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Lost And Found Family
Leigh Riker
Is their loss too much to overcome?It’s been a year since her son died, and Emma Mallory can’t forgive herself. She’s dealing with her loss the only way she knows how—throwing herself into work. But spending all her time growing her business takes her further and further away from her husband.Christian is finding his own way through the grief. He’s determined that whatever happens, he won’t lose his wife, too. If he can just remind Emma what they had, and could have again, he might be able to bring her back. Even forgive her. If not, they might lose each other for good…


Is their loss too much to overcome?
It’s been a year since her son died, and Emma Mallory can’t forgive herself. She’s dealing with her loss the only way she knows how—throwing herself into work. But spending all her time growing her business takes her further and further away from her husband.
Christian is finding his own way through the grief. He’s determined that whatever happens, he won’t lose his wife, too. If he can just remind Emma what they had, and could have again, he might be able to bring her back. Even forgive her. If not, they might lose each other for good...
“Hey, good-looking,” she murmured, then blushed.
Her teasing had come without thinking, as it might have less than a year ago. After their quarrel last night it sounded false.
Yet Christian’s eyes had warmed for a second. He turned to his father and the other men in the group, his tone a shade too hearty. “Am I a lucky man, or what?”
Southern gentlemen to the core, they all politely agreed. She gave her father-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek then slid her hand into Christian’s. “We need to circulate.”
She and Christian continued across the room, greeting people here and there until an older woman swooped down on them in a flash of blue organza. Emma couldn’t remember her name, but she was one of Frankie’s charity friends. She hugged Christian then cast a glance at Emma’s dress. “Lovely, my dear,” she murmured. “And how brave of you to come.”
She patted Emma’s bare shoulder.
“In your place I wouldn’t be able to leave the house.”
Dear Reader (#ulink_cef0f89b-1899-55f8-a318-65c4ef8191f9),
We never know what fate will hand us, do we? In Lost and Found Family, Christian Mallory has gotten a second chance with his new wife, Emma. Together, they share the family he’s always wanted, the family Emma badly needs. Life is good.
But then, their world is shattered, and both Christian and Emma wonder if they should even try to go on together. Every attempt to deal with their loss only seems to drive them further apart. Is love strong enough to heal their family, their marriage, Emma and Christian themselves?
I know, if not exactly, how they must feel. In real life, I once came dangerously close to losing my younger son. He’d done a wonderful thing in adopting a rescue kitten, but she also carried cat-scratch fever, which can be devastating and, in rare cases, fatal. The “bug” spread to my son’s brain, and for one terrible day and night I feared he wouldn’t survive. Happily, he did—although the doctors told him he shouldn’t even be here! He’s fine again, healthy and happy. I danced at his wedding. But as you might guess, I haven’t been quite the same person ever since.
Neither are Christian and Emma in this story. How could they be? A tragic, or near-tragic, experience changes you forever. Yet with luck, it also makes you stronger. It makes you appreciate life, and love, even more.
I hope you’ll enjoy taking this journey from loss to love and hope again with Christian and Emma. I think they’re worth the trip.
Happy reading!
Best,
Leigh


Lost and Found Family
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Leigh Riker


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LEIGH RIKER, like many readers and writers, grew up with her nose in a book. She still can’t imagine a better way to spend her time than to curl up with a good romance novel—unless it is to write one! She’s a member of the Authors Guild, Novelists, Inc. and Romance Writers of America. When not in her home office, she’s either in the garden, watching movies funny and sad, or traveling (for research purposes, of course). With added “help” from her mischievous Maine coon cat, she’s at work now on a new novel. You can find Leigh on her website, leighriker.com (http://www.leighriker.com), on Facebook at LeighRikerAuthor (https://www.facebook.com/LeighRikerAuthor/) and on Twitter, @lbrwriter (https://twitter.com/lbrwriter).
For our horse, Windsor Castle, the inspiration for the General in this story. When he passed, the owner of the barn where he’d lived wrote: “He was a noble old guy and will be greatly missed. Goodbye, old friend.”
Contents
Cover (#u298363ef-d45e-5a05-8cf9-22db030cfa0d)
Back Cover Text (#u34cb058b-396f-5cd2-938d-4d0c937cbbe5)
Introduction (#ucc3ac41f-dc5d-5eeb-a313-51e32df434e6)
Dear Reader (#ulink_94e46093-9a3f-551d-ad54-75a7b30b0e69)
Title Page (#u52d1b197-2d53-5e49-8394-b1dfa01129d3)
About the Author (#u21d2b792-f04f-50a5-a109-243fb090b788)
Dedication (#u9f2f3368-c752-5525-bab2-990846ae7b8c)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_968cc35d-ebfb-57bd-8d37-49a015d2307f)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_7c6d4a60-acfb-543e-9c75-92fca920233b)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d9c4bcc1-96e8-54f8-b4db-ec612bd57554)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c84c4589-1c8d-5a1c-ad85-68e9a84acdfe)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_dba34ac5-56c0-50b7-a1ee-9edbfa7f954d)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_df6eacd5-486d-53a5-923b-07e069a9c22d)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_7ad4b431-79d9-5c09-98a0-3db0b99da593)
December...
I’M LATE, Emma Mallory thought, feeling like the White Rabbit. I’m so late.
She had a million things left on the day’s to-do list. When did she not?
With a sigh of frustration, she glanced down the main aisle of the barn. She’d already tried walking toward the doors that led to the parking area, but Owen hadn’t followed her.
Her three-year-old still stood on his tiptoes, trying to look through the bars of a stall at his father’s horse. She didn’t know who loved that horse more, her little boy or her husband.
And where was Christian? He’d promised to meet them here after work. She’d had barely any time to stop tonight, and now none at all.
She couldn’t wait any longer. She hated to break Owen’s heart but, really, an hour here had turned into two.
“Owen,” she called.
“One more minute,” he said, reaching up to run his fingers over the brass nameplate that read General Robert E. Lee.
And Emma’s heart turned over. She always had a hard time saying no to him. “We’ll visit the General another day,” she said. “I promise.”
He shook his head, blond hair flying, and pulled a plastic bag from his miniature jeans’ pocket. “Daddy promised I could ride. And I have gummy bears, too. I share them with General.”
“No, say goodbye,” Emma said, “then come get in your car seat.”
She started back down the aisle to the wide-open doors. The last rays of sunlight slanted through them, and motes of dust danced in the air. The barn smelled of hay and horseflesh, neither of them Emma’s favorite, but she hadn’t wanted to deny Owen this treat. At almost four now—how time did fly—he was her darling boy. She even smiled to herself. Sooner or later, most likely sooner, Owen would be asking for his own pony. And Emma already had a surprise planned for Christmas.
She was at the doors to the barn when her cell phone rang. Emma checked the display and inwardly groaned. Wouldn’t you know? She glanced toward the indoor arena, where her nineteen-year-old stepdaughter was probably still gazing into the eyes of her boyfriend, the barn’s new trainer. She’d give Grace a chance to make her goodbyes, too, while she answered this call. Emma stepped into the tack room. It would only take a minute.
Actually, it took five.
By the time she’d finished arguing with one of her troublesome clients, the aisle was empty. Maybe Grace had herded Owen out to the car.
Emma took a few steps, then halted.
The raw chill in the air outside penetrated her wool pants and even her coat, making her shiver. She was already multitasking, thinking about what she needed from the market on her way home. And she’d have a few choice words for Christian, who hadn’t shown up yet.
Emma checked the parking area but saw no one in the car. She turned—and heard a shrill whinny, then a thud. The sounds had come from farther along the aisle, and all at once, with fear rising in the back of her throat, Emma was running. The General’s stall door stood half open. A small footstool used for mounting horses lay on its side nearby.
Emma cried out, “Owen!”
Her voice echoed through the barn.
And all their lives changed forever.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_683cf019-579b-5130-a45e-0ab4bc7a30c4)
Late October, the next year...
IT WAS THE silence that bothered Emma most.
She couldn’t get used to the lack of everyday noise: doors slamming, the TV blaring, Owen giggling while Christian tickled him. Daddy, more! Owen calling from his room for one last drink of water before he went to sleep. If only...now, even the dog had stopped barking to greet her at the end of the day.
With a familiar sense of dread, Emma set her bulging tote bag on the desk next to the kitchen counter. A place for everything and everything in its place were the words she’d lived by since she was a child.
Until last December, her life had often seemed—for the first time—normal. The way she liked it. The feeling was even more important now—but much harder to come by.
Emma headed for the great room to find Bob, their Gordon setter, but as she’d expected the dog didn’t move. Its dark, plumy tail thumped once against the forbidden sofa cushion, then flopped back again.
“That dog is depressed,” Grace had said the last time she came to visit.
“Dogs don’t get depressed.”
“Yes they do. Of course they do. Just look at her face.”
“Bob has never adjusted, that’s all,” Emma had said, trying to lighten the moment. “Her name should have been Roberta or at least Bobbie.”
Owen had named the female setter, a gift from his grandfather, after SpongeBob Squarepants, his favorite cartoon character. “My puppy is a boy, like me,” he’d insisted. Finally Christian had convinced him otherwise, but by then, of course, Bob was already Bob.
“It’s not about her name,” Grace had murmured.
And that was true. Life was different now.
Back in the kitchen, Emma took a moment to line up the items that someone—it had to be Christian—had moved: dishwashing detergent, hand cream, the yellow-and-blue ceramic container they’d bought in Greece two years ago, which held a bright nylon scrubby. The beechwood knife block beside it looked a bit off to Emma. There. That was better.
She didn’t kid herself. Emma had compulsive tendencies. But the habit had served her well as a professional organizer. Now such tiny routines held her together.
Emma reached for the detergent again, then stopped herself. She’d have to tell Christian what had happened at work.
When she heard his pickup in the driveway, she tensed. Before she could collect herself, he strode in, bringing the sharp, clean scent of outdoors and the smokier aroma of a neighbor’s fireplace burning sweet applewood.
Emma barely glanced at him. His dark hair, those gray-green eyes she’d fallen for the day they’d met...even the sight of him made her heart hurt. Months ago he would have come up behind her, nuzzled her neck and kissed her nape in greeting.
Slipping past her, looking tall and handsome in his pinstriped suit, he almost brushed Emma’s shoulder reaching around her for a glass in the cupboard. Not seeming to notice that she avoided his touch, he took a container of sweet tea from the fridge. “How was your day, Em?”
“Long. Frustrating,” she admitted.
“Mine, too.” He took a swallow of tea. “And I’ve got a gruesome meeting tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. Why does Dad have to be such an early riser? As if Mallory Trucking—and my monthly report—wouldn’t keep until nine o’clock. One more hour and I could make the drive into Chattanooga behind the rush.”
Another meeting, she thought, like the one he’d chosen to attend that day when he should have been at the barn.
“I’m not looking forward to tomorrow, either,” she said, knowing she was stalling. “Today Mrs. Belkin took one look at the walk-in closet we’ve done for her and changed the entire design.” Emma formed a pair of air quotes. “She’s not sure now that she should have chosen No More Clutter, after all.” Which, lately, was nothing new for Emma.
He toasted her with his glass. “Can’t be worth the money.”
“Not when I may have to eat the cost of redoing everything. But I need her business. I’ve already lost two more clients this month. And since I hired Grace I have to meet her salary, too.” Ever since the painful stories in the paper about the accident at the barn she’d been scrambling to keep her head above water. The local community had branded Emma then and people here didn’t forget.
He made a low sound of apparent empathy, then went into the great room to see Bob. “Hey, girl,” he murmured. “You know you’re not supposed to be on this sofa.” Thump, thump. The sound of tail wagging grew heavier. “I swear this dog understands English,” he said loud enough for Emma to hear.
“Of course she does,” Emma said, sighing when she realized she’d echoed Grace’s sentiment.
Emma might be a bit compulsive, but Christian was a creature of habit, too. She knew he was about to come back into the kitchen and stop by the built-in desk to punch Play on the answering machine, which she’d pointedly ignored on her way in.
Taking a breath, she opened the refrigerator door, putting up a barrier so the messages were only a soft rumble in her ears. Months ago, soon after the accident, she’d gotten some ugly threats.
“Emma.” Christian’s tone was soft but scolding. “Did you listen to this? Max Barrett called again.”
Her pulse leaped. Something else she’d dreaded about coming home tonight. It was a good thing Christian didn’t know about the other messages Max had left on her cell phone.
“Obviously you haven’t called him back,” he said.
Taking a package of chicken from the fridge, she shut the door in time to hear Max’s warm voice all too clearly.
Emma, it’s me—and there it was, that voice—again. Have a heart. You know how small my shop is and why I keep calling. Listen. I’ve been holding your beautiful carousel pony far too long. I need the space. I understand how you must feel but...
Emma sagged against the counter. Last December she would have welcomed his call. The day of the accident she’d hardly been able to keep the surprise to herself.
But the carousel pony, modeled after Christian’s horse, had turned out to be a terrible mistake. And heartbreaking. Emma wanted nothing to do with horses now, real ones or painted wooden models. She couldn’t bring herself to pick up the miniature version of the General and she might never be ready. Max Barrett could wait.
But his voice, with a hint of humor, went on. I don’t know what else to do except start charging that poor pony rent. You need to make some decision. Give me a call. Please.
The machine clicked off and the silence expanded.
Max’s calls unnerved her, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about them. At first they’d been infrequent, then, over the months, they’d become more regular. Waiting for Christian to say something more, she followed his glance toward the ceiling and the abandoned playroom. The pony was to have been the final touch—a Christmas gift for Owen—but there was no way she could bring it home now.
The click of the dog’s nails on the floor sounded like rescue on the way. At six o’clock each night Bob left the living room, where she’d slept all afternoon, and ambled into the kitchen to sit by her dish.
Putting the chicken package by the sink, Emma washed her hands, then bent down to pat Bob’s dark, silky head as if to say, for both of them, It will be all right. But Max’s latest call and her day at work made that seem impossible. Straightening, she opened a cabinet and dipped a plastic measuring cup into the bag of kibble. She poured the food into Bob’s bowl and heard, Let me do it, Mama.
Aware of Christian standing behind her, she briefly closed her eyes. She couldn’t turn to look at him. That direct, steady gaze, the implied strength in it, had drawn her to him at first. When he put his hands on her shoulders, she eased out from under them.
After long moments, he said simply, “Em,” in that weary tone she heard too often now. “What’s wrong? I know there’s something else.”
Emma had been dreading this moment most of all. “I had some bad news today.” She took a big breath. “My landlord won’t renew my lease for the shop. Or rather, he’s raising my rent and I’ve had a hard enough time meeting the rent this year. I was late last month—and the month before that.”
He frowned. “Then what will you do?”
“Look for space elsewhere, I guess,” she said with a shrug. “The rents are impossible downtown anyway.” She paused. “And frankly, business isn’t very good. I might try for something near the Hamilton Place mall. There’s more customer traffic there.”
“Maybe instead, it’s time to sell.”
“Are you serious? After the years I’ve invested in No More Clutter?”
“The business isn’t growing any longer, and there are several other places in town that do household organization. One of them may want to expand.”
“I want to expand,” she said, finally turning to face him.
“Apparently that’s not happening, Emma.”
She glanced away. He’d never shared her enthusiasm for the store, especially after Owen was born. They had a young child who needed her attention—he’d said that how many times? Why be surprised that he wouldn’t support her need to keep on with her business? After all, the accident had happened while Emma was on a call with a client.
Still, Christian was partly to blame, too. “You expect me to sell my business—when you won’t even discuss selling the General? And that horse is just standing around in his stall, eating up money every single day—after what he did to my family? No, Christian.”
His mouth tightened, but it seemed he knew better than to pursue that subject.
“In any case, while I look for new space,” she said, “I may have to start packing up downtown, bringing a few files home—”
“No.”
Her tone hardened to match his. “What do you mean, no?”
But he’d already turned his back and was leaving the room.
* * *
LATER THAT NIGHT, Christian gazed out the bedroom window and thought—as he did, over and over—of the accident that had taken his son’s life. He could only guess how that loss had affected Emma.
He shouldn’t blame her for wanting to repair her business, but he did. Just as he resented her for that remark about the General. He shouldn’t blame her for not wanting to talk about anything more meaningful than the day’s happenings—which, today, had been critical for her.
With an arm braced against the window frame, he envisioned Emma months ago when everything had still been good between them. In his mind he saw her rushing around after work to fix dinner. He watched her hand Owen another green pepper stick so he wouldn’t get too hungry before their meal was ready. He saw her face light up as it used to do whenever he’d walked in the door to find her waiting for his light kiss.
But he’d had plenty of practice in reading her new body language. He saw her back stiffen every time he used the shortened version of her name, as if they were now two different people—which he guessed they were—and he had no right to even that small, familiar intimacy. Em. He was the only one who’d ever called her that.
He hated the rift between them. It had become as deep and wide as the Chesney Rim, which, farther up their road, carved Sequoia Mountain into two distinct halves.
You’d think by now he would have developed better tools to cope, as their once-upon-a-time counselor had advised. He’d tried. But, always, there was the memory of Owen.
He felt helpless, unable to understand that loss or how to reach Emma. He kept wanting to do something, make something good, or at least better, come from their tragedy so it wouldn’t seem so senseless. But what had he done tonight? He’d made her feel worse than she already did.
“Christian,” she said into the darkness, as if they hadn’t quarreled earlier and this was just like any other night. “Come to bed.”
He didn’t answer. How did she manage to shut out the remembered sounds of baby steps, a first complete sentence, the joyous shout of a toddler’s laughter?
His mother never hesitated to move on. She still managed her life as she always had—with crisp efficiency. She’d promptly packed away every sign of her only grandson, or for all Christian knew she’d donated everything to one of her charities. Not a picture remained on the mantel in her home in Lookout Mountain. Where the oil painting of Owen had once hung in the hall—his mother called it the gallery—there was only a glaring white rectangle. He’d grown up in that house, where only pleasant conversation was allowed, and he didn’t want that in his own marriage.
“Be right there,” he told Emma. Bob was already on the bed, lightly snoring on top of the covers. Like the sofa, their bed had once been strictly taboo. But that rule was from the days when the dog slept with Owen, the two of them tangled together in the covers.
“I’m falling asleep,” Emma murmured. “Before I do, a couple of things—first, don’t forget we have that reception tomorrow night at Coolidge Park.”
He wanted to groan. Tomorrow was shaping up to be just too much fun. And there it was, the subject he’d hoped to avoid, another slot in a schedule. Another lockstep appearance he didn’t want to make, like going in to work every morning.
“We have to go?” He didn’t wait for the answer he knew would come. “Let me guess. My mother is the chairperson. It’s not one of those monkey-suit things, is it?”
“You’ll be fine. Or wear your charcoal-gray suit instead.”
“I didn’t know I owned a charcoal-gray suit.”
“And a black one.” He knew exactly when he’d worn that one. Her voice trembled so he guessed Emma didn’t need the reminder, either. “If you keep moving, Frankie might not notice it isn’t a tuxedo.”
Like that would ever happen. His mother had eyes like an eagle. He turned to see Emma propped on an elbow in bed. In the dim light of the moon her blond hair looked darker and so did her ocean-blue eyes, almost black. She seemed like a total stranger.
Christian sent her a grim smile. “I’ll give Mom one hour. Write a check for the cause, whatever. Make conversation with all those ‘important people’ she hangs out with—even take part in another of those endless silent auctions—then we’re out of there.”
Her tone was light. “You sound like an eighth grader at a grown-up party.”
“Thanks,” Christian said drily.
He allowed himself a brief moment of pretending this was just any night, not even a year ago, their quiet time together at the end of a busy day. Maybe Emma was pretending, too.
“You’re already squirming,” she said with a little smile in her voice, “but you know we have to do this.”
“My mother...”
But that was tomorrow. He’d have time to prepare himself for the usual prying questions, the intolerable sympathy from people he barely knew. And, somehow worse, from those he did. The words never sounded genuine.
“...speaking of Frankie,” Emma murmured. “My second issue. Christian, I had a call today from your father. It’s their anniversary soon and he’d like to throw a big party. He wants me to do the planning—”
“Trust me. Mom doesn’t want a party.” Neither did he.
“Could you talk to her?”
For another few seconds he peered into the darkness, at the patch of driveway in front of the garage doors. “I can try,” he finally said when what he really wanted was for the whole world to stop.
No, he wanted time to move backward like a videotape running in reverse until the accident hadn’t happened at all. Until they were still a happy family with a grown daughter and a sweet little boy. The child Christian had yearned for yet, after his divorce, never expected to have until he met Emma.
At last he crossed the room to slip between the sheets. Bob was twitching in her sleep and one rear leg jabbed him in his side, but Emma had said no more and neither would he. Instead, he lay there thinking about tomorrow’s fund-raiser at Coolidge Park. The certain run-in with his mother about the anniversary party. The shattered moments of his and Emma’s lives.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c42b52db-81fa-5011-af8e-f0cb65a13936)
“I THOUGHT YOU’D be here sooner.”
Emma had just stepped into Coolidge Park’s Walker Pavilion when Frankie—wearing an ivory gown and pearls—spotted her. On a drift of Chanel perfume, she gave Emma an air kiss on each cheek. “I wondered if you’d decided not to come.”
Ah, but your wish is my command.
Emma was wearing a sparkly, floor-length bronze dress for tonight’s fund-raiser. She’d even had her hair done today, sandwiching the appointment between a trip to Signal Mountain to begin redoing Mrs. Belkin’s closet, another tense phone call with her landlord and a quick dash home to shower then change.
“Business,” she told Frankie. “Sorry.”
Instantly Emma wished she’d said something else. Work was never a valid excuse for Frankie, whose daily life centered on her charitable activities.
Despite Emma’s insistence that she and Christian come tonight, the event set her teeth on edge. This part of the city’s North Shore was now the place to see and be seen. That wasn’t a factor for Emma, who had few social pretensions. But she’d spent many afternoons here at the nearby carousel with Owen and didn’t need the reminder of happier times.
“Is Christian here yet?” she asked.
Frankie tilted her head toward a group of men, including her husband, in the far corner of the crowded pavilion. Emma easily picked out Christian. He stood taller than the rest, his dark hair, gray suit and white shirt like the beacon of a familiar lighthouse in some stormy harbor. He and Lanier were talking, but Christian looked tense. Emma recognized his I’m-with-my-father-and-I’m-not-myself-at-the-moment laugh.
Frankie sensed trouble. “You didn’t drive in together? I assumed you were in the ladies’ room to freshen up.”
Emma bit back a sigh. “Christian was tied up at the office all day. We missed each other at home. I had no choice but to drive my own car—being already late,” she couldn’t help adding. “He looks trapped. Excuse me.” With Frankie’s gaze following her, she crossed the room on high-heeled sandals.
“Hey, good-looking,” she said, reaching Christian’s side, then flushed. The teasing words had come without thinking, as they might have less than a year ago. After their quarrel last night they sounded false.
Yet his eyes warmed for a second. He turned to his father and the other men in the group, his tone a shade too hearty. “Am I a lucky man, or what?”
Southern gentlemen to the core, they all politely agreed. She gave her father-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek, then slid her hand into Christian’s. “We need to circulate.”
“Emma,” Lanier called her back. “We’ll talk about the party.”
“Whenever you like,” she said.
She and Christian continued across the room, greeting people here and there until an older woman swooped down on them in a flash of blue organza. Emma couldn’t remember her name, but she was one of Frankie’s charity friends.
She hugged Christian, then cast a glance at Emma’s dress. “Lovely, my dear,” she said. “And how brave of you to come.” She patted Emma’s bare shoulder. “In your place I wouldn’t be able to leave the house.”
Christian squeezed Emma’s hand. “We’re doing fine,” he said, then kept walking until another woman stopped them.
“Emma. Frankie said you’d be here but I wasn’t sure...”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” she murmured, her throat closing on the words.
Grateful for his solid presence, Emma gripped Christian’s hand as he led her away. She spied Grace and Rafael Ramirez standing by the bar. Grace had married the barn’s trainer this past summer, much to Christian’s dismay. He still thought Grace, at twenty, was too young, and she’d quit college, rather than choose a major and then finish her degree, to become Rafe’s wife.
Emma waved at them but they seemed to be in a deep discussion and didn’t respond. She glanced away—and there was Max Barrett. Her pulse skipped a beat. Later she’d have to apologize to him about the carousel horse. I don’t know what else to do except to start charging that poor pony rent.
“Quite a gauntlet, hmm?” Christian said in her ear. “Thanks for rescuing me earlier. I was surrounded back there.”
“I could tell. Lanier’s friends giving you a hard time?”
Christian nodded. “It was a setup, I’m sure. All of them gave me the same advice. And Ed Wrigley actually offered me a job. Said if I wasn’t happy with Dad at Mallory Trucking he’d make it worth my while to leave the company.”
Emma knew he’d become dissatisfied with his job in the front office, but why would anyone single him out in public?
“The stockbroker?”
“Yep. ‘Keep him in a suit,’ he said, ‘and we’ll make a real success of him yet.’ Or words to that effect.” He shrugged. “To make matters worse, his friends have some notion I should join them for a hunting trip. It’d be good for Bob, too, Dad said. More than once.”
“Bob?” Emma couldn’t help but smile. “That dog has no idea of the life she was bred for. Chase after a bird? Stick feathers in her mouth?” She laughed. “The first time she saw a rifle she’d probably have a panic attack. She’d hate hunting.”
“We’re two of a kind, then,” Christian said. “I put Dad off about a date, but every time I get near him lately I seem to end up frustrated or angry.”
Perhaps, after last night, that applied to her, too. Emma laid a brief hand on his arm. “He only wants the best for you.”
“Then why doesn’t he get off my back? I’m not some nineteen-year-old kid. He can’t tell me what to do with my wife—”
He closed his eyes for a moment and Emma stared at him in shock. She’d always thought she and Lanier had a good relationship. He was trusting her to plan the anniversary party—not the sort of thing at which Emma normally excelled. Still, she hadn’t wanted to refuse.
“I meant life,” Christian muttered.
Emma looked away. “I know what you meant,” she said. “I’d better go help your mother with whatever she needs while you write our donation check. That’s why we came, isn’t it?”
Separately, as Frankie had pointed out. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she and Christian had been together in a car. For a long moment he didn’t speak. Then he said, “Sorry. Guess I’m feeling raw tonight.” And still edgy after he and Emma had argued? He steered her toward the center of the room but she barely acknowledged the rest of the people they met.
As they reached the other side of the pavilion, they walked right into a conversation between Frankie and Melanie Simmons, Christian’s ex-wife. The two were obviously sharing a moment, which reminded Emma of an oil painting in Frankie’s stairway of Melanie, Grace and Christian. It was still on the wall—the happy first family.
Christian bent to kiss his ex-wife’s cheek. Melanie was slim, almost willowy, with light brown hair and amber-brown eyes. Her long black dress, worn with diamonds, couldn’t be called anything but tasteful. And it was obviously expensive. “You look lovely tonight,” he said.
“Thank you, that’s sweet.”
Having delivered Emma to them, Christian excused himself to continue working the crowd—or to escape what he’d claimed was a slip of the tongue?
“Emma.” Frankie turned to her, a hand on Melanie’s arm. “Join us.”
Emma hesitated. She was already trying not to mind the brief kiss her husband had exchanged with Melanie. She’d seen that before. There was no reason to feel jealous but...
“Melanie and I were just talking about you,” Frankie said.
Oh, I’m sure.
She and her mother-in-law had gotten along well enough before the accident, but Emma had never cared for the regular updates Frankie gave her about Melanie’s charmed life. She’d always wondered if Melanie got the same reports about her. Not long after she and Christian divorced, Melanie had remarried. She and her husband, a respected judge in Chattanooga Criminal Court, had four children.
“I have a problem,” Melanie said, “and I need help. My twins are leaving the toddler stage, becoming little girls, and their room needs a total reorganization.”
Emma had nothing against her—she didn’t know her well, though it was hard to avoid her in such a small social group. Melanie’s smile was a bit wry, as if she recognized their awkward situation. She seemed hopeful, and maybe a bit desperate.
But then, so was Emma. She needed all the new business she could get.
“I’m sure we can give you exactly what you want, Melanie. I’d be happy to take a look at your space,” she said. “That first consultation is free.”
“Could we meet tomorrow? I’m eager to get started.”
They made arrangements for the next morning, then Emma asked Frankie if she needed help tonight. But Frankie shook her head.
“Melanie has already offered,” she said.
They went off together, arm in arm. Emma stared after them for a moment.
She glanced around the pavilion, which was packed with guests in gowns and tuxedoes and an army of waiters with trays of extravagant hors d’oeuvres.
Emma couldn’t eat a thing. She turned and headed for the nearest exit.
* * *
EMMA HURRIED ALONG the path that wound through the park. The cool evening air soothed her heated cheeks, and she forced herself to slow her pace. A few moments alone might restore her inner balance.
He can’t tell me what to do with my wife. Had he and Lanier been discussing another divorce?
She didn’t notice where the path had taken her until she was near the park’s merry-go-round, its painted horses and wild animals still gleaming in the darkness.
“I’ve been trying to catch your eye all evening, Emma.”
Her pulse beat faster, but she forced herself to stay still.
“Finally had to follow your glow. You’re like a firefly tonight.” She turned and Max Barrett gestured at her bronze gown.
“Max, I meant to return your call—”
“That would be calls,” he said with a rueful smile.
She gazed at the horses frozen in midgallop. And remembered Owen on his favorite pony—because he looks like Daddy’s horse—the other children’s laughter, the music playing. She stared at the now-silent Wurlitzer calliope in the center.
“Christian thinks it’s awful I haven’t made some arrangement with you.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘awful’...” Then, backing off, Max switched to the topic that was clearly his passion. “These horses are fantastic, aren’t they? This carousel is a Gustav Dentzel frame. He was one of the early carvers in the Philadelphia style—mostly natural, realistic horses. Menagerie animals, too,” he said and pointed. “I especially like that big cat over there.”
Her throat tightened but Emma forced herself to look at the magnificent lion with his neck arched, his mane tipped in gold leaf that shimmered in the moonlight. She studied the rest in turn, her gaze stopping here and there but always avoiding one in particular. “Did Dentzel carve these horses, too?”
The subject seemed safe as long as it didn’t become personal again. She needed to catch her breath.
“No,” Max said, “he died in 1909. These horses are new. They are wooden, though, just like Dentzel’s.” He pointed again. “See that one? Looks like—”
“Christian’s horse,” Emma said around a lump in her throat.
No longer able to avoid it, she finally glanced at the black-and-white horse on the outer row. Its painted saddle blanket was red edged in gilt. “That was always...whenever we came here...my son’s first choice.”
Mama, look. I’m going up and down and all around.
Hold on tight, Owen. Don’t let go.
My horse is higher than yours! See? I can reach the brass ring—
Always the daredevil.
Careful, sweetie! You’ll fall.
No. I’m the best rider. Like Daddy. Unable to stop herself, Emma had smiled then. Uh-huh, he’d insisted. When I’m bigger I can ride General by myself and he can be my horse, too.
With a strangled sound, she turned away from the rail. That night at the barn he’d wanted to ride. Christian would have put him up, as he sometimes did, then led the horse around the indoor ring where Grace and Rafe had been.
“Emma?” Max touched her arm.
“Just feeling a little off balance tonight...”
“I didn’t mean to upset you. What an idiot I am for showing you these horses, bringing up the pony at my shop—”
“No, I came out here first. Maybe I had to.”
She drew away, hoping to regain her composure. Certainly she could never go to the barn again. When I’m bigger...
“Emma,” he murmured, “I do understand. Really.”
Something in his voice made her turn around. She gazed into his eyes, a clear brown that showed his past sorrow.
“Odd, isn’t it,” she said, “how every word seems to take on different meaning. No one knows how to talk to me.” Unless, like the women at the pavilion, they were hinting at her guilt. “Or I to them.”
“I was the same way after my wife died.”
“I’m sorry, Max. How long ago?”
“Five years.” He patted her shoulder. “I know it’s a cliché but it does take time. Lots of it, in my experience, and I’ve heard losing a child is even worse.”
“So they say.”
“It will get better,” he insisted. “Not all at once, and not every day, but you’ll see.” He paused. “Not—to be honest—that it ever really goes away. You just toughen up and learn to live with the loss.”
Emma wasn’t that sure. But why say so? For her, it was different and she had treated Max shamefully, something she would never have done a year ago. Nothing was his fault. That was all on Emma.
She took a breath. “About those messages you left...I apologize. I should come get his...no, I’m sorry, but I can’t take the pony.”
“Now, don’t be hasty. Until you’re ready to decide, I’ll find a spot for him somewhere.” He spoke as if the carousel horse was real. Like the General. “He’s gorgeous, by the way, or he will be. Great advertising for my shop. Sure, why didn’t I think of this before? No rush,” he added. “None at all. We’ll let other people enjoy him for a while.”
Emma couldn’t imagine having any use for the pony that only reminded her of loss, but she didn’t get to say so. Footsteps sounded behind them on the walk.
“Emma.”
When Christian drew near, he nodded at Max, his eyes on her. “Our hour’s up. Check’s written. I already told Mom we’re leaving.”
Emma tensed. “You go on home. I brought my car, remember?”
“Leave it. I’ll drop you here in the morning before work.”
Max didn’t speak. Emma gave the black-and-white horse, his large eyes shining like ebony, a last look. Then she blindly turned from the merry-go-round. In daylight there would be that familiar music again, the clanging of the bell, the laughter...
She could hardly speak. “Good night, Max.”
“’Night, Emma. Christian.” But then, before she took a step, his voice stopped her. “Do you know what they say about these carousel horses?”
Emma didn’t know. She couldn’t think at all, just then.
“There’s an old saying among carvers,” he said. His tone gentled, as if he wasn’t sure she would like the story. “In the winter the ponies go to sleep—all winter long—but when spring finally arrives, they come back to life again.”
Emma blinked. He was telling her to hope. That life could be good once more, if different, that she might even be forgiven.
But for Emma her guilt was now, and ever-present.
And spring seemed very far away.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_daafe3be-a01e-52c7-a6b7-fedfadae8189)
BY THE NEXT DAY, Emma had pulled herself together enough to meet with Melanie Simmons. She wanted this new client as much as Melanie wanted her help, and like Frankie, Melanie had connections. They met at the Simmons’s house for a walk-through, then drove to Bluewater Grille, a favorite local restaurant.
Once they’d ordered, Melanie leaned forward, clasping her hands and resting her forearms on the table. “I’m told no one does exactly what you do,” she said, and Emma felt her competitive spirit kick in.
“Actually, I’m part household organizer, part shrink. It’s a matter of my asking the right questions rather than answering them.”
“More than one person has told me how well you get to the heart of things.” Melanie’s eyes sparkled. “You remember Anna Carstairs’s garage? Edie Van Kamp’s family room?”
“Yes, of course.” Both had been hard-to-please clients—like Mrs. Belkin. Edie was another friend of Frankie’s, and she suspected curiosity had brought Anna to her. “I hope they were satisfied with my work.”
To her surprise Melanie said, “That’s why I’m here.”
Emma leaned back as their food was put on the table.
“I’m so glad we were able to meet this morning. You were right. Your storage needs are out of control.”
“Four growing children keep me busy.”
Two boys—eight and six—and twin girls, who, for Emma, would be the hardest part of the job because of their age.
“Your boys’ rooms have adequate storage,” she said, “for their action figures, trucks and cars and books.” Optimus Prime. The Vindicator. “But the girls need cabinets and bins so everything isn’t scattered around or lost.”
“Three-year-olds drop toys everywhere,” Melanie agreed. “They leave clothes wherever they land.”
Yes. I know. Emma took a bite of the shrimp she’d ordered. She wanted to enjoy her meal, not envy Melanie her healthy, happy children. But the delicious food had no taste.
She waited until her voice sounded steady. “Your girls are typical of that age. Let me show you what I’m thinking.” She leaned down to pull the sketches she’d made from her bag. “Their room is a good size. I love this arched window with the built-in seat, but in addition to more storage the twins will need a clear area for play.”
She let Melanie study the drawings.
When she’d finished Emma said, “You have a beautiful home. Together we can polish the girls’ room to perfection.” She added, “The first step will be sorting. One pile to keep, another to give away or donate to charity, a third to throw out.”
Melanie groaned. “I don’t think we can include the girls for that task. They’ll want to keep everything. I’ll warn you. There will be drama.”
Emma tried to smile. “Don’t I know. Grace was fourteen when I married Christian. And there’s still drama.”
Melanie grinned. “Oh, yes. Grace has always been a queen.”
Emma smiled at last. “It’s not easy to persuade people of any age to let go of...a lifetime’s accumulation of clutter.” She gave up trying to eat. “That’s all it is, really,” she said. “Emotional junk.”
“So we’re all like those people on Hoarders?” Melanie asked.
Emma nodded. “I tell my clients to photograph an object, instead, so they can keep the memories they associate with it. But why hang on to the actual Easter hat you wore ten years ago—or whenever people wore Easter hats? Or that shapeless sweater you bought for your first date with the man you married?” With Christian.
Melanie rolled her eyes. “Outdated pants, moldy teddy bears...”
Or sheer hypocrisy on Emma’s part? How could she even think about sorting someone else’s clothes when Owen’s toys and books were still in his room? She hadn’t gone inside since the day everything had changed and she’d wrapped her own guilt around her like a quilt.
Emma cleared her throat. “If people would get rid of one item before making room for something else—the ‘new one in, old one out’ rule—in no time clutter wouldn’t be a factor.”
“‘No More Clutter,’” Melanie said with a quick smile.
“That’s my goal.” She hesitated. “Still, it’s amazing how hard it can be to give up the past.”
Melanie studied the drawings again. When she glanced up, her smile was even wider.
“This is really cute, Emma. It has the style I want.” She turned the sketches so Emma could see. “I’m a little concerned, though, about where to put their clothes. The closet in that room is tiny.”
“So are their clothes,” Emma reminded her with an answering smile she couldn’t quite feel. Fake it till you make it. But she kept seeing the unfinished playroom in her own house, the bedroom where Owen’s clothes lay untouched in the drawers, his hamper still filled with dirty shirts and pants to be washed.
“What about an armoire here?” she asked. “You could get one with shelves above and below. There’d be space to hang dresses and so on in the middle. Dress-up hats, small purses, glittery shoes can go on the upper shelves. Which—I should point out—lets you keep some of that under control. No costume parties unless you give permission.”
Melanie picked at her crab salad. “But then the closet...?”
“You can use that to store winter coats and bulkier items, extra bed linens and blankets. Unused toys. Some parents like to rotate items so some of them always seem ‘fresh’ and appealing all over again.” She pointed on the drawing to the wall space on either side of the window seat. “Right here we could put bookshelves. The girls can show off their favorite toys or, later on, books, prom pictures...”
“What about beds?” Now Melanie was frowning. “I was thinking bunk beds to save room. So they’d have that extra floor space they need to play.”
“There’s enough right here and your girls are still little. Maybe twin beds with drawers beneath would be better for now? No climbing. When they’re bigger, we can rethink.” Assuming Melanie still wanted to work with her then. “With the right furniture this room can carry your girls straight through until college—unless they want separate rooms by then.”
“I doubt that will ever happen. They’re inseparable, which isn’t uncommon with twins. After all, they’ve been sharing from the very start.”
“Then the room will grow and change with them. I think you’ll like what our suppliers have to offer.”
They discussed the needed play space, a budget, and scheduled their next meeting, when Emma would present her formal bid. Then she held out her hand. She hoped Melanie didn’t notice she was shaking. Can I do this? I have to. “So. We’re in business?”
Melanie beamed. “Of course. I’m delighted.”
Emma let out a breath. Difficult. But done.
Or rather, just beginning.
* * *
STARTING A NEW PROJECT always recharged Emma’s batteries and this one was no different, even though it was fraught with feelings she didn’t want to face. By the time she parked in the lot at No More Clutter on Market Street, after first checking the progress at another job site, she was still riding high. Though she’d been nervous, her meeting with Melanie had gone well. She couldn’t wait to tell Grace.
“Guess what?” she said, opening the door to the shop. “Great news. Your mother has hired us to do part of her house!”
But as she entered the store, she remembered that it might not be hers for much longer. Grace didn’t answer and Emma saw her loading up her backpack. It was only three o’clock. This wasn’t the first time her new assistant had cut her hours short.
Watching her, Emma bit back a sigh. Until now, this had been one of her better days. Certainly she wasn’t in the mood to quarrel.
She nodded at Grace’s bulging bag. “Business slow this afternoon?”
Her eyes, the same gray-green as Christian’s, didn’t meet Emma’s. “The only person who came in was Mrs. Turner. She doesn’t care for the drawer pulls she picked out after all. I showed her some other samples and a few catalogs.” She stuffed a cardigan sweater into her bag.
“Grace, we have several hours before closing. Two people have promised to stop by late this afternoon. What did you plan to do, put the closed sign on the door and walk away?”
Grace looked down at the pad of paper on her desk. Emma saw a few scribbles there. “I was going to leave a note.”
Not good enough. “What if I’d gotten tied up? And one of those people turned up at four thirty wanting to ask about a whole house makeover?”
“They could call tomorrow.”
This time, Emma did sigh. Their relationship was generally good, but there was always some underlying tension between them. After all, Emma had partly taken the place of Grace’s mother.
“This is the third time, Grace. You can’t just pick up and go. I understood the first time because you had a dental appointment. And the second you had to change and meet Rafe before dinner with friends, but this can’t continue.”
“Hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth—so to speak,” Grace said.
“If you’re going to tell me again that you’re practically free labor, please don’t.” Emma counted to ten. “I’m paying you a decent wage, the most I can afford right now. You know business has been off—”
Grace’s mouth tightened. “Which is exactly why I was leaving.”
“—but unless we maintain certain standards here, it will fall off even more.” Emma wanted to groan. The rosy glow from her lunch with Melanie had vanished. “Let’s face it, no one really needs us. We’re a luxury product. That’s why we have to up our game, offer things no one can resist.”
She knew she sounded stiff, and didn’t mean to, but Grace didn’t seem to have a strong work ethic. Maybe Emma couldn’t blame her for that. Had she and Christian spoiled her? Right along with Melanie?
And now there was Rafe, who also tended to indulge her. At thirty, he was ten years older than Grace and although he might’ve been ready for marriage, Grace hadn’t been—that’s what Christian said, anyway. They’d eloped in July, little more than six months after the accident, breaking Christian’s heart all over again.
Grace continued to pack her bag, her long, light brown hair—like Melanie’s—swinging. She crumpled the half-written note, then threw it at the wastebasket beside her desk. She missed and the wad of paper fell to the floor. Emma wasn’t surprised when she didn’t bend to pick it up. Grace would fit right in with Melanie’s twins.
“If you need to get home early, Grace, maybe we should officially cut your hours—and your pay. I love you,” Emma said, “but when we’re in this store I’m not your stepmother. I’m a business owner and I can’t afford to be lenient. If you don’t want to work, that’s fine. But I won’t make an exception, even in your case, for whatever whim has you cutting out now.”
“It’s not a whim.”
“Then is there some good reason why you need to leave early today?”
“Rafe just called. Someone wants to see his—I mean our—condo today. He can’t get away from the barn right now.”
The excuse sounded real enough, and she knew the couple had put their unit on the market a week ago, but Emma was tired of excuses.
“Can’t you reschedule this showing? I know how important it is to sell the condo but—”
“If I don’t work full-time, how can Rafe and I afford to buy a house?”
“Money is tight for all of us right now, but if we don’t do more to keep this business going, there won’t be a paycheck at all. For either of us.” She told Grace about the lease that would expire at the end of the year.
Grace made no comment.
Was Emma being unfair? While searching for the right words, she riffled through the phone messages on her desk. She stared down at a number and the letters, ASAP.
“I see we heard from Sally Stackworth today. What’s her problem?”
“She doesn’t like the laundry room cabinets we ordered.”
“Drawer pulls, cabinets...is anyone happy today?” Melanie Simmons, thank goodness, was happy so far.
“Not at the moment,” Grace said.
Emma took a closer look at her stepdaughter. She walked toward her for a quick hug, but Grace moved aside and headed for the door. “Please don’t go yet, Grace. We need to settle this.”
“Well,” Grace said, her back to Emma as she twisted the doorknob, “at least you’re willing to deal with something.”
Before Emma could open her mouth again, Grace had left the shop. In the parking lot her hybrid car started up, and she pulled out without even a glance in Emma’s direction.
Emma stood in the doorway, watching the car turn onto the street, seeing Grace’s stony profile at the wheel. So much for her success in getting Melanie as a new client—assuming she liked Emma’s final bid. One wouldn’t be nearly enough, and now Emma would have to stay late to put out the newest fires with Sally Stackworth and Mrs. Turner. And hope the other two potential customers actually showed up. She’d have to rethink her talk with Grace—and try to figure out where they’d gone wrong.
Am I doing anything right?
* * *
IT WAS ALMOST dusk when Christian turned into the driveway at Mountain View Farm. The green-and-white sign by the gate proclaimed it was home to Tennessee’s finest, and famed, Walking Horses.
He hadn’t intended to stop, had in fact been on his way to see his mother, as Emma had asked, but in the end he couldn’t avoid the detour. He had another reason for this visit.
His hands shook as he unlatched the gate. He slapped them against his thighs, got back in his car and drove through. Then he relatched the gate behind him, and strained for a glimpse of the General.
Christian parked near the main doors of the barn. He got out, shrugged off his suit jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and left everything in the truck along with his tie.
On his way into the stable he skirted a wheelbarrow full of steaming horse manure. In the soft, late-afternoon air he caught its pungent scent. To true horse people, even that strong aroma was like perfume and Christian had been used to it since his early teens, when he started riding. Nearby, as he passed the indoor arena, he glimpsed several girls, also boarders, on their horses, but Rafe wasn’t there to give a lesson. He must have left work for the day.
So much for asking him to exercise the General more. Christian himself hadn’t been on the horse in almost a year.
Halfway down the aisle he halted, hearing the occasional stamp of a hoof, a sudden snort from other stalls, the far-off munching of grain. He inhaled the smells that had once made his heart glad. Fine leather and saddle soap. He’d loved each one, separate or mingled, since his first time on a horse. Still, the barn reminded him with crystal clarity of that fateful day.
So many times he’d come here with Owen, bringing carrots and gummy bears. He heard a familiar whicker and his spirit warmed in spite of what had happened and the lingering regret for his harsh words to Emma the other night, his harsh thoughts.
Still, for another second, he hesitated. He stood outside the General’s stall, his pulse beating harder, his hand lingering over the brass nameplate beside the door. It had come just to the level of Owen’s head then. He could still see in his mind’s eye the mounting stool lying in the aisle, the half-open stall door his child had slipped through, intent upon feeding gummy bears up close—too close, it turned out—to Christian’s horse.
Now the General stood at the open window of his stall, gazing out toward the pastures, as if ever hopeful of seeing the mare from the next farm, but at his approach the gelding swung his head around.
Was Christian imagining things? Or had the General glanced down, as if hoping to see Owen there? All at once he could hardly see the beautiful black-and-white horse for the sudden blur in his vision.
Emma hated the General. With good reason, but Christian had owned him for years, ridden him too long. Grace had, too, until she started college and married Rafe. They knew the General didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He’d always taken care of Owen...until that last time.
It was this place, not his horse, that Christian found hard to face.
His throat tightened. “Hey, boy.” The General ambled over to the stall door and, making the snuffling sound Christian viewed as his personal greeting, stretched his neck out to accept a pat on the sleek column of warm muscle.
Christian offered him a carrot from the bag he kept in his truck. The horse chewed, steadily sucking its length into his mouth like an efficient vacuum cleaner. His dark brown eyes seemed to glow with pleasure.
“Glutton.”
What was it Emma had said? That horse is just standing around in his stall, eating up money. After what he did to my family.
Christian grabbed a brush from his trunk in the tack room, unlatched the stall door, stepped inside and nudged the General back. The horse had gained a few pounds, which only made Christian feel more guilty for neglecting him.
“Okay, fatso. I want this coat to shine like a mirror.”
As he worked, he heard giggles coming from the indoor ring, and he felt a part of this place again. As if he really could turn back time. Those girls were novices, but they acted as if they were preparing for a big show in Madison Square Garden.
He envisioned the General not that long ago, getting ready to strut his stuff in some local ring, lifting each leg high in the “big lick” that was the Walking Horse’s learned signature gait as well as the slow, rolling natural gait that had covered ground so comfortably for many long-ago plantation owners. Riding him was like sitting in a rocking chair.
Christian leaned against the General’s side and let the brush drop to the sawdust-covered floor. There would be no more gaited shows, no competitions, no red or blue ribbons to hang in the tack room, no shot at a national championship. No more.
It was dark by the time he stroked the General’s velvety nose one last time, then latched the door shut and said good-night. Maybe he should take Emma’s advice to sell. Yet he couldn’t seem to.
Looking over his shoulder once, then again, he hurried down the long aisle to the open barn doors, out into the parking lot. He rolled down his sleeves, slipped into his jacket and got into his truck. He was already late.
As he drove away he could see the girls from the ring leading their horses back to their stalls, laughing and calling to each other. Christian headed for his mother’s house.
He wouldn’t come here again.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_1049d580-7259-53e0-81f3-c154fabe1d18)
FRANKIE OWEN MALLORY stood in the parlor of her home on East Brow Road, waiting for Christian. He was an hour late. On the mantel the clock chimed seven times. She was already tired, still exhausted from the fund-raiser last night, and it had been a long day.
He was her son, she told herself. Her only son. She would be glad to see him. But like many Southern women she was no shrinking violet. She could handle him. Emma had already hinted about the anniversary party.
Forty-five years.
“Mom?” She heard Christian calling from the entry hall. At last.
“In here,” she answered, barely raising her voice.
She had no intention of giving in. She’d rather sell her antebellum sterling silver, the family antiques that had been handed down for two hundred years, or the oil portraits in the gallery from so many generations, including one Confederate general.
Frankie refused to take part in her family’s countdown to her anniversary. She wouldn’t see the humor in their teasing. Some of those years—much of the last year—had been impossible to bear.
She smoothed her tailored pants as if putting on armor. If only she and Christian could conduct this conversation without a battle.
“Hey.” He strode into the room and she sniffed the air.
“Do I smell horse?” She eyed his dark suit. “Surely you didn’t go riding dressed like that.”
“I just stopped by the barn. I didn’t have time to change.” He kissed her cheek. “How’s my favorite mother?” He folded Frankie into a hug, but the best defense, as Lanier would say, is a good offense.
“That horse is a killer. You should put him down.”
He flinched. “Have you been talking to Emma?”
“No, but it seems we agree. I can’t imagine you’d even think of going anywhere near that barn again.”
“Well, I did,” he said in the same stubborn tone he’d used since he was a little boy. “And I’m not here to argue about the General. Emma asked me to come by—speak to you about a party for your anniversary.”
Her heart lurched. “No party,” Frankie told him. “A small private dinner would suit me, thank you very much. Here’s the guest list—you, Emma, Grace, Rafael—” she all but wrinkled her nose “—your father and me. No one else.”
“That would be a first. Mom, half this town will want to celebrate your day,” he said with a cheeky grin that curdled her already precarious mood. “All those people, maybe we should rent the convention center for the night.”
Frankie picked invisible lint from the upholstered arm of a chair. The wooden surface of every end table, the gleaming white marble of the fireplace mantel, showed not a trace of dust.
“My anniversary hardly compares with the annual Pink Ball,” she said. “I should know.” Last year Frankie had served as co-chairperson of the event to benefit breast cancer research. Still, she was, in her own way, a survivor.
“Of course it does. We could even get corporate sponsors,” he said, straight-faced. “Big budget. Forget the chicken and go for the filet mignon.”
“You will do no such thing.” She patted her hair. “And don’t try to trick me with a surprise party, either. I’ll walk out. I can’t speak for your father but this guest of honor will disappear into the night.”
Christian’s smile had faded. “If this was your Ladies’ Tea Society, or whatever you call it—”
“A worthwhile service to this community.”
“—you’d jump at the chance.” He ran a hand through his dark hair.
Frankie felt a swift pain across her chest. She never knew how to talk to him. But then, in these past months she hadn’t known how to deal with what life had handed her once more.
She voiced the painful truth. “I see nothing to celebrate.”
His eyes flashed. “How about the fact that you and Dad are still walking around, breathing and talking, sixty-some years longer than my son did? Or is it easier to just forget him? The way you’ve stripped this house of every last reminder?”
She felt a pinch right behind her eyes. Yes, she’d put away all the pictures. Frankie stared, unblinking, at the room’s sparkling-clean windows. And yet...
Not quite gone.
From here she could see that single, untouched spot on the glass where Owen’s small palm print still showed, far more precious than even her antique silver. Every Friday when her “girls” came to clean, Frankie warned them to avoid that one smudge.
For most of the day the smear would be invisible to anyone but her. But at certain moments, with the angle of the light just right against the windowpane, the outline of his little hand came to life again. As if he were still...she looked away from the window.
“How I choose to run my home is none of your concern,” she said.
His tone hardened. “Fine.” He walked out into the hall. “I did what Emma asked me to, but I wash my hands of this.”
“I don’t want a party, Christian!”
“Which is exactly what I thought you’d say.”
She tried to call him back, but the slam of the front door told her he was gone. Immobilized, Frankie stood there alone, wishing she could make Christian understand.
She twisted her hands together. She’d lost a child of her own many years ago, and last year her grandson. In a very different way she’d always feared losing Christian, too.
Frankie marched upstairs. In her bedroom she studied a framed painting on one wall, an autumn scene in greens and golds. A moment later the front door opened, then shut again. Had Christian come back?
“Frankie?” Instead, Lanier’s booming voice came from downstairs.
She turned from the painting and schooled her features into a calm mask.
“There you are.” Lanier stepped into the room, his oxford shoes sinking into the plush carpet. “How was your meeting?” He kissed her forehead. “Why are you standing here in the dark?” He leaned past her to switch on her nightstand lamp.
She tried to soften her tone. “I’m standing in the dark because after my cataract surgery I don’t require floodlights to see.” Lanier was forever turning on lamps and overhead fixtures. She paused. “The meeting was...a meeting. You know how Elise can be,” she said with a half smile.
“Don’t tell me. You’ve agreed to chair next spring’s fashion show.”
“And luncheon,” she admitted.
“Again? One day, my love, you should learn to say no.”
“I did moments ago,” she murmured with another dash of regret for the tense exchange she’d had with Christian. Lanier knew instantly whom she meant. He avoided her gaze.
“That boy.” He tugged off his tie, shrugged out of his jacket, kicked off his shoes. And left them all in a heap on the floor. Frankie bit her lip and looked away. “He tried to strong-arm me into some ridiculous party. I refused. You see? I can say no. Why would y’all insist on making me miserable?”
Lanier wrapped his arms around her. “Darlin’, you might as well give in.”
“The convention center, Christian said. Of all places.” Although she tried to scoff, her eyes filled with tears. “What good would a party accomplish? And don’t assume you can take his side and sweet-talk me. Why would you?”
“Too bad. That party would be a good thing.”
“I don’t agree.”
He stepped back, then walked to his dresser, removed his cuff links and unbuttoned his shirt. Silence invaded the room. Except for the faint rustle of fabric as he tossed his shirt onto the bed, she heard nothing.
“Then, to change the subject,” he said after a long pause, “why does Christian keep hinting that he’s fed up with his job? Even last night in front of my friends? Where would he find a better-paying position, better benefits for his family and most of all a secure future?” he muttered with a curse.
“Don’t swear, Lanier.”
In four and a half decades of marriage he’d evolved from the charming Southern boy she’d wed into this stubborn older man who knew just how to push her buttons.
“If he doesn’t shape up, I’ll cut him out of my will. Leave the business to Chester Berglund. How does that sound?”
“Foolish, as you well know.” She rose to the challenge. “Chester Berglund may have kept a low profile so far—and don’t look at me as if you’ve never seen that. They may even play tennis together now and then, but underneath, I assure you, he’s Christian’s rival. Chester Berglund would love to be VP of sales. You and Christian may not see eye to eye, but he is your own flesh and blood.”
“And yours,” he pointed out, which counted for everything in the South.
Frankie turned her back.
“I’m worried about him, too,” she said. Every April on Christian’s birthday she gave thanks for another year of his life. Trying to save herself from a messy bout of hysteria—like Aunt Pittypat in Gone with the Wind—she said, “What would my Ladies’ Tea Society think if you disowned him?”
Lanier snorted, a habit of which she’d never been able to make him break. “Social climbing doesn’t become you, Frankie Owen Mallory.”
Yet he wouldn’t meet her eyes. His teasing seemed halfhearted.
“Wait a minute,” she said. The timing of his arrival struck her as too perfect. Almost as soon as Christian had stormed out, Lanier had gotten home. “That party was your idea. Wasn’t it?”
He framed her face in both hands. “Frankie, I only want you—us—to be happy again. Somehow. Maybe a party could be the right start.” His eyes stayed somber and his fingers trembled. “I haven’t forgotten how you were...after Sarah died. It’s the same all over again. Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He sighed. His hands dropped to his sides. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sure you do.”
An anniversary party. Indeed, she thought.
* * *
“NO SALE,” CHRISTIAN ANNOUNCED, shutting the door to the garage a bit too hard. He walked down the short hall into the kitchen and went straight for the sweet tea in the fridge. “The party’s off. If my mother isn’t the most stubborn woman—on the way home I thought I’d have a stroke.”
Emma sniffed the air as if she, too, smelled horse. But at least she didn’t bring up the General. And he wasn’t about to do so, either.
“Well, at least you tried. With Frankie, I mean.”
“Ball’s in your court now,” he muttered, dropping into a chair at the table. “And Dad’s.” As if that were a cue, Bob appeared from the other room, tail wagging, and laid her head on his lap. Her chocolate-brown eyes stared up at him in sympathy. “Why not forget the whole thing, Em?”
“I agree with Lanier. This family needs a celebration,” she said, stirring something in a pot.
“My mother doesn’t think so.” I see nothing to celebrate.
“I can try to change her mind, but after last night at Coolidge Park—”
“Emma, I’m sorry. I never meant to say wife instead of life.”
Still, he wasn’t sure of anything these days. Then he’d seen Emma deep in conversation with Max Barrett near the carousel, and something inside him had curled into a tight little ball. She never talked with Christian like that anymore. He didn’t think for a moment she was interested in another man, but she was pulling back...already had. He stroked Bob’s head. “How did your lunch with Mel go?”
Her face brightened. “If she approves my estimate, I’ll be doing her twins’ bedroom.”
“You think that’s the best idea?”
“I think it’s a fine idea,” she insisted. “If Melanie likes my work, she’ll recommend me to her friends the way someone else mentioned me to her.”
“Really,” he said. Not that Mel would ostracize her if things didn’t go well—meanness wasn’t in her nature—but he wasn’t sure a recommendation would mean much. Emma had lost too many clients since the accident, for which other people seemed to blame her, and was fighting to stay in business. As he’d told her, selling No More Clutter might be the better option. “Be careful,” he said.
“You don’t think I should do this?”
“I know you can.” He paused. Bob studied him with adoring eyes. “But you ran into the tribe’s buzz saw a few times just last night. Don’t forget—the worst phrase in this part of the country is ‘bless your heart.’”
“No one said that.”
“Some were likely thinking it, though, and you took the first opportunity to disappear from the pavilion. So don’t expect me to believe you’re not concerned or that you’re unaware.”
“I left because I needed air.”
“And to talk to Max Barrett.”
“I did want to apologize for not returning his calls but he found me first. And since then, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “That pony needs to be sold. Max offered to display it but—”
“It’s not the pony’s fault.” He stared into his glass. Bob blinked up at him as if she could see into Christian’s heart.
“But why would we keep it? I’m sure it’s beautiful, as he said, but instead of advertising his shop, it could give joy to another child...”
Christian’s senses went on alert.
“The playroom here was never more than half finished,” she went on.
His shoulders tensed. The room had formed a suite of sorts with Owen’s bedroom—his former nursery—on the other side of the jack-and-jill bathroom in between. And Emma clearly had other plans for it now.
“It would make a great home office, Christian. Temporarily. I know you’re not crazy about me bringing files here but I may have to. And while I’m looking for new space, which may take time, we could remove the mural, repaint the walls a different color—maybe a soft grayed taupe instead of the blue that’s in there now. There’s plenty of space for a desk on either side of that room.”
“For me, too? Or, no, you mean Grace? I don’t need a home office.” He paused. “You don’t, either. Sometimes I think your job will take over our whole marriage.” Now, he added silently, that there’s no little boy for you to come home to. As if Bob sadly agreed, she nudged her head into his hand. “After work we should be together.”
“That’s fine, but I still have a business to run.”
He tried to meet her eyes. “Emma, we have to talk, make sense of—”
Her voice quavered. “There aren’t enough words in the English language to make sense of what happened. Why can’t you see that?”
“So we should lock it all up inside and, what’s the phrase people always use, just move on?”
“That’s exactly what we should do.” She paused. “That’s all I know to do.”
“Well.” He eased Bob away, then rose from the table.
“Christian, what good is there in keeping the pony or keeping that room the way it is now?”
He turned to face her. Bob sat between them, head moving back and forth as if she were at one of his mother’s tennis matches. “You can’t even make yourself go in there,” he said, his jaw clenched. “How do you expect to sit there doing paperwork? Even to avoid me?”
“That isn’t true.”
Christian shook his head. “I wonder,” he said, “if you’re not like my mother after all.” He slammed his glass down on the counter by the sink.
“You’re being unreasonable. I only want— Christian, I’m not like that,” Emma said. “I’m not Frankie.”
“Whether you are or not—the playroom stays. Just as it is. Owen’s room, too.”
* * *
THE EMPTY UNIT at the Hamilton Place mall echoed as if Emma was walking through a tunnel. Outside the vacant store, in the broad hallways, people rushed by, intent upon their shopping. And Emma could feel her new Realtor trying to gauge her reaction. She’d called Nicole Foster the first thing this morning.
After Christian had objected to her bringing home a few files ahead of her move in late December, and had refused again to consider repurposing the playroom, she’d really taken the bit in her teeth, as he might say. Which reminded her all over again of the angry words they’d exchanged about Christian’s horse.
She never wanted to lay eyes on his horse or that barn again.
“This was a shoe store once, then a lingerie shop,” Nicole told her as they strolled through the now-abandoned space.
Emma turned in a slow circle. And turned again. She wanted to fling out her arms, embrace this place—and sign a lease as soon as possible. Wouldn’t that give her current landlord some second thoughts about losing her as a tenant? Yet she also didn’t want to jump at the first space she looked at.
“There’s a good amount of square footage here,” Nicole said.
“Mmm-hmm,” Emma agreed. She surveyed the area she might use for a reception desk, which she didn’t have in her current location. She studied the best spots for her own desk and Grace’s, too, where the display shelves would look best, and where she’d set up the mock walk-in bedroom closet, a model laundry room and even a garage wall storage unit.
“It’s a bit smaller than I’d hoped for,” she said at last.
“Organization is your business.”
“Yes, and I’d really have to get creative here—but I do like it.”
“You’d have three times the foot traffic you do downtown,” Nicole pointed out. “Maybe more. And there’s plenty of free parking. This is one of the largest malls in the Southeast, and with this location on the main level, customers wouldn’t have to use the elevators or even an escalator.”
“I’m on ground level now. This isn’t quite as good as being able to step out of a car and right into my store,” Emma said, “but it’s workable. More than,” she added. Taking a breath, she turned once more in the center of the room. She grinned. “This could be the right move. My business could thrive here, and with better advertising, and some luck, I might be able to quickly rebuild my customer base. Okay, what’s the damage?”
Nicole named a figure for the rent that made Emma’s eyes pop.
“Seriously? That much?”
“It is Hamilton Place. A premier location. Emma, it’s too good to pass up.”
And if Nicole got her to sign a lease on the first office space she’d seen, her job would be done with a handy commission for one day’s work.
“I know it’s a great space and I do love it...” She squared her shoulders. This could be her second chance. More customers, more money. People who didn’t know her...past, as so many did downtown. Yet she’d flinched at the amount, which was well above her current rent and even the higher amount her landlord wanted. “But I really can’t afford that much. Is the rent negotiable?”
“This is a premium location. Management doesn’t have to negotiate.”
Emma cast another yearning look at the empty room. “Not at all?”
Nicole linked arms with her. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee. We’ll talk.”
In the food court, Nicole decided she wanted a breakfast sandwich, but Emma stuck to the coffee she’d ordered. Her stomach kept giving little flips—nerves, she thought.
“I guess I shouldn’t have let myself get so excited,” she said, stirring cream into her coffee. “But I had an argument with my husband, who thinks I should sell my business instead of moving somewhere else.” She didn’t quite meet Nicole’s gaze. “No More Clutter is not in good shape right now—one reason I’m having to pinch pennies about the rent here—but I wanted to show him I can make a go of it still.”
Nicole pushed her sandwich around on her paper napkin, her lips pursed. “I’ve heard about your loss,” she finally said. “I understand why you’re struggling. People can be cruel, and there are several other options in this city for those who want to improve their storage capacity or redesign the garage.”
“Yes, there are,” Emma murmured. “But I think I’m competitive.”
“Or stubborn,” Nicole said. “That’s a good thing for any woman in business. You’re sure this space won’t work for you after all? It’s a real gem, Emma.”
“It is,” she agreed. “The storeroom in back is a nice bonus, but it’s small. I’d have to pare down my inventory, not carry so many samples in-store...provide more catalogs for customers to look at, instead. And one other thing,” Emma said. “The mall is pretty far from my home on Sequoia and the rush-hour traffic can be a real problem. I’m not sure...” She paused. “It is closer to my stepdaughter—my assistant’s—place, though. Grace could open for me at least some of the time and I could drive home just behind the traffic.”
“So this is workable.” Nicole polished off her breakfast sandwich, then wiped her hands on a clean napkin.
“Except for the rent.”
“Hmm. Let me see what I can do.”
They walked toward the nearest exit, where Emma had parked next to Nicole. Normally, her new Realtor would have driven Emma, but they both had appointments afterward in different directions.
“Thanks, Nicole.” They exchanged a quick hug. “I’m glad you’re going to see me through this whole process—whether it turns out to be this mall or somewhere else.”
Emma wasn’t done yet. She had to keep her business afloat, whatever it took.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_0c99daa9-4309-5e5f-a5ab-637b5046ed88)
THAT AFTERNOON CHRISTIAN WAS staring at the papers in front of him without understanding what he was seeing. He sat back in his desk chair and, instead, stared out his office window. It looked onto the parking lot in front of Mallory Trucking so there wasn’t much of a view unless he got up and walked closer to the glass so he could see across the road and up the hill where the mountains began. Today they were shrouded in fog.
Christian rubbed his eyes and sighed. There’d been a definite fog between him and Emma this morning, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Last night he’d said things he probably shouldn’t have. If he didn’t watch himself, one day he’d really lash out—blame Emma for the accident.
And then where would they be?
Earlier he’d grabbed a cup of coffee in his stainless steel to-go mug, then headed out the door before she started fixing breakfast. She would have, too. Even after their quarrel about the playroom, Emma would bustle about the kitchen making eggs and toast, pouring fresh orange juice, slipping a piece of bacon to Bob. She’d act as if everything was normal when it wasn’t. He might wish for that, but he knew it wasn’t possible. If they couldn’t work through this...
Christian tossed his pen onto the pile of forms. Another day, another dozen files. He’d become a paper pusher. Sometimes he wished he was on the road, putting in his time again like a trainee behind the wheel of one of his father’s trucks. Instead, he was here looking out the window, woolgathering.
Or what if he’d stuck to his guns in college, stayed in Fine Arts rather than switching to Business to please his parents? What if he’d taken better care with Melanie so they hadn’t ended up married with a baby when they were both barely nineteen? Not that he didn’t love Grace with all his heart.
She worried him. She’d quit college and gotten married at the same age he had. At least she wasn’t expecting a baby.
One of the pictures on his desk drew his gaze—Emma with Owen when he was two years old, his eyes bright and clear with a hint of the imp he’d always been. Emma looking down at him with such obvious love. They’d thought they had all the time in the world then.
Emma had been his second chance at happiness. The day he’d walked into No More Clutter and seen her for the first time, he’d been lost. It wasn’t only her blond hair and blue eyes and her smile. Christian had seen something more in her, an insecurity she tried to hide that made him want to protect her. He’d hired her on the spot to redo his apartment’s walk-in closet, but a month later he’d moved into Emma’s town house. A few months after that, they’d married. Fast, he thought, like him and Melanie. Like Grace with Rafe.
“Christian.” His administrative assistant stood in the doorway with another stack of papers in her hand. “Lanier wants you to see these, too.”
“Bring it on,” he said, and swiped a hand down his face.
“The coffee wagon’s here,” she said, apparently knowing better than to ask him if he was okay. “You want anything?”
Escape.
The thought came out of nowhere. But he was the heir apparent to the Mallory throne, his father’s only son, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Other men, especially Chet Berglund, would give an arm to be in his position. Why feel so trapped?
“A coffee, maybe,” he said.
“You’ve looked off-kilter all day.”
“Bad night,” he murmured, wanting to say bad year. “I’ve got a headache that won’t quit.”
She turned toward the door. “I’ll get you some aspirin.”
“Becky. No, but thanks,” he said.
She circled back. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? I’ll tell Lanier you’ll go over these tomorrow.”
He sighed. “He probably needs them today. An hour ago,” he said.
Her frown deepened. “I’m worried about you.”
“I appreciate that but I’m just bleary-eyed from looking at all these purchase orders.”
“Those are a good thing,” she said with a quick smile. “Business is great.”
That only reminded him of Emma and her concerns about No More Clutter. He glanced again at the photo, then at the phone.
“Would you get me the O’Leary office in Cincinnati? I need to change their mind about how much they want to pay us to haul freight.”
Without a word she disappeared into the anteroom. A minute later he heard her on the phone. Christian added the papers she’d given him to the stack on his desk, then straightened his tie. Ready for business.
At least, that’s what he needed everyone to think.
* * *
EMMA WAS HAVING a very bad day. Yes, she’d loved the space at Hamilton Place and hoped Nicole could negotiate a more affordable rent, but she wasn’t that confident. Since her return to the shop, she and Grace were barely speaking to each other, and every phone call proved to be another disaster in the making.
To make matters worse, neither of the customers she’d expected yesterday had shown up. Emma had stayed until the last minute waiting for them. At least that had given her time to work up her estimate for Melanie.
“Grace,” she said. “Have you reached Mrs. Belkin yet?”
“I’ve tried. If you want to know the truth, I think she’s screening you out.”
“We promised to redo her closet. That’s all I can offer.”
“She’s probably told everyone in town she’s not happy by now.”
“How could you possibly know?”
“I hear things,” Grace murmured.
“What things?”
She made a scoffing sound. “You were at Coolidge Park. Didn’t you notice? Every time someone came up to me, they were like ‘oh, Grace. It must be hard to come to a party like this...’” Her gaze snapped up to meet Emma’s. “They’re all so sympathetic when what they’re really thinking—saying—is we’re outcasts in this community.”
All the blood seemed to leach from Emma’s limbs and for an instant the world around her spun. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true.”
Emma didn’t want to talk about that. We, Grace had said.
“You never want to deal with this,” Grace said. “The morning after Owen’s funeral you were right here at your desk. You didn’t even miss a day of work after the accident.” She swiped at her eyes. “And why do people call it that, when it wasn’t an accident? We were both there,” she reminded Emma. “So how could it be an accident?”
Oh, no. Emma rose from her desk. She walked toward Grace and tried to take her in her arms but Grace shrank from her touch. “How long have you felt like this?” As if she couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment.
“Ever since I saw Rafe running toward the stalls. Then I was running, too,” Grace went on. “I saw Owen lying there, so still. And you and I were both screaming.”
And there, on the ground all around him, lay the scattered gummy bears.
Despite Grace’s resistance, Emma managed to pull her close but of course the words didn’t help. “I’m sorry, Grace.”
“You must blame me,” Grace said, her voice trembling. “I know I blame you.”
Emma could hardly argue with that. But her heart hurt anyway.
She’d have to find some way to atone. With Grace now, too.
* * *
EMMA HAD ONCE looked forward to Sunday afternoons, when her family gathered to share dinner and any news of the week. This time she didn’t know what to expect. She checked the lasagna, then shut the oven door.
There was no predicting anything. As soon as Grace had said those words the other day, the phone on Emma’s desk had rung. Mrs. Belkin had decided to hire another firm to remake her closet. No surprise.
Emma tried to put this newest disappointment out of her mind. But if she didn’t succeed with Melanie’s project, there would certainly be more. Besides, Emma really wanted to help her.
Maybe today she could even make amends with Grace.
Emma turned from the stove. Bob’s tail had started to wag full speed. She must have heard a car in the drive. The dog’s ears pricked and now Emma could hear the sounds of doors closing, voices murmuring. By the time Grace and Rafe walked in, Bob’s whole body was quivering with joy.
Grace fell to her knees and hugged the dog. Both faces were shining, and Emma smiled at what appeared to be a good start to the afternoon.
Christian strolled into the kitchen and grinned. “I was going to take Bob for a walk but I see I’ve been replaced. Hey, baby.”
Grace rose to her feet and went into his arms.
“Hi, Dad.” She kissed him soundly. “No one can replace you.”
Half in the door, half out, Rafe stood there looking, as he always did, like he shouldn’t be here. Emma’s heart went out to him; as a newlywed, she’d felt the same way with Frankie. Like Rafe, she’d married into a much wealthier family than the one in which she’d grown up. She frowned. Christian hadn’t said a word to Rafe, only given him a quick nod, but then he rarely did, which pained Emma. She knew how it felt to be an outsider.

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