Thin Ice (52 page)
With fingers that suddenly felt big and clumsy, he touched her face.
“Then what's the matter?"
"I read in the paper this morning that the Saints might move to California."
He said nothing, but remembered how she'd claimed the neighbor's dog must have made off with the morning paper. How they'd listened to Robbie's music al afternoon instead of the radio. How she'd distracted him from the evening news after dinner by taking him to bed.
He now realized she'd waited al day for him to tel her about it himself. Looking into her wet, wounded eyes, he didn't have the heart to ask why she hadn't asked him about it. He was equaly guilty for not having told her as soon as he knew.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I should have said something sooner. It's more than a possibility. Stump's seling the team. I found out yesterday."
"I see.” She looked away then, apparently unwiling to meet his eyes. “You've been so quiet. Last night I felt like you were puling away from me. This morning, when I saw the paper, I thought I knew why. Maybe it was selfish of me, but I wanted to postpone reality a little longer. I wanted a chance to convince you what a good team we'd make."
"Oh, Emily, I've never doubted that. I knew that the day we met."
She turned back then, her eyes ful of pain and confusion. “But..."
Finaly, Eric understood what she needed. What they both needed.
The words came as easily as breathing. “Marry me, Emily."
* * * *
He'd been more than happy to have her mother and sister accompany them home. Patricia had offered to leave Emily's when they arrived, but Catrina and Annalise had insisted on staying at a nearby hotel.
After the ceremony, Eric ushered the wedding party into rented limos and treated them al to dinner and champagne at Maison limos and treated them al to dinner and champagne at Maison Rouge. He then invited them back to the house for dessert and coffee, where, unbeknownst to his bride, he'd conspired with Melissa Caldwel and the catering staff at Maison Rouge to organize an intimate reception for twelve, complete with peaches and cream roses, baloons and silk-covered wedding bels.
That way the entire wedding party was on hand to witness Emily's wide-eyed disbelief as a smiling Eric presented her with the keys to the brand new white Explorer that waited in her driveway.
"Eric, it's ... it's ... it's perfect!” she exclaimed, and turned to him with a You-are-so-special-and-I-love-you-more-than-life look.
He smiled, knowing what she meant. She'd talked, and he'd listened. During one of their many heart of the night talks that week, she'd told him about her traffic anxieties and how she wasn't sure, but she thought she'd overcome them on the trip from Detroit.
"I know,” he said, then took her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. “And I love you, too."
Three weeks later, after endless speculation, the media confirmed it.
Ronald Stump had sold the Saints, and the team was on its way to San Bernardino. Emily was leaning against the kitchen counter, reading the article, when Eric came through the front door caling her name.
her name.
"In the kitchen,” she caled back, stil reading, munching on a pre-dinner apple.
"Where do you want these?” He held his boxed up stereo equipment in his hands.
"Our room,” she said without hesitation. She wasn't about to let Robbie get his mitts on that. He'd already claimed the plasma TV
for the living room. Darned thing was bigger than Anna's piano.
Somehow Emily saw a new family room in their future.
"Gotcha.” Eric winked and sent her a slow, smoldering smile, then disappeared up the steps, whistling Clair de Lune.
Clever, clever man, she thought, and went soft inside at the memory of them sneaking off to his apartment on her lunch hour and making love to Debussy. Maybe she could talk him into keeping the apartment. Or renting one even closer to her work. Wouldn't that be handy?
She grinned at the thought of it, knowing Eric would, too. Their adjustment to married life was proving to be much easier than either of them had expected. Even with Patricia—who had talked her way into a part-time interior decorating job downtown and would move into her own apartment the first of July—and Robbie to contend with.
Robbie now knew Patricia was his grandmother and the two were Robbie now knew Patricia was his grandmother and the two were the best of buddies. Anna and Patricia stil had their moments of friction, but were working on it. Emily was just grateful that between Eric, Anna and Patricia, Robbie had someone to watch over him at al times. School was out, and, as usual, her workload at the hospital was rising in tandem with the June temperature.
So was her curiosity. The team was on its way to California, but Eric hadn't mentioned moving. Come to think of it, they hadn't discussed the Saints at al since the night he'd proposed.
She found him sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor, hooking up speaker wires. “We'l have to leave this stuff on the floor for tonight,” he said. “The Subway's big, but not that big."
While Patricia used his Explorer to get her affairs in order, Eric had been using Emily's Suburban to move his things into the house—not to mention the boatload of paint and remodeling supplies he'd bought. Surprising her, he'd thrown himself into the house renovations, working on them al day while she was at the hospital.
He'd already started re-siding the house in baby blue, and was making noises about getting bids to build a master suite over the garage. Hmmm. Maybe the plasma screen TV would go in there.
"I'l have to figure out a way to get the entertainment center over here tomorrow,” Eric was saying.
"Fine,” she said, bringing her mind back to the present. “But we need to talk."
He glanced up, frowned. “Sure. What's up?"
She sat at the foot of their bed, newspaper stil in hand. “This."
He scanned the headline. “What about it?"
"It's confirmed. The Saints are moving to California."
He shrugged, returned to his wires. “I told you that a month ago."
"And you haven't mentioned it since."
"Didn't see any need to."
"September's not that far away, Eric. Don't you think we need to discuss our plans?"
He looked up at her, his eyes unreadable. “We don't have any plans. We're staying here."
"I don't understand."
"I'm retiring."
Emily felt as if she'd been poleaxed. “Retiring? You?"
"It's time."
If she hadn't been so stunned, she might have caught the edge in his voice. “But you love playing."
voice. “But you love playing."
His eyes flickered, but he said nothing. Suddenly worried he'd sustained some sort of injury during the playoffs he hadn't told her about, she asked, “Eric, what's going on?"
"My contract with the Saints is up. I decided not to renew it."
"Why on earth not?” What about the hardware gleaming in the middle of their dining room table? Two nights earlier, at the NHL
banquet in Toronto, Eric had won the Hart trophy for being the league's most valuable player. He'd hired a jet to fly the two of them up and back for the night. She'd never forget the quiet pride in his eyes as he looked at her and gave his acceptance speech.
As they had then, his dark eyes fixed on her now. “I've found something more important than hockey."
Emily was aghast. “You're kidding. You're quitting because of me?"
"Not quitting. Retiring."
She dropped her face into her hands. “Tel me this isn't happening.
Tel me my husband hasn't lost his mind."
Eric rose from the floor and came to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. Gently he touched her hair. Emily lowered her hands and stared across the room. Instead of Eric's mother's celo in the corner and their new Laura Ashley walpaper, she saw her marriage crumbling as surely as if she'd given Eric an ultimatum.
crumbling as surely as if she'd given Eric an ultimatum.
Hockey or me.
"I haven't lost my mind,” he said quietly. “California made a respectable offer, a more than respectable offer, actualy, but it's only for a season, and I can't see uprooting you and Robbie for that, especialy after al the work we've put into this place."
A hard lump formed in Emily's throat. Eric had taken her goals for fixing up the house and made them his own, thinking it was what she wanted.
He took her chin in his hand, his voice low and solemn. “And I certainly have no interest in a commuter marriage."
Paralyzed by guilt, Emily stared into his eyes, and saw the pain in them behind his resolve to make her happy. Her astonishment that he'd chosen to leave hockey vanished at the knowledge he'd reached that decision alone. He hadn't even bothered to ask her if she would move. Within seconds, her guilt gave way to anger.
She puled away and sent him a look of disbelief. “I thought we were partners."
He frowned at her attempt to place distance between them. “We are."
"Then how could you make a decision to abandon your career without talking to me about it?"
without talking to me about it?"
"It's not as if we'l go broke, Emily. I've stil got the restaurants and
—"
She popped off the bed in frustration. “I don't care if you own a hundred restaurants, Eric. You're a hockey player, and a damned good one. It's who you are."
"Emily—"
"Let me finish, Eric. Please."
He sat back, then, and focused on her the way he always did when he sensed something was important to her. “Al right. Shoot."
She looked at him, sitting at the foot of their bed, arms braced behind him, his attention completely on her, and loved his easy wilingness to listen, but refused to let it distract her from what she had to say. When she spoke, it was with clear conviction. “I'm your wife, Eric. I married you fuly prepared to do whatever it takes to make this marriage work—and that includes moving to California or Florida or even Italy and back six times a year if I have to."
"Honey, I'd only planned to play for a couple more years anyway.
It's not like—"
"Then play, Eric. I don't care where, but play. Please."
He studied her adamant expression, then plowed a hand through his hair and exhaled heavily before standing to face her. Holding her hair and exhaled heavily before standing to face her. Holding her gently at arm's length, he looked into her eyes and said quietly, “I'm sorry. I thought you'd be happy if I left hockey."
"How could I possibly be happy knowing you gave up the biggest part of yourself for me?"
He looked away and flushed, dropping his arms and the connection between them, and she knew she'd hit the heart of the matter. “How could I live with myself, knowing I yanked you from a job you love and a house you've poured your heart and soul into to drag you halfway across the country, dump you in some strange city, then leave you to fend for yourself for eight solid months while I go jetting al over the damned continent?"
"I'm not helpless, Eric. I can get another job. Buy a new house.
Find Robbie a new school. I've done it before, I can do it again."
"But you shouldn't have to!” Eric closed his eyes and drew a calming breath. “You deserve better, Emily. You deserve a real home, not some rootless existence with a man who won't be there when you need him."
At the raw note in his voice, Emily's anger evaporated. She moved toward him, caught his face in her hands. “I have a real home. With you. Wherever you are. The city doesn't matter. Neither does the country. It's being together that matters. Don't you know that by now?"
"I'l be gone more than I'm home, Emily."
"Then the time we spend apart wil make the time we have together that much more precious."
His eyes betrayed how much he wanted to believe her, but he shook his head. “No, I won't ask you to give up your—"
She shushed him with her fingers. “I'm not married to my job, Eric.
I'm married to you. And as for the house, I know we've put more work into it than we originaly planned, but I only went along with it because I thought that was what you wanted. I'd never have taken things this far if you hadn't been here, no matter what Patricia thinks.” She smiled wryly. “In fact, if it hadn't been for you, I probably would have..."
She stopped, thinking.
"What?” Eric asked. “What are you thinking?"
"Turnersvile.” She looked at him, her eyes wide with self-revelation. “If it hadn't been for you,” she repeated slowly, “I probably would have sold the house and moved back to Turnersvile."
They stood in their bedroom and stared at each other, their minds spinning, excitement building between them like a couple of kids on Christmas morning.
He smiled.
He smiled.
She smiled.
A compromise was born.
"Detroit?” he suggested hopefuly.