by Jane Green
Emma was never interested. She shakes her head now to dislodge her thoughts. Why is she even thinking about whether she could see herself and Dominic together? It’s not like she’s looking for a relationship with anyone. The fact that he makes her feel good is irrelevant, surely. She has bigger things to focus on—living intentionally and on her own terms, perhaps for the first time ever in her life.
Twenty minutes later she is brushing her teeth when she hears a car pulling up outside the house. Padding into the library, toothbrush still in her mouth, she leaves the lights off to peer through the window, knowing she can’t be seen. Who could it be, so late at night?
A Jeep is in Dominic’s driveway. Emma stands to one side and watches as the lights go off and the car door opens. And out steps Gina, who pauses for a minute to shake her hair out. Emma’s heart sinks.
Of course. That was why he left. Gina was coming over. Emma got it completely wrong. He wasn’t about to kiss her. That was all in her imagination. Why would he have kissed her when he has Gina?
Feeling stupid, and disproportionately sad over something so silly, Emma goes back into the bathroom to rinse, then crawls into bed. She tries to distract her sorrows with a few pages of the book on her nightstand. But it doesn’t work. Eventually, finally, she falls asleep.
TWELVE
The Jeep is gone by the time Emma wakes up, earlier than she normally would, only because Hobbes pads along her pillow, purring, curling herself up in the crook of Emma’s neck, and licking her chin with a rough, raspy tongue.
Emma nuzzles Hobbes for a while, going over everything that happened the night before with Dominic. The talking, the sharing, the intimacy.
This morning she finds herself embarrassed. He has a girlfriend; she needs to push him out of her head, at least in any capacity other than helpful landlord.
I will be friendly and polite, but a little cool, she thinks. I will ensure that he does not think his tenant is interested, that if I was a little flirty last night, or a little too revealing, it was just because I was a little drunk, not because I have a crush on him, or anything ridiculous like that.
As she thinks this, she pictures him in his jeans and T-shirts, pictures his dimples when he smiles, the way he pushes his hair back when it falls into his eyes as he’s working, and she finds that she is smiling to herself. Horrified, she wipes the smile off her face as she hears a noise.
“Hello?” She jumps out of bed and runs into the living room, to find Jesse standing in the middle of the room, still bleary-eyed with sleep.
“Jesse? How did you get in?” She is careful to lock all the doors every night, city girl that she is. She frowns, clearly remembering having locked both the front door and the back last night, after Dominic left.
Jesse grins. “Cat flap.”
Emma can’t help but smile. “Ah! The infamous cat flap!”
Jesse drops down to the floor and easily slips through the flap to the other side, popping up to wave at her through the glass of the window, before coming back through.
“Well, you’re a boy of many talents, aren’t you? Have you come to see Hobbes? You did a wonderful job of looking after her last night. She was so happy when I came home.”
“Can I feed her?” says Jesse, spying Hobbes in the corridor and running over to get her, which sends her darting under the bed in fear.
“Yes. And go gently. Move slowly so she doesn’t think you want to play a game of chase, and she’ll come to you. Have you had breakfast?”
Jesse shakes his head.
“How about I make pancakes?”
Jesse’s face lights up, and Emma walks into the kitchen, makes a fresh pot of coffee, checks for eggs, flour, and milk, and gets to work.
At some point while she is spooning homemade pancake batter onto the griddle, Emma decides that she is not going to stress about making conversation with a six-year-old. In fact, she’s not even going to try. She is going to let Jesse lead the way. If he doesn’t speak, she will make herself busy doing something on the computer. Making conversation with a six-year-old, finding common ground, is altogether too anxiety-inducing for someone who doesn’t consider herself good with children. With that decided, she slides a few of the finished pancakes onto a plate for Jesse, puts them on the table, and heads back into the kitchen to clean up.
“Where are yours?” says Jesse.
“I might eat them later,” calls Emma, sponge already in hand.
“Oh.” Jesse pauses. “But then they’ll be cold.”
“Good point,” says Emma. She puts down the sponge, puts two more pancakes on a plate for herself, and sets it down opposite Jesse and sits.
“Is it okay for us to eat together?” she asks.
Jesse nods happily as Emma suppresses a smile.
“These are good,” he says in surprise, taking a huge bite, talking as he chews.
“It’s vanilla extract,” confesses Emma. “It’s the secret ingredient. Can you close your mouth when you chew because . . . ew! I can see all the food in there.” Much to her surprise, Jesse instantly closes his mouth. “And I added a bit of sugar,” she continues. “You’re not supposed to, but frankly I think everything’s better with a little sugar added to it. I’m a bit of a sugar addict, you know.”
“I love sugar, too,” says Jesse, his mouth again open and full. “You know what my favorite sandwiches are?”
“No. Can I guess?”
Jesse nods.
“Pesto chicken, Fontina cheese, and tomato?”
He makes a face.
“Chicken, dill, and mustard sauce? Roast beef and horseradish? Gravlax and dill?”
Jesse clearly has no idea what she is talking about, but Emma is having fun. She could go on all day, thinking up exotic sandwiches a six-year-old would never have heard of, let alone tasted.
“Sugar,” he interrupts her, with a whisper and a devilish grin.
“What?” Emma feigns horror.
“I do it when my dad’s sleeping.”
“I know you expect me to be shocked,” says Emma, “but that’s what my mother had as a treat after the war. White bread, thick butter, and sugar.”
“Butter?” Jesse is intrigued.
“Oh yes. She says it’s all about the butter.” Emma leans forward and drops her voice. “I could make one now, one with butter, one without. We could both sample them so we can decide which kind is better. What do you think?”
Jesse nods vigorously, as Emma pushes her chair back to go to the kitchen, grateful she had the foresight to buy a fresh loaf of bread yesterday. It isn’t the processed white Wonder Bread that her mother loves, but it will have to do. She cuts thin slices, removes their crusts, and slathers thick slabs of cold butter, straight from the fridge, on one slice only.
She pulls the silver sugar shaker out of the cupboard, smiling as she always does when she uses it. It is a ridiculous thing for a single girl to own, she knows, the kind of old-fashioned object no one has anymore, and certainly not someone with no husband or children. But her mother gave it to her, and it was a remnant of her childhood, and it always makes her think of her childhood home when she uses it. She gives each piece of bread a liberal sprinkling of sugar, then another, and then tops the sandwich with another slice of bread and cuts each in half again for her and Jesse to sample.
He has pushed the plate of pancakes away in anticipation of this forbidden treat. They each pick up a butterless sandwich and take one bite, staring into each other’s eyes, Emma forcing herself not to grimace at the overwhelming sweetness.
“It’s good,” says Jesse, mouth filled with sandwich and sugar, as he grins.
“Next,” says Emma, handing him the one smeared with butter. Jesse takes a bite, then closes his eyes, a slow smile spreading on his face as Emma takes her own bite. She has heard her mother wax lyrical about sugar sandwiches since she was a ti
ny girl but has never before tried one herself.
“Oh, man,” Emma says, her tongue searching out the grains of sugar and thick creamy butter mixed in with the yeasty dough. “That is delicious.”
“Mmmmmm!” says Jesse, wolfing down the rest of the sandwich. “Butter!”
“I never thought I’d like it, but that was amazing. I’m guessing you don’t want the rest of your pancakes?”
“I do!” Jesse pulls the plate back and carries on with his official breakfast. “Do you think Hobbes would like sugar sandwiches?” he asks Emma.
“Only if they were coated in cat food,” she says.
“What is cat food made of?” asks Jesse.
“I have absolutely no idea. It says turkey in gravy and beef, but who knows what else.”
“Can I see if she likes pancakes?”
“Okay. But I don’t think she will.”
Jesse pulls off a tiny piece and puts it on the floor in front of Hobbes’s nose. Hobbes sniffs it, then, to Jesse’s delight, bats it across the room, running after it, trying to pull it out from under the chair with her paw.
There is a knock on the back door, startling Emma, who looks up to see Dominic’s face in the glass.
Oh God. Again. At least she doesn’t have mascara smudged under her eyes. Still, why does this man have to keep seeing her at her worst? Why should it matter? she reminds herself. Friendly but cool tenant, she thinks, beckoning him in.
Friendly but cool.
“What’s going on here?” says Dominic, as relaxed and easy in his skin as he always is.
What was I expecting? wonders Emma. Some kind of weird morning-after-the-night-before? Nothing happened. Look! He isn’t behaving any differently, which means I don’t have to get weird. She takes a breath and tries to relax, even though it’s hard to look at him, particularly given that smile, which causes a small flip in her stomach. She looks away.
“I’m just making breakfast for Jesse,” she says, making big eyes at her young breakfast companion, trying vainly to telegraph that he hide the last of the sugar sandwiches.
“Is there enough for me? I’m starving.” Dominic walks over and picks up Emma’s sugar sandwich. “What is this? Egg?” Before anyone can say anything he pops the whole thing in his mouth.
“Oh my God, this is good! What the hell is this? It tastes like sugar!”
Jesse grins.
“It’s a sugar sandwich. With butter,” says Emma, reluctantly. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. It’s my mother’s favorite treat and I had to introduce it to Jesse. But I’ll hypnotize him and make him forget he ever tasted it, I swear.”
“Can you make me another one?” says Dominic, high-fiving Jesse, who whoops in delight, before reaching over and grabbing one of Jesse’s pancakes. “I’ve got bacon in the fridge if we need bacon,” Dominic adds.
“Yes to the bacon.” Emma’s face is serious. She’s both relieved Dominic isn’t angry, and pleased at the suggestion of the three of them sharing breakfast. “Bacon is always needed. Go get the bacon.”
And before long they are all three sitting down at the table, to a feast of pancakes, more sugar sandwiches, and crispy bacon glazed with maple syrup (Dominic’s idea). They sit, and laugh, and tell jokes, while Jesse gets Hobbes to try out everything to see what she likes (just the bacon).
Emma forgets that she saw Gina park her Jeep in Dominic’s driveway late last night. She forgets that Dominic has a girlfriend, that she is supposed to be embarrassed to have given him any indication that she was interested in him. She forgets that she went to bed feeling lonely, and sad. She is too busy having fun.
“You got something here,” says Dominic, gesturing to his own lips as he looks at Emma.
Emma flushes a bright red, her hand flying to her mouth. “Did I get it?” she asks as she brushes her lips.
“No. Here.” He reaches forward and brushes his fingers over the side of her bottom lip, and her breath catches as he looks in her eyes. “Got it,” he says quietly, his smile fading. A second passes. Then Emma jumps up.
“I’m going to clear,” she says, and she can’t look at him, knows that her face is bright red, that she is flushed from head to toe.
“I’m going to take Jesse to camp,” says Dominic. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.”
“No!” says Jesse. “I want to stay here and play with Hobbes.”
“You’ve got to go to camp,” Dominic says in his stern voice. He turns to Emma and adds, “And Emma has work to do, right?”
“I do,” says Emma, the flush finally fading. “But, Jesse, I meant what I said. You can come over anytime. Hobbes will be right here waiting for you when you get home from camp.”
“Can I come over as soon as I get home?”
“Absolutely. The cat flap is now yours to use as you please.”
“Look, Dad!” Jesse drops to the floor and scoots through the cat flap, waving delightedly from the other side.
“Oh God,” groans Dominic. “I’m really sorry, Emma. I didn’t think he’d be in and out of your house with the damn cat flap. I can tell him not to. I don’t want him bothering you.”
Emma finds herself slightly insulted by the suggestion that Jesse might be bothering her. “He’s not bothering me,” says Emma. “He’s sweet. We had a lovely time before you arrived.”
“Great. Thanks. How to make a guy feel wanted.”
Emma laughs. “I didn’t mean that! I just meant we were having fun—he’s lovely.”
“As long as I’m not unwanted, we’re all good.”
Don’t blush, she thinks. Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush.
She knows he is watching her but she can’t meet his eyes.
“We’re all good,” she says, not taking the bait. Not looking at him, willing herself to keep her cool.
“Okay. Jesse, let’s go. See you later, Emma.” And with a smile, he and Jesse are gone.
THIRTEEN
Later that morning, when Emma’s phone buzzes, she looks to see a number she doesn’t recognize. She picks up to find a woman on the line who saw her ad on Craigslist offering interior design services.
They have recently moved to town, the woman says, and have purchased an older Colonial on Marion Road. They don’t have a big budget, and she has no idea how to decorate, no furniture, and really needs some help. She had been into a couple of local stores and spoken to the in-house decorators, but the furniture would be a fortune and she needs to keep the cost down.
She saw Emma’s pictures on Craigslist and loved the style. She says it is exactly what she’s looking for in their new house. Could Emma come and see it? Is there any chance she might be available that afternoon because she’s itching to get started, and having an empty living room might be fun for the kids but she really, really wants to get some furniture in before Labor Day rolls around, which isn’t long, given that it’s now midsummer, and she’s too scared to make those big decisions by herself.
Emma agrees to come over at two o’clock. Then she takes as many pictures as she can of her tiny galley kitchen, with its faux marble counters and open wood shelving on rustic black brackets, before running out to the corner store by the railroad station to stock up on magazines. She hadn’t expected to see a client so quickly and needs to cobble together some kind of portfolio, some indication of her style, and quickly.
She swings by Staples, picks up a binder and plastic page covers, and spends a couple of hours clipping pages from magazines—Coastal Living, Better Homes and Gardens, House & Garden, Elle Decor. All are ruthlessly milled for the examples of the style Emma loves. Before long, she loses herself completely in the task, letting go of her sense of time, of place, even of self, in a way that is almost magical. She certainly never felt this way working in the city.
This, she realizes, is what she does best. She can re-create any one of the ro
oms she sees on these pages for a fraction of the cost most designers would charge. She can walk into a store like HomeGoods and bypass everything until she finds the one lamp, the one tray, the one mirror that is exactly, but exactly like the one in that gorgeous magazine layout, and the result will look just as good as a room created by a designer whose expertise costs a small fortune.
She can do this Fairfield County look—the white sofas, the turquoise accessories, the gray woods, the obligatory Buddhas everywhere you look—with her eyes closed. All she needs are the clients. If this woman—Lisa is her name—works out, who knows where it might lead.
Thank you, God. Emma offers a silent prayer, grabbing her new binder and a notebook in which to record all that Lisa is looking for. Taking a quick glance in the mirror, she pauses, noticing how different she looks from her banking days. For this meeting, she has gone for understated chic—dark jeans, ballet flats, a good linen shirt, and her ubiquitous chunky gold cuff. On her shoulder, a designer handbag—the one designer handbag—left over from her old life. She may not be interested in the labels anymore, but it is good for potential clients to see that she is a woman who shares their good taste. She looks chic and understated. A little makeup and hair pulled back in an elegant chignon complete the look. If I didn’t know better, she thinks, looking in the mirror, I would say I was a seasoned interior designer. If I didn’t know better, I would say I look like a woman who knows what she is doing.
With that, she closes the door and sets off.
FOURTEEN
The house is probably from the 1940s, Emma guesses, as she pulls up. Someone has added a curved portico over the front door, which adds character and charm, and there are pretty paneled window boxes on the first-floor windows, which would be lovely spilling over with lobelia and ivy, but are empty and forlorn.