Tomorrow's Sun (36 page)

Black sheets. Black walls. Black thoughts.

Emily knelt on a rug that matched the rest of the décor and stretched toward a medieval-looking light fixture. It was just after nine, but her hips were feeling every concrete foot of the Burlington walk. She was exhausted, but if she didn’t loosen up before getting into bed, she’d be calling for help to get out of it in the morning.

And just who would come to her rescue? She folded, head-down, lumbar muscles stretching as her imagination did the same.

Blaze’s plan to find a wife for her son battled with Emily’s plan to stay detached while she accomplished what she came here to do. Like a neutral referee, one thought stood between the two, arms akimbo, silver whistle blaring over the cacaphony. “Why,” the ref shouted, “can’t you have both?” If there was a woman in California willing to pay her eleven hundred dollars a week to watch her kids, there had to be similar opportunites in Milwaukee or Chicago.

She’d passed a test on her back porch with paper and scissors and two little boys—she could still love on kids without falling apart. She could move to a Chicago suburb or some ritzy area of Milwaukee, close enough to see Jake and the kids.

Reaching toward the black ceiling again, she took a deep breath of reality.

Money was only a part of the problem. She couldn’t move one step closer to Jake without telling him the truth. All of it. No more flirting, no more soul-baring talks about everything but what really mattered. No more almost kisses. She’d avoid him until after her weekend with Sierra and Dawn Anne. And then she’d tell him. And then she’d leave. Unless…

With a low groan she stood, snapped the light switch, and crawled into bed.

Jake’s bed.

And he was in hers.

She stared into the thick blackness and listened to the hum of cidadas through the screen of the small window. Last night a fan had kept the air moving in the concrete-walled room. Tonight the fan was gone and only the slightest whisper of muggy night air descended.

The battle continued in the dark. Lying on her back in Jake’s bed, in a town where she wasn’t supposed to know anyone, she felt like Gulliver in the hands of the Lilliputians. Each person she’d met threw a rope over an appendage. Adam, Lexi, Blaze, Tina, Michael, Russell, Dorothy. And the thickest rope, the one tossed over her neck, tightened in Jake’s hand.

Lord, what am I supposed to do?
The prayer formed on a half-asleep sigh. She had no right to come before the throne of God with a request for herself, but she was too tired to take it back.

“What was her name again?”

The loud voice came from above and to her left. Emily opened her eyes. Only a pinpoint of light from her laptop on the floor in the corner eased the pitch blackness. She bunched Jake’s pillow and turned onto her right side, rounding her stiff back as she curled into a fetal position. She must have been dreaming.

“Let’s bring our shoes inside. They’ll get all dewy.” The distinct sound of a tent zipper followed. “Her name is Heidi.”

That voice she recognized. Lexi. Outside her window.

“Why did they break up?”

“Because of me and Adam. Jake was crazy about her, and Adam and I adored her, but Jake thought spending time with Heidi took time away from us. And planning a wedding so soon after my mom died wouldn’t be cool.”

“But you’re sure he still loves her?”

“Oh yeah. He keeps a box of her letters under his bed. I’ve seen it sitting out tons of times.”

Emily sat up and hugged Jake’s pillow.

“Wow. Unrequited love.” An angst-filled sigh accompanied the wistful statement. “Beautiful, but so sad.”

“I know.” Lexi sniffed. Her voice was tight. “I just wish there was something I could do. I hate to see Jake so miserable.”

“And think how Heidi must be feeling. Do you think she resents you for coming between them?”

“She’s way too sweet for that. I know she only wants the best for us, but she has to be sad. They were MFEO.” Lexi whooshed a sigh louder than the one before. “Let’s go to sleep. Maybe we’ll dream of something to do.”

“Maybe. ‘Night, Lex.”

“‘Night, Naomi.”

MFEO
? Emily’s sleep-fogged brain processed slowly. And then a scene from
Sleepless in Seattle
came into focus. Meg Ryan reading a letter… “Can’t wait to meet you in New York and see if we’re MFEO.”

Made for each other
.

To which the other character replies, “It’s like a little clue.”

Moving as stealthily as the injured cat that probably slept in the tent outside her window, she eased back onto her knees on the black rug. Stretching in the middle of the night was sometimes necessary after a long day on her feet. Reaching up toward the ceiling, she curved her neck to the right then the left. Had she locked the door? No. Why would she?

She hadn’t planned on snooping through Jake’s things.

After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the blackness. The tiny blue light illuminated outlines, enough to keep her from banging her hip into the desk or knocking over the wastebasket. She padded across the cool floor and felt for the door handle. The button in the center of the handle slid in and turned without a sound and she tiptoed back to the rug.

On her knees again, an ethical battle ensued. She had no right to rifle through his things. Besides, what could she possibly gain from reading old love letters? She laughed at the irony. She’d been reading and rereading old love letters so often in the past week she’d memorized them. And she’d bought a small fireproof safe to protect them. The letters under the bed were a piece of Jake’s history. If they still existed. And wasn’t that all she really wanted to know?

Her hand slid under the bed and came out with a dirty sock. She wouldn’t read the letters. She just wanted to know if he really still kept them. Her fingers skimmed a book. Bound in soft leather, it had to be a Bible. If she found the box, what would it tell her about Jake? That he still had feelings for the woman? That he was simply sentimental? Or maybe all she’d learn was that he never cleaned under his bed. She flattened on the rug. One fingernail scraped cardboard. Strange that she could tell it was a box just from the sound. Her chest tightened. This was Sierra’s every waking moment. Had her senses heightened in this short time? Did she hear and feel things sighted people didn’t?

Hooking her finger under the lid of the box, she pulled it toward her. In a week she’d know more about Sierra’s world than she wanted to. One week to steel herself, two days in a hotel to pretend it was a patch of ice that changed both of their lives forever.

She slid the box over to her computer. The miniscule light brightened then faded. She tucked the computer in the crook of her arm and pointed the light at the box. It only needed to be bright enough to confirm there were letters inside. She lifted the cover. A thin purple ribbon fluttered into the box. Her stomach flipped.

She’d used the trick herself. In junior high, whenever she suspected Susan of reading her diary, she marked a page with a thread laid just so through a particular word. The thread wouldn’t move unless someone opened the book.

So Jake had assumed she’d be nosing around. And now she’d have to face him. Should she ‘fess up or wait until he found out? She picked up the ribbon and spread it across the open top. Shiny side up or down? A woman would always put it up. A man wouldn’t care. She put it down. Her gaze skimmed the top letter. It was typed. That made more sense. Maybe they were e-mails he’d printed out. Who wrote letters these days? She thought of the “love” texts from Keith: H
EY
. T
HINKING OF U IN BLACK DRESS
.

Hannah had no idea how fortunate she was to be born in an era where men used pens and weren’t offended by flowery answers.

She didn’t mean to read the first line. Or the second. She hadn’t expected the light to be this bright.

Emily’s upper lip curled.
Eeww
. The box was heavy. Were they all equally sappy? Hannah Shaw might have gotten away with it back when melodrama was the norm, but in this day and age it was simply weird. If this was the kind of woman Jake was after, she didn’t stand a chance. She put the tampered box back in its place. Instead of crawling back into bed with jealous tears, she pulled the black sheet over her head and stifled her laughter. In Jake’s pillow.

She fell asleep in seconds, but her eyes shot open after what seemed like only moments. Not a noise this time. A thought. A word.
Tomorrow
. The sappy letter said, “I can’t wait until tomorrow when you hold me…”

When was tomorrow?

Kicking the covers aside, she eased out of bed and rewound her last few steps. Sliding the box, moving the ribbon, lifting the letter. No date. She set it aside. A picture lay on top. Jake, nuzzling the cheek of the dark-haired woman she’d seen at Chances. She turned it over. “Heidi and Jake forever” was scrawled on the back. She jammed it along the side of the box and looked at the second letter.

Emily threw the purple ribbon into the box, slammed the cover, and kicked it under the bed.

Floating houses, the Golden Gate Bridge, art studios, sailboats, houses nestled into the side of the hill overlooking the bay—Emily looked up from her laptop, took a sip of latte, and breathed in the smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Artwork by a local artist covered the coffee shop walls.

A perfect setting for planning a future.

The time in the bottom corner of her screen gave the go-ahead. It was eight-fifteen in California. She’d catch Cara on her way to work.

The voice that greeted her was much perkier than yesterday’s. “Hey, Em. Sorry about yesterday. I was a mess. Don’t know why we got cut off.”

Emily smiled at the surfer silhouetted on her screen, backlit by a twenty-four-karat-gold sunset. “No problem. Did you know Otis Redding wrote ‘Dock of the Bay’ in Sausalito?”

The squeal hurt her ear. “You’re going to take the job?”

“I’m going to apply. Maybe she’s already found someone.”

“She hasn’t. I was serious when I said I told her to stop looking. I guess you should send her your résumé and references, but honestly, I don’t think she’ll even look at them. The job’s yours, girlfriend.”

Emily leaned her chin on her hand. If she closed her eyes, she’d be on that beach, reclining in the sand, watching the last rays of California sun kiss the muscled bronzed back of the surfer. He’d turn and smile and say, “Hi, I’m Fabio. I don’t want children, but I do want you.” Relief giggled up in her like a shaken soda bottle. Anyone in the coffee shop who couldn’t see her headset would label her a nut case.