For the Longest Time (9 page)

“I need to replenish everything. That table looks like it's been visited by locusts.”

“Need help?” he asked. For a moment he thought she was going to accept, that she'd lay down her arms without any more bother and let herself fall back into the easy rhythm they'd once had with each other. They could—he knew it, had already sensed it in the moments she'd let her guard down. They could start getting to know each other again tonight, instead of tomorrow. But nothing about Sam had ever been easy, and when she looked between him and the table, the line of her mouth
hardening with determination, he knew this would be no exception.

She hadn't decided what to make of him yet.

The “yet” kept him from pushing. He'd see her tomorrow. They had time.

“I'm good,” Sam said. “I can handle it myself.” She paused, considering him with a look he couldn't read. “Thanks, though.”

“Anytime,” Jake replied. She studied him, then nodded and offered him a small smile.

“Ryan's going to be upset you're dragging him away.”

“He can stay. I'll let him know I'm out of here, though, before I go,” he said. “He might want to catch up with the others.”

“Ah,” she said, her eyes going shaded. “Big plans tonight, then.”

“Not for me,” Jake replied. “My plans involve my couch, my dog, and the TV. And making sure the current crop of fur balls doesn't wreck what's left of my spare bedroom.” When she looked surprised, he leaned in close so she could hear him better—and so he could breathe in her perfume just a little bit more. There was something she needed to understand, something he'd keep repeating until Sam accepted it as the truth . . . because it was.

“I told you, Sam. I grew up. You're going to find that out.”

“Maybe,” she replied quietly. “I'll see you tomorrow, Jake.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes lingered on him, questioning, before she walked away.

A
s much as she wanted time to just slow down so she could either prepare for or indefinitely delay it, Saturday arrived in a blaze of mild nausea and at least ten outfit changes. By the time there was a series of rapid-fire knocks at her bedroom door, it was five thirty and Sam was standing helplessly in the middle of the room in her underwear and a retro Depeche Mode T-shirt, her hair piled on top of her head in a makeshift bun. And panicking. Quietly.

“I'm fine, Mom! I don't want the herbal tea. I mean it. I'll be fine,” she said in response to the knocks, hoping she sounded more together than she was. Her mother had been trying to force chamomile tea on her all afternoon, insisting it would help her relax. Just to be contrary, Sam had drunk several cups of coffee instead.

The fact that her entire body now seemed to be vibrating told her she hadn't really thought that one through very well.

The door opened partway, and a dark head poked around the side. A pair of big blue eyes gave her a quick, dispassionate once-over. There was a sigh, a shake of the head.

“You need help.”

“Nice to see you too, Em,” Sam said, then stuck her tongue out at her older sister as she walked in and shut the door behind her. As usual, Emma looked practically perfect in every way, Mary Poppins minus the whimsy. She was classically beautiful, ivory-skinned, with delicate features and big blue eyes. Her trim little pin-striped suit jacket coordinated with everything from her jeans and her kitten heels to her pearls. All she needed was an umbrella and a carpetbag.

“Jackie O called. She wants her wardrobe back,” Sam grumbled as Emma began digging through the clothes on the bed. Emma didn't even look up.

“Better Jackie O than Lady Gaga. You can't go out in your underwear.” Emma sighed again, a sound that set Sam's teeth on edge. “Where are you going to eat?”

“Someplace with burgers,” Sam replied. It shouldn't be this big a deal. She'd seen him last night and nothing catastrophic had happened, right? But that had been a relatively brief meeting in a crowd of people. Tonight, it was just
them
. And if he showed up looking half as good as he had at the gallery, she ran a much higher risk of things like awkward staring and dropping food on herself. She wasn't sure whether the feeling mixed with the panic right now was actual excitement or just impending doom.

“Burgers?” Emma looked at her strangely. “Really?”

“It's not a date.” It sounded stupid and defensive even to her, but she was sticking to it.

“Well . . .” Emma hesitated, then seemed to decide it wasn't worth getting into. “Okay. But you should still look like you put in some effort.” She looked over the pile of clothes on Sam's bed and poked it tentatively. “What's . . . ? No. You can't wear
that
.”

Sam crossed her hands over her chest and watched as her sister sorted through her wardrobe with all the efficiency of a well-trained soldier. Resistance, she knew, was futile. On the upside, no matter how long it had been since they'd seen each other, it was always as though no time had passed. Of course, that was also the downside.

“I thought you were still out of town bossing other people around,” Sam said.

“I was. That got boring, so I came back to boss you around. Having fun yet?”

“No.”

“Excellent,” Emma replied. “And for the record, I hate that you wear so much black. You look like an undertaker.” In rapid succession she tossed onto the bed a pair of dark jeans, a plain black V-neck tee, and a red infinity scarf. She turned her triumphant gaze to Sam. “There. Heels. No necklace, big earrings. Oh, and that leather jacket I saw wadded up on the bench downstairs. You'll look like you, but not quite so much like . . . you. Any questions?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, looking at the bed. “Were you adopted?”

“No, you were. Because the aliens left you here.” Emma looked at her for a long moment, and finally her lips curved into a small but genuine smile. Sam returned it, feeling an odd tug at her heart, bittersweet and strong. Maybe she'd actually missed some things about Harvest Cove after all. Or maybe she was getting very close to having a complete nervous breakdown.

Yeah, probably that.

Still, Sam gave in to the mushiness and threw her arms around her sister, giving her a bear hug. Emma stiffened right up—she always did—but Sam was used to it. She
simply hung on until Emma relaxed and hugged her back. Sam breathed in her sister's scent, something with blackberries and musk. She'd always smelled good, even when they were kids.

“It's good to see you,” Sam said.

“You too,” Emma replied, sounding both sincere and like she was resigned to the display of sisterly affection. She hadn't always been so uptight. Sometimes, like now, she even let the shields down a little. But when their father had died, a little piece of her sister had gone with him . . . and Sam knew that at this point, it probably wasn't coming back.

“Isn't he supposed to be here in half an hour?” Emma finally asked.

“More like twenty minutes now, but yeah.”

“You're stalling.”

“Maybe.”

Emma pulled back, and Sam was dismayed to see what she thought of as her sister's “disapproving schoolmarm” face. The moment between them, such as it was, had passed. At least it had helped her remember that Emma wasn't
always
impossible. That she even genuinely missed her. Sometimes.

“Do you want my opinion?” Emma asked.

“No.”

“I thought you came home to get your head on straight,” Emma said, ignoring her. “You just got back. I don't think this is going to help.”

Sam looked at her sister strangely, feeling her temper flicker to life. Yeah, this was back to normal, all right. “I didn't need to get my head on straight. I needed a job. A roof over my head.
Funds
. My head's on just fine, though, thanks.”

The eye roll she got in return put her back up even further.

“Sam, being an artist who doesn't actually make art is
not
having your head on straight,” Emma said.

Sam bristled. “I paint.”

“No, you don't,” Emma shot back. “You haven't put anything new on your site in months, and I know you. When something is wrong, you hide.”

The news that her sister had actually been keeping up with her work was both thrilling and infuriating. She hadn't thought Emma paid any attention. And now she had to wonder whether it was out of genuine interest or simply another part of her need to control everything in her universe.

“I am not
hiding
.” She glared at Emma, who was now standing with her hands on her hips looking imperious. It was a look her sister had perfected over many years, but having seen it a thousand times didn't make it any more palatable. “Don't you listen? No, never mind. I already know the answer to that.”

Sam grabbed the jeans from her bed and pulled them on with a series of angry little jerks. She wished it wasn't always like this with the two of them. Things started off fine, then went to hell in a handbasket within ten minutes or so every single time. It wasn't that she thought Emma didn't care. It's that she was always so amazingly, obnoxiously condescending about it.

“You didn't even tell me you were coming back!” Emma said, her cool facade already cracking. The ability to do that had long been one of Sam's great triumphs in life. “The last time we talked you were talking about finding a different place, looking for a different roommate—”

“Things came to a head kind of . . . abruptly,” she
replied. “Michelle didn't feel like waiting for me to sort out my living situation, things at work had totally dead-ended, and I just . . .” She trailed off, searching for words that wouldn't come. Finally, she just sighed and spread her hands. “What else could I do, Em?”

It was, as she suspected, the one thing Emma didn't have an answer for. And that was a relief, because she didn't really have room in her evening for a blowout with her sister. Her anger had already gone, replaced by the weariness she felt anytime she thought too deeply about what had brought her back. She didn't want to think about it anymore. She'd spent what felt like ages thinking about it. All she really wanted to do was move forward, if she could figure out how.

“Well,” Emma finally said, “I wish you would have at least called. You didn't even ask me about a job before you went looking.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Seriously? You don't want me working for you any more than I want to be working for you. You don't get to be offended about that. The gallery suits me. Event planning? We both know how good I'd be at that.”

She saw she'd hit her mark when Emma pursed her lips, considered, then sighed. “Fine. But I still think—”

“No. No more about how I should start over and maybe get a business degree and join the damn Garden Club. I can handle my own life, Em,” Sam said firmly, cutting her off. She didn't want to fight. She wanted to dwell on her impending train wreck of a date. Leave it to Emma, who was forever lecturing her on poor planning, to screw up the few plans she actually had.

Emma tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and tilted her head. “Really. Because you don't
look
like you're
handling it. You're living with Mom. I don't even
know
what some of these clothes are,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she prodded a pair of leather pants, “and you're going to dinner with Jake Smith. Jake the Life Ruiner.”

She'd been waiting for that. At least Emma was loyal; she'd say that for her. That awful day she'd pegged Jake in the head with the picture she'd done, she'd gone home and called the only friend she had, imperfect though the relationship was—her sister, away at college but always willing to listen. There had been no lecture that day, only sympathy. And as far as she knew, Emma had never forgiven Jake for being the source of Sam's misery.

A closer look at Emma's worried frown confirmed that. Guilt twisted like a knife in her gut.

Sam pulled on her shirt. “It's just dinner,” she muttered, looking away.

“Hmm.”

“Don't
hmm
me, Em. I'm not in the mood. It's dinner. End of story.”

Emma fell silent, but she didn't seem inclined to leave, so Sam decided that ignoring her was the best option. She took her hair down, letting it fall in the loose waves that the bun had created, and raked her fingers through it. Then she looped the scarf around her neck, trying to remember if she'd ever even worn it before. She had only a vague recollection of buying it. It was so . . . red.

When she finally glanced back at Emma, she found her sister lost in thought, her eyes far away. In that moment, Sam was startled to see an expression that she'd often seen on their mother's face, especially the year their father had died. Emma looked like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. She looked . . . tired. Sam frowned, jarred by the sight. What did Emma have
to worry about? She actually
had
her shit together. Enough that she was probably qualified to give annoying lectures to other people about it, even. Just not her.

“What?” Sam asked, glad when it seemed to jolt Emma out of her own thoughts, her lovely face settling into more familiar lines.

“Nothing,” Emma said, her posture returning to its usual rigid lines. “Just remember what you came back for. Eyes on the prize. That's all.”

Emma was actually worried about her. It was both touching and weird, so Sam sought to dispel that as quickly as possible.

“Do you think it would help if I came down the stairs blaring “Eye of the Tiger” when Jake gets here? That would send a message.”

Emma closed her eyes briefly, looked like she was praying for patience, and then turned away. “Whatever. I'm going down to see Mom. Do what you want.” She hesitated, then glanced back at her, her voice gentling slightly. “You look good. Not as much like a vampire. A little color goes a long way, you know. You ought to try it more often.”

Sam blinked. “Oh. Thanks.” She'd been annoyed enough that she hadn't remembered to argue about the clothes Emma had picked, even if they did look good together. That seemed like kind of a big oversight on her part. She made a mental note not to forget again.

“You're welcome,” Emma replied.

Sam distinctly heard her sister mutter an additional “
Idiot
,” as she shut the door. And with that, they were back on familiar footing. She shook her head and headed to the dresser to dig in her makeup bag. The evening at least required some lipstick. And her hoop earrings,
which she'd been planning to wear regardless. Emma didn't know
everything
. When she found the tube of lipstick she wanted, Sam straightened in front of the mirror. The sight of her own reflection startled her enough that she simply stood there for a moment, staring.

“Huh,” she finally said. The scarf should have been a small thing. Instead, it changed the entire outfit, accentuating her unusual eyes, the color of her skin. The effect was . . . different. Maybe Emma was onto something.

“Or maybe even a stopped clock is right twice a day,” she said to herself, frowning. She was perfectly comfortable with the way she looked now, a huge change from the last time she'd lived in this house. And she
liked
wearing black. She started to pull off the scarf, frustrated. Black suited her. Why mess with what worked? Her hands stilled as some part of her immediately arrived at an answer.

Maybe because it's good for style to evolve, genius. Style and everything else. Isn't one of the reasons you left New York because you were tired of feeling like you were standing still?

Sam let the soft fabric drop back against her chest. Arguing with Emma was one thing, but it wouldn't do much good to argue with herself. She sighed, then put on her lipstick. Red, like the scarf. She was about done with change for the time being, but a little thing like this—a little splash of color where there had been none before—couldn't hurt.