Lost and Found Family (12 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

E
MMA
SOON
REGRETTED
her impulse to become Frankie's helper. Several days into her stay in the big house on Lookout Mountain she and Christian decided to change rooms.

“Where are you going?” Frankie's voice echoed along the upstairs hall.

Emma stopped with a pile of clothing in her hands. Several sets of underwear fell to the thick Oriental carpet runner and she bent to pick them up, giving herself time to form a response that wouldn't ruffle Frankie's feathers.

“Moving,” she said, silently cursing her clumsiness.

“You can't go home. Your kitchen is a construction zone. It has to be professionally cleaned, repainted and all the appliances need to be replaced. The only thing left is the stone floor and dirty walls.”

“We're moving to a different room,” Emma said. “Christian and I thought we'd feel more comfortable at the opposite end of this hall.” As far away from Frankie and Lanier as it was possible to get unless they took the even smaller room downstairs that had been intended for a live-in housekeeper.

Frankie followed her gaze. “That room is half the size of the one you're in now,” she said. “Why would you want to—” Her face turned pink.

Emma blushed, too. “We're a married couple. We need our privacy.”

Frankie wrung her hands. “I see.”

It wasn't as if Emma and Christian made love that often now, which had become more a kind of clinging together than the true closeness Emma missed terribly. Yet she imagined Frankie could hear them talking or arguing every night.

“We're not swinging from the ceiling light,” Emma added with a faint smile. “But, seriously, Christian comes in late some nights after he's been on the road and voices carry. We don't want to keep you and Lanier awake.”

Emma shifted the stack of loose clothing and a bra suddenly dangled free, its metal clasp brushing against her leg. Her bandaged hand made every task more difficult. “You may embellish that any way you want,” she said. “But if it's all right with you, we'll take the other room.”

“Sleep where you will,” Frankie said at last. But when Emma started down the hall again, Frankie called her back. “As long as we're making other arrangements, I'd like to talk to you about the rest of this house.”

Emma froze. She'd expected to hear more of Frankie's opinions about the party they were planning together—or trying to. “I know I didn't clean the sunroom to your liking yesterday, but it's never easy to start working in someone else's home. The same is true for me each time I begin working with a new client.”

“I'm not a client. I have a cleaning service,” Frankie said. “I don't need you to dust or sweep or mop the floors in the sunroom or anywhere else.”

“I was only trying to help. The sunroom furniture seemed a bit...” No, nothing in Frankie's house was ever dirty. “I guess I needed something to do while I waited for Christian to get home. And, Frankie, I can't simply accept your hospitality without giving something back. I'll get the hang of it,” she added with a smile Frankie didn't return.

“The ‘hang' of it,” she said. And Emma once again felt like the girl who'd had no proper upbringing, who had none of the social graces Frankie prized and that Melanie seemed to be born with.

“My clients understand,” she said. “So far Melanie seems more than pleased with what we've done for her twins' room.” But since her brief meltdown over the imagined gummy bears, Emma had tried to plan her visits to the site when she knew Melanie—but especially the girls—wouldn't be home.

Frankie marched back along the hall, shoulders squared and spine straight, like a soldier on parade. “As soon as you've moved, don't forget we need to discuss the party.”

But when she and Frankie tried to discuss the guest list, they ended up in a new wrangle.

“I have thirty people here,” Emma said, running an eye down the invitation list. But somehow the party had expanded from the close family and a few friends Frankie had insisted upon. In fact, it was growing by the day. “You want to add...?”

“I can't forget Elise. She would never forgive me.” Frankie paused. “Oh, and then there are the Sunderlands and the Wagners and...” On she went until the list had topped fifty, including, to Emma's dismay, her former client Mrs. Belkin. The extra people meant Emma would have to request a larger banquet space for the dinner. The event budget was increasing, too.

“We were lucky to get the club on such short notice,” she told Frankie. “People book wedding receptions there years ahead—as I'm sure you know.” What had happened to Frankie's insistence on a small dinner party with half a dozen family members?

It seemed the party Frankie had once hated to think about had become her latest social crusade. She'd taken over.

* * *

T
HAT
NIGHT
,
SITTING
beside Emma on the bed in their new room, Christian bent closer to examine her injured hand.

“That hurts,” she said, but it was his way of apologizing.

Because of his anger, his fear, after the fire, Christian had been tending to her ever since. Each night after his latest road trip, he checked her burns. Now he patted the area dry, applied an antibiotic ointment, wrapped new gauze around her palm and affixed the strips of adhesive tape he'd cut for tonight's fresh bandage.

He moved back to study his handiwork. “I know it hurts, but you're not a bad patient.”

Emma smiled. “You're not a half-bad doctor.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I should have gone to med school instead of going into the business with Dad.”

“Maybe you should have become an artist.” She held up her bandaged hand. “This is a masterpiece.”

“Thanks.” He sighed. “When I stopped in to see Max just before the fire, he gave me a tour of his shop. I had such an urge to quit driving, leave Chet Berglund in my place and learn to carve carousel ponies. Not that I know a thing about them except what Max has told me.”

He didn't want to delve into that topic further. Any mention of Max always reminded Emma of Owen's pony, still sitting in his shop waiting for a new owner. And of the General, still living at the barn where Rafe worked. Christian changed the subject.

“You have any free time tomorrow? I'm not on the road and we need to pick out new kitchen appliances. Maybe a washer and dryer, too. That kitchen did need an update. You can jazz up the laundry room while we're at it.”

“What about our budget?”

He frowned. “I'm earning enough to keep up with the bills. We can take the kitchen redo expenses, whatever isn't covered by our homeowner's insurance, out of our savings.”

“I don't mean to imply that you're not doing your share.”

“No, you have a point. I'm still not sure it's the right share.”

“I hate to see you so uncertain about your future.”

Christian's mouth firmed.
Just tell her
. “I've made a decision about the General at least,” he said.

Emma's eyes brightened. “You're going to sell—”

“I need to talk to Rafe first.”

* * *

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
,
Emma exited the highway at Signal Mountain Boulevard. The work on Melanie's house was going well, and the project was almost on schedule.

Even with the end of her office lease looming, her job provided a satisfaction Christian probably couldn't understand just now, but for Emma it was even a refuge from her troubled thoughts.

Today, she'd found some excellent baskets for the shelves in the twins' new room. She couldn't wait to show them to Melanie. A brief hands-free phone call to her next client allowed her to make a quick stop at the Simmons's house first.

As always, Melanie's traditional home looked beautiful. The front gardens—always in bloom—were lush with bright yellow and orange mums. A large wreath of dried grasses, monkeypod and more blossoms hung on the front door, centered by the antique bronze knocker.

Carrying a lavender-and-white basket, Emma rang the bell. From inside, she heard a harried “Coming” just before Melanie flung open the door. Two rambunctious little girls rushed after her, chattering and giggling, their blond ponytails flying. Melanie narrowly avoided tripping over an abandoned pink Barbie convertible in her path.

“Emma. Hi. I didn't expect you. Did I forget a meeting?—and look at me. No makeup, sweat pants and a tee covered with playdough blobs.”

“You look great. You always do.”
Gorgeous
, Emma thought,
without any effort
.

At the sight of the twins Emma took a step back. But, oh, what a pair of pint-size darlings they were. “No meeting,” she said. “This is an impulse visit. Sorry, I should have called before.” She started to turn away.

“No, please. Come in.” Dodging her girls, Melanie drew her into the entry hall. She put an arm around each of the twins. “If you remember, this is Ava, and my other daughter, Abigail. Say hello to Mrs. Mallory. Abby's the one with blue ribbons in her hair today.”

“Hi, Missus Ma-lley.”

“Hello,” the other twin said shyly.

“Grace is Mrs. Mallory's stepdaughter,” Melanie told them, gently correcting Abby's pronunciation without drawing attention to the mistake.

“My Grace?” Ava asked.

“Your Grace,” Melanie said. She tugged on a ponytail, then kissed the top of her head. “Yours, too, Abby.”

Emma breathed deeply to steady herself. This wasn't the twins' fault.
I can't very well avoid every small child for the rest of my life.
Still, an ache centered in her chest like a boulder, a hard lump Emma couldn't seem to dislodge. “I've brought you something,” she said.

Melanie ushered her into the living room and took the basket from her. “For the girls?”

“Yes. I found them on clearance at that little boutique on the south side we both like. They're holding the rest for us. I think they'll work as storage containers and add a pop of color to the shelves. Do you like this one?”

Melanie examined the basket from every angle. Made of sweetgrass, it seemed perfect to complement the new curtains and the cushion for the window seat. Well, a perfect color if Emma remembered right. She wished she'd taken a swatch of material with her when she'd shopped. But of course the purchase, like her visit here today, had been unplanned.

“I love it!” Melanie beamed. “Let's take it upstairs.”

With the twins like a pair of little shadows, she started for the steps, perhaps hoping to divert Emma's attention from her first shock at finding the twins here.

“The guys are finishing the shelves at the shop,” Emma told her. “Derek's scheduled to install them tomorrow if that works for you. He'll be here by nine.”

“Perfect.”

They went up the stairs, making small talk, the girls scampering ahead of them down the hall into their new room.

At the door, Melanie said, “It's fine that you didn't call, Emma, but if you had—I would have sent the girls next door. My neighbor could have watched them.” She nodded at the twins, who were climbing on their new beds and talking to each other in a sort of dialect Emma couldn't understand.

“Don't even try. They have their own language,” Melanie explained. “Common among twins, I'm told. If I didn't have my mothers' group to keep me sane, I don't know how I'd manage. They simply shut me out whenever they please. The judge and I are like someone in a foreign country.”

Emma smiled. The hard ache inside dissolved.

“They're beautiful. And such energy,” she said.

Melanie touched her shoulder. “This must be hard for you, though.”

“I'm glad I got the chance to see your girls.” And to her even greater surprise, Emma wasn't just saying that. “This will help me, really, when we accessorize their space.” Then she heard herself add, “Owen had the same sort of energy, every day, all day, until bedtime. As soon as the lights went out, so did he. He could fall asleep faster than anyone I've ever known.”

“Except Christian,” Melanie said.

That was true, when he'd still been able to sleep.

“I know exactly what you mean. Owen was like his father in so many ways.”

“Emma...” Melanie's smile was tender. She didn't say more. There was no need.

In that instant she and Emma were refined to an essence, not Frankie's daughters-in-law or Christian's wives, but two mothers, and that was all. For the first time in a long while, Emma felt closer to being...Emma.

Maybe this, the ability to remember Owen, would become her new normal.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

C
HRISTIAN
DIDN
'
T
KNOW
how much longer they could stay at his parents' house. How much more Emma could stand of clashing with his mother or keeping Bob outside in the kennel.

She was constantly making excuses—and any would do—to visit their poor banished dog. In the early evenings Christian tried to take Bob for a long walk on East Brow Road, but tonight wouldn't be one of them. He had an afternoon run to Atlanta, which meant getting back late. But it hadn't escaped his notice that his father seemed to make sure he took only the shorter runs, no overnights, so he'd be home to sleep.

Home, if not really at home, with Emma.

With a few hours to kill before the drive, he pulled up in front of Ponies on Parade. Maybe Max needed some help.

“I do,” he said when Christian asked. “Got a new shipment of basswood this morning if you don't mind helping me. Let's find somewhere to move it.” He led Christian to the rear of the shop, where the ponies he'd seen in various stages of development had made progress.

“The grandmother's project looks great,” Christian said. He didn't fully understand the process, but he had a good eye and it appeared the sanding had been finished. A first coat of russet paint had been applied to the near side.

“How's Emma doing since the fire?” Max asked. “Her hand better?”

“Mostly,” Christian said. “I'm playing the part of doctor every night. I'm pretty good with the gauze and tape.” He'd also gotten better at expressing the anger he couldn't seem to hide anymore.

Max's smile softened. “Be glad you have that doctoring to do. My wife and I...well, in my experience things can go bad pretty fast. Five years ago she'd already been sick for some time but her latest blood work looked better. We were both excited about her health returning and the party we were going to have to mark our tenth anniversary.” Max looked away. “A month later she was gone.”

Christian laid a hand on his shoulder and remembered Emma saying what a young widower Max was. “I'm sorry.”

With a slight shake of his head Max straightened,
then headed toward a large stack of wood in the corner. “Come on, let's get this stuff into the storeroom. Guy who drove the delivery truck just dumped it here and it's in my way.”

“Sure thing.” Christian followed him, wondering if he should try to say anything more. He never had much luck with Emma, and it wasn't as if most men were prone to talking about their deepest feelings.

Too bad he couldn't get away from his.

As Max updated him on the progress he'd made with the ponies, Christian felt something spark inside him again.

“I love the smell of wood shavings here,” he said, “and even the sting I get in my nose from the different paints and solvents.”

Max eyed him for a moment but Christian shook his head.

“No, it's either I-75 for me right now or an office at Mallory Trucking,” he said. “And Emma and I are redoing our kitchen, which doesn't promise to come in on budget. No surprise.”

“You've painted before, haven't you?”

Christian thought of the half-finished playroom. “Sure,” he said, “but nothing this creative.”

“You can hold a brush, you can do the work.”

Before Christian could protest, Max had led him to the front room, where Owen's black-and-white pony still stood.

“I can't sell this guy until he's done,” Max reminded him. “And I've got the others to finish for people who are waiting. What do you say?”

“Me?” Christian's heart picked up speed.

“You'd be doing me a real favor.”

“No one would want to buy him when I get done.”

“How do you know? You haven't tried.”

Christian studied the miniature horse, knowing how thrilled Owen would have been on Christmas morning to find it in his new playroom. Still, if he helped Max with this and then Max sold it, someone else's child would be delighted instead. That had been the goal, right? To make a little boy or girl happy?

“If you're willing to take the chance on me—”

“You're a quick learner. It's only paint, Christian,” Max said. “If you make a mistake, you can paint over.”

His spirits lifted. He'd come here to get away from his thoughts about living with his parents, his ambivalence about his future and the need to find something...lasting after the accident that would keep Owen's memory alive. He left feeling almost buoyant, excited. He couldn't wait to begin work on that pony.

Yet, as he drove downtown to swap his pickup for an eighteen-wheeler, he made the turn that took him to Mountain View Farm.

As soon as he got out of the truck, he heard Rafe in the indoor riding arena, where several young girls were having a lesson. Christian stood in the entry until Rafe glanced at him and then held up a hand.

“Trot on,” he called to the girls, already crossing the sawdust-covered ring to Christian. “Grace all right? Emma, too?”

“They're fine,” he said. He'd never suspected Rafe was so family oriented, and the realization unsettled Christian. Fair or not, he'd always viewed Rafe as a complication in his daughter's life. She should still have been in school working on the major she might have chosen at last, even partying with her friends, “whenever appropriate.” But Grace wasn't doing any of that. She hadn't found her own path in life—except for her job at Emma's shop. “I'm here about the General.”

Rafe rubbed the back of his neck. “I've tried to make extra time for him, but something always seems to come up. Yesterday one of my newer students took a fall and bumped her head. I took her to the ER. By the time I got back, it was ten o'clock and I hadn't been home yet.”

“I know how it is,” Christian said, or he had when he was still in the office at Mallory. If he'd objected to Emma's work hours, she'd felt the same about his. “How's your student?”

“She's okay. No concussion, just a slight goose egg on her head. The helmets these days are really protective. She was more scared than hurt.”

“Bet her parents were more upset.” He tried not to glance along the nearby aisle toward the General's stall. His throat tightened. “Rafe, I'd like to lease the General to someone. I'm not riding him anymore—I'm sure you know why—and even coming to this barn can be...you must know how hard that is, too.”

“Sure. I'm glad you took my suggestion. You want me to find someone?”

“If you could, that would be...yeah, please.”

Rafe thought for a moment. “I know several people who are looking to buy but offhand no one who wants to lease. Maybe one of my adult riders is ready to move up. I'll try. I'll try hard,” he said.

Rafe didn't sound that confident. If he couldn't find someone to lease the General, Christian would have to make the hardest decision after all.

“I hate to point this out, but his reputation may be a problem,” Rafe said. “I don't have to tell you how small the horse community is and I've had a couple of people here—boarders, students—make comments.” He shrugged. “You know.”

Christian did know. His own mother was among them.
He's a killer
.

“Do whatever you can. I'll be happy to provide his vet records—and you have his competition ribbons hanging in the tack room. Until last year, he never...” Christian swallowed. “To be honest, I feel kind of disloyal to the General. But I'm not ready to sell, and I hate thinking of him standing in his stall or even running around in the pasture without working.”

“He's well trained,” Rafe agreed. “I've never had a problem with him. I don't want to say he's lonely, but that's how it looks to me. I've been giving him treats, talking to him, even grooming him when I can, but he does need to do what he was meant to do.”

“Yeah.” Yet Christian didn't feel satisfied. Leasing the General meant losing him in a different way. Maybe he should sell outright. But then someone might move him to another barn, and all he'd have left were those photographs. With a lease he'd still have the possibility of visiting occasionally. This was the right thing to do. For now.

Christian checked his watch, then left the barn without looking back.

He couldn't face the General.

But at least Emma would be happy.

* * *

T
HE
ONLINE
SUPPORT
group hadn't worked out...to say the least. So maybe it would be better to see people's faces, to gauge their reactions and avoid getting blindsided on a computer screen. After seeing Melanie's twins again, Emma wanted to at least try to find that new normal for her life.

Emma read about a local meeting in the morning paper and went back and forth on whether to attend. By the time she'd made her decision and arrived, the meeting had already been called to order. As she took a seat in the rear of the room, her palms turned damp. Was she ready to expose her darkest soul to strangers, like someone at an AA meeting?

At the front of the room the woman who was apparently in charge sent her a welcoming smile. “I'm glad you could join us. You're Emma, right?”

“Yes,” she said, wondering if she should stay. There must be twenty other people here, and every gaze seemed trained on her. The woman in front must be the same person she'd spoken to earlier on the phone.

“Why don't you take a seat closer to the rest of us? We really don't bite.”

A few members of the group laughed. They all seemed to be well acquainted, somehow in sync with one another. Emma was the outsider, a role that should feel familiar. A man with graying hair turned to look at her with an expression she couldn't read, and someone younger, little more than a girl, really, patted the chair beside her in the second row.

Emma took the hint—and moved. She didn't want to give the impression she was afraid, which she was, or that she was by nature unfriendly. She wasn't. Before the accident, she'd had tons of friends.

“First order of business today,” the moderator began, “is to report on our bake sale last Saturday. You'll all be happy to hear it was a great success. We netted $64.73.” Everyone laughed this time. “I know that's not much money, but it will allow us to buy some of the decorative boxes we talked about last time, one for each of you. We'll keep them here and you can put anything in them you like. A happy memory of a loved one, a favorite object, a funeral card, a picture...then we can talk about them whenever you wish.”

Emma sank deeper into her chair. She couldn't even venture into Owen's room. She certainly didn't feel ready to discuss him with strangers.

“I shouldn't have come,” she whispered to the dark-haired girl beside her.

“I felt the same way the first time I came.” She leaned closer. “It's harder some days than others. But, please. Stay. You won't be sorry.”

Emma couldn't imagine that, but she took a breath and nodded.

She would try one meeting—that was all. Then she'd decide whether to continue.

The next two hours passed in a blur.

“I lost my wife a year ago,” the gray-haired man said. He shifted from one foot to the other and gripped the edges of the podium. “I can't seem to accept that she's gone.” Tears filled his eyes and he could say no more. The moderator led him back to his seat, where he hunched into himself and sobbed aloud. Several people got up to speak softly to him. Another man sat next to him, one arm around his shaking shoulders.

Emma swallowed, her stomach rising into her throat.

“Hang in there,” the girl said. “It gets easier.”

Emma doubted that, although Max Barrett had said the same.

“Emma,” the moderator said. “Would you like to share your story?”

“Not today,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“Whatever it is, no one will judge you here.”

The comment brought her upright in her chair. Did others wonder if there was something, anything, they could have done to change a tragic outcome? All she could think of was Thad.

“I'm sorry, I can't—” She started to get up.

But the girl beside her gently drew her back down. “You don't have to,” she said. “Everyone understands.”

Emma forced herself to stay but didn't really hear the rest of the testimonials, confessions, or whatever they were called. Her mind had shut down. Only tomorrow's to-do list kept her in her chair. Call Melanie. Send Grace to meet a potential client whose smaller project might be perfect to expand her role at the shop and engage her more.

At the end of the meeting she glanced up, as if from a daze, to see people standing, gathering belongings and exchanging a few greetings here and there. Most of them began edging toward the front of the room instead of the rear exit, where someone had set out an urn of coffee. She hadn't even noticed the enticing smell. An open box of doughnuts sat beside foam cups and paper napkins.

Her heart sank. No way was she going to enjoy a social hour here.

The girl slipped an arm through hers. “Emma, it's good to meet people. You'll feel more relaxed once you get to know a few of us. My name's Jody.”

Her probing look changed Emma's mind. She must appear half crazy, not normal at all. “Just half a cup,” she said at last, “or I'll be awake all night.”

She followed Jody to the front, kept her head down while she poured dark coffee into a cup. She added sugar, then cream. Stirred with the little wooden stick provided. Jody handed her a napkin with a doughnut.

“Eat. You'll feel better. The shakes can be hard to deal with.”

The gray-haired man joined them at the fringe of the group—all those people who were milling about, laughing and talking. “This is the part where we pretend nothing bad happened to us—even after more than one meeting.”