working dinner.”

“All right. Thanks.”

“Perfect.”

Emory made her way out onto her mother’s deck and looked out over the lush lawns kept green for decades by the family’s hired landscaping service. At the far portion of the yard stood a bubbling brook, manmade of course, capped off with a lazy waterfall. She’d always enjoyed spending time in the backyard growing up. It was her favorite spot on the property.

Sarah joined her on the deck then, pulling her from her thoughts. She had taken the ponytail down and her thick, dark hair now fell around her shoulders in generous waves. Catching her curious look, Sarah glanced upward, signaling her new hairstyle. “Sorry if it’s crazy. I keep it pulled back while I work.”

Emory nodded, but was keenly aware of the fact that she hadn’t actually taken the time to look at Sarah, or at least
really
look at her. Until now. Suddenly, that’s all she wanted to do. Sarah’s skin was a very smooth olive, and her eyelashes were long and dark and really just pointlessly attractive. And was she mistaken, or were her eyes a combination of light hazel and possibly a little bit of green? Unusual…pretty. How had she missed this before?

“What?” Sarah asked. “Do I have sauce on my face?”

“Not at all. Sorry, I was just…nothing.”

They ate their pizza in companionable silence for a few moments, Emory savoring the warm mozzarella and melt in your mouth crust as the fatigue of the day seemed to fall away with the re-nourishment process.

“It’s beautiful out here,” Sarah finally said. “Did you spend much time out here when you were young?”

Emory nodded. “I did. It was one of my favorite places to be actually. I used to paint.” Before the words even left her mouth, Emory was shocked she’d said them. Where had that come from exactly? She hadn’t talked with anyone about her painting in years.

“You did?” Sarah sat up straighter. “That’s awesome. Are you any good?”

Emory laughed at the question and tenacity of the woman asking it. “Some of my instructors used to think so. They said I had a rare talent. I’m not sure if that’s true or not. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t paint anymore.”

“And why is that?” Sarah asked.

Emory sat forward and removed her gray suit jacket, leaving her clad in her gray slacks and short sleeve white dress shirt. She slipped out of her heels and pulled her legs beneath her. She used the movement to stall, realizing this wasn’t a topic she wanted to delve into. The past was the past. Yet, somehow Sarah put her at ease. Her presence was nonthreatening. “It wasn’t practical. You have to understand, I come from a family where success is measured in dollar signs within the confines of a world in which societal perception is everything. Art is for people like us to admire, not create. That’s a direct quote from my mother, by the way. It didn’t matter how much I wanted to be an artist. It was a nonissue. So after some crying, some soul-searching, and a few deep breaths, I grew up and joined the real world. I applied to Stanford the next week and never looked back. I haven’t picked up a brush since.”

Sarah looked at her with sadness and maybe a little bit of shock. “You must have cared
a lot
about what your parents thought of you to give up something you were so passionate about.”

Emory smiled wryly and took another bite of her pizza. “Unfortunately, I did. My father died of a heart attack when I was a teenager so my focus fell squarely on my mother’s attention. I guess you could say I failed miserably from her vantage point at pretty much everything. We never really saw eye to eye.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Sarah reached across the space between them and placed a reassuring hand on Emory’s arm. Emory studied the hand and smiled, again surprised at herself for not pulling away from someone offering comfort. There had been so much of that lately. Maybe, she reasoned, it was because Sarah wasn’t directly connected to her everyday life. She was a virtual stranger. And something about her spoke of kindness.

“Thank you for saying that, but it is. I knew my mother well and am very aware of the shortcomings she perceived in me. My older sister, Vanessa, was the golden child, not me. It’s a fact of life I’ve learned to deal with. So the answer to your question, Sarah,” she said, standing and taking both of their plates, “is that yes, I spent a great deal of time out here and will remember this view fondly when it’s sold. Hopefully, very, very soon.” She moved quickly into the house then, sticking her head out the door wearily one last time. “Maybe we can talk about the house tomorrow? I don’t think I’m up to it today after all.”

“Of course,” Sarah answered. “Whatever works best.”

*

Emory had only been home an hour, but she was restless. Her mind was racing, and as much as she tried to concentrate on the sales report in front of her, she simply couldn’t focus. The conversation she’d had with Sarah came back to her again and again. She hadn’t opened up to anyone about her parents in a long time. Now that the lid had been pulled from the box, it was as if she couldn’t get it back into place. She made an impulsive, albeit executive decision. She was going out. She needed to take her mind off all that troubled her, and a dark, overly loud nightclub would suffice. Without allowing herself time to think, she changed into her low-slung faded jeans and purple tank top, grabbed her keys, and drove her Jaguar FX to The Edge.

The club was especially crowded for a Tuesday night. The lights were low, the music was loud, and she could feel the regulars’ eyes on her as she casually made her way past them to the bar. Emory was well aware of the fact that she’d been placed at the top of the eligibility list in the San Diego single scene. If she overheard a “damn,” as she walked by from some of her more aggressive admirers, she didn’t let on and she didn’t care. Years ago, comments like that were what fed her, kept her ego afloat, but nowadays they did little more than annoy her. Since the breakup with Lucy, she’d had virtually zero interest in dating, realizing there was no room in her life for someone else, and she was perfectly fine with that. She was better on her own, stronger, and more effective.

She was in another space tonight, however. She ordered a Kentucky mule and made her way to the familiar table to the left of the bar where she’d spent many a night in her more carefree days. Just as she imagined they would be, several friends of hers were chatting animatedly over the thrum of the music. The women in her set weren’t your typical club kid fare. Each of them was smart, successful, and from lots and lots of money. Most of the girls knew each other from prep school, with a few connections made at the odd charity event or business luncheon. This was a powerful group of women and they knew it.

“Am I hallucinating, or is Emory Owen making an appearance in the world outside of her office?” Mia feigned shock as Emory closed the gap to their table. Mia Parsons was an up-and-coming attorney at Taylor and Fullbright and the consummate socialite. She worked hard and played hard and everyone liked and feared her equally.

Emory moved into Mia’s open arms. “You’re hysterical, Mia. So how is everyone tonight?” Emory regarded the table of three women, two of which she hadn’t seen in several months.

“Better now that you’re here,” Barrett said. “We were all so sorry to hear about your mother, Em. We’ve missed you. I wish you’d come out more often and let us take care of you. You know, be your friends.”

Emory smiled in Barrett’s direction. Barrett’s kind eyes penetrated the bubble she’d placed around herself, and she was genuinely happy to see her. Of all of her friends, Barrett was the most down-to-earth, and she could always count on her. She made a mental note to not let so much time go by without calling her next time. “I got your messages, Barrett, thank you. It’s just been a busy time.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do, just let me know. When I lost my dad, it took quite a while before I got back in the swing of things.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Ditto,” Christi Ann chimed in. Emory suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She couldn’t think of a single instance when the vapid Christi Ann had been there for anyone. She was more interested in who she could suck up to and who she could tear down behind the scenes. She’d known Christi Ann since the second grade and she had the girl’s number.

“Again, thanks, guys, but I think what I need right now is a dance, so if you’ll excuse me.” Emory noticed the young blonde leaning up against the bar. The one who’d been clearly checking her out since she’d walked in the place. Without a second thought, she took a mollifying swig of her drink and left it on the table, intent on one thing, mindless distraction. She made brief eye contact with the blonde and inclined her head toward the dance floor in silent invitation. She maintained an even pace, confident in every way that the girl was trailing behind her. She felt a hand move down her back and smiled as she turned, pulling the girl tightly up against her body.

They danced, hips pressed together, bodies moving to the techno beat blaring from the club’s speakers, hands moving freely across shoulders, stomachs, thighs. Two songs in, Emory slowly began to let herself drift into the unassuming connection she’d created with a nameless, faceless individual on a dance floor—someone she owed nothing to and expected very little from. “I’m Aimee,” the woman whispered seductively in her ear once the music shifted to a slower, more sensual ballad. But Emory didn’t care and, in fact, would prefer not to know.