Always the Baker, Finally the Bride

by Sandra D. Bricker

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I’ve . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “I was just headed into the kitchen to say hello to Emma,” he said, standing up and offering his arm. “Would you like to come along?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I know she’d love to see you. Come for a walk with me.”

  Sophie grabbed hold of his arm tightly, and he covered her trembling hand with his as they strolled out of the restaurant.

  “Kathy, if Emma’s mother comes in looking for this beautiful young lady,” he told the hostess at the door, “would you direct her to the kitchen? I’m just borrowing Miss Sophie for a few minutes.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Drake.”

  Sophie sighed, leaning into Jackson as they headed for Emma’s kitchen. She’d become so much stronger and more confident over the last year, and her periods of lucidity were much more frequent now that the family had built such a familiar and established environment for her. But every now and then, he saw that fearful glimmer of someone momentarily lost, and it broke Jackson’s heart every time.

  “Aunt Soph!” Emma cried as they pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. “Your ears must have been twitching. I was just thinking about you!”

  “Were you, dear?”

  Emma shot Jackson a grateful glance as she wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders. “I need to tell you all about the wedding plans. Are you up for a little chat?”

  “Of course I am, Emma Rae. Of course I am.”

  Avery scurried through the kitchen door and halted next to Jackson as Emma and Sophie wandered away toward the office. Her hand to her heart, Avery sighed, and Jackson squeezed her shoulder.

  “Thank the Lord,” she whispered. “Some days, Jackson, keeping an eye on my sister is like herding kittens. I don’t know how those people at the center keep up with her!”

  “They’re trained professionals,” he teased, and Avery chuckled.

  “How are the wedding plans coming along?” she asked, threading her arm through his as they left the kitchen.

  “You’re asking the wrong guy. As I understand it, I’m just supposed to show up in a tuxedo at the appointed time.”

  “That sounds like Sherilyn.”

  Jackson laughed. “A direct quote. And now that she’s had the baby and she has Kat here filling in, it’s double duty with the organizational directives. There’s nothing going to slip through the cracks, believe me.”

  “Oh, I’ve known Sherilyn for many years,” Avery said with a nod. “I believe you.”

  As they reached the restaurant, Avery tapped Jackson’s arm before releasing it. “I have an early luncheon here at Morelli’s.”

  “With Gavin?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, dear boy. The day your future father-in-law schedules an early anything is the day Biloxi freezes over.”

  A pop of laughter burst out of Jackson, and he shook his head.

  “No, I’m meeting your sister for an early lunch.”

  A twinge of curiosity pinched him. “Which one?”

  “Georgiann,” she replied with a smile. “Would you like to join us?”

  “I wish I could, but I’m due back upstairs for a conference call.”

  “A pity,” she remarked before pecking his cheek. “You have a lovely phone call, then. We’ll just chirp about you behind your back.”

  “Little bruthah, I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays.”

  “Hi, George.” He greeted her with an embrace as they passed.

  “Wait, you can’t join us?” she asked him. “We’re having—”

  “Sorry, I can’t. Conference call. You two enjoy yourselves.”

  Georgiann tossed her hands with dramatic flair, and Jackson grinned at her as he crossed the lobby.

  “I swanee,” she grumbled as he went. “That boy!”

  Georgia 400 was uncharacteristically free of traffic, and Emma had an easy fifteen-minute drive from the hotel back to her apartment. She rounded the building and pulled into the parking space painted with a faded orange #6. Propping open the door of her idling candy-apple-red Mini Cooper, she tilted her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, humming back-up do-wops for Aretha Franklin.

  Traffic droned in the distance while the murmur of the Egglestons’ conversation wafted through their open door, reminding Emma of another night like this one a long time ago. She’d come home to find Aunt Sophie seated on the back step in her bathrobe, and Jackson had shocked her when he unexpectedly leaned in over the top of Emma’s open car door.

  His kindness to her wandering aunt had touched Emma’s heart that night. And after they got Sophie settled in the guest room, Emma and Jackson had shared their very first kiss. It felt like only a moment ago as she recalled how she’d had a sudden urge for tea . . .

  She had risen from the couch, and padded off toward the kitchen in bare feet, and filled the stainless steel kettle with water. When she turned back again to ignite the stove, she thumped into Jackson.

  “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t know you were—”

  He didn’t let her finish. He just wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into him, angling his face and pressing his lips against hers. She was so surprised that she drew in a long, deep breath through her nose and then just held it there as the warmth of his kiss began to settle on her. Aware of a ticklish tingle to her lips, she pursed them a little more, pressing in.

  Suddenly the kettle that had been in her hand clanged to the floor . . .

  As she let the memory wash over her, Emma’s lips began to tingle. That kiss had been the start of something, a catalyst that changed everything. How could she ever have known how accepting a new job and getting to know her new boss could have led to . . . this?

  She rested her left hand atop the steering wheel and wiggled her fingers. The shimmer of light-play bounced off her engagement ring and against the glass windshield, and she squinted at the ring for a moment before reaching for her cell phone.

  “Emma.”

  “Are you tied up?”

  “Why? What did you have in mind?”

  She giggled. “I just didn’t want to interrupt anything important.”

  “No,” he sighed into the phone. “I’m just cleaning off my desk, getting ready to head out. Did you forget something?”

  “No. I remembered something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I just parked out back at my place,” she told him, fluttering her ring against the light again. “And I remembered that night I came home to find you and Aunt Sophie here. Do you remember?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Do you remember what else happened that night?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What,” she challenged him with a grin. “What else happened?”

  “You kissed me for the first time.”

  “I think you kissed me.”

  “Oh,” he teased, “you kissed me right back, my friend!”

  She paused before letting out a chuckle. “Okay. I did. You’re right.”

  “So you’re home for the night?”

  “I just pulled in. Did you want to do something?”

  Jackson sighed. “I really need to see you.”

  “Want to come over?”

  “Be there in half an hour.”

  At first glance, it didn’t look to Emma like she had much in the refrigerator to work with, but by the time Jackson arrived she’d put together a pretty fair spread. Slices of ham rolled around softened cream cheese and cucumber slices; warm brie and stone crackers; a bowl of red seedless grapes; chilled sparkling water with lime wedges.

  “Not bad,” she said aloud on her way to open the front door. But the moment she saw Jackson’s weary face, her own amusement fizzled. “Jackson? What’s wrong? You look . . . awful.”

  “Shhh,” he said, drawing her into his embrace.

  Minutes ticked by as Jackson held her there, the front door standing wide open as his strong arms wrapped around and buoyed her
, their bodies rocking slowly from side to side. Emma’s heart began to race, first with that familiar rush of adrenaline she’d come to know so well, the one initiated by physical contact with Jackson. Then came another type of heart thumping, the kind ultimately followed by anxiety. Something wasn’t right.

  “Jackson?”

  “Shhh,” he repeated, nuzzling his face into her hair and kissing her lightly behind the ear.

  “Come inside,” she insisted, closing the door and helping him out of his suit jacket. “Come on. Sit down and have a snack. Let’s talk.”

  Jackson collapsed on the sofa and sank into the plump cushions behind him. He tilted his head back and sighed, closing his eyes. The dim light from the mission-style torchiere in the corner cast a yellowish glaze over his tired, worn countenance, and Emma sat down next to him without making a sound. After a few moments, she gingerly raised her hand and ran her fingers lovingly through his dark hair.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Jackson lifted his head and eased his eyes open. “Somehow, I believe it when you tell me that.”

  “Because I never lie. I’m a very honest girl.”

  “That you are,” he said with a weary smile punctuated by a sudden spark in his eye. “You are also a very beautiful girl.”

  “Now, don’t you start lying, Jackson Drake!”

  “I don’t lie, either. You know that. You have no idea how stunning you are, do you?”

  Emma’s lips parted, on the verge of a witty retort, but Jackson pressed one finger across them to hold it back.

  “Don’t say another thing unless it’s to tell me how much you love me,” he said, gravel in his voice.

  Emma kissed his finger before pushing it away. “To the moon and back again,” she whispered. “And if you love me that much in return, you’ll start talking and tell me what’s got you so tangled up.”

  He sighed again, this time with an undertone of a soft growl as he dropped his head back on the cushion. “Ah, where to start.”

  “Just tell me.” Then, as an afterthought, “Jackson. Let me help.”

  He lifted his head and gazed at her for a moment before narrowing his eyes. The weight of his stare felt like hot wax pressed against her cheeks and throat.

  “Your father came to see me the other day, you know.”

  “Oh, no.” Emma’s heart palpitated and fluttered. “What’s he done?”

  Jackson snorted in amusement, shaking his head. “No. Nothing.”

  “No?” she asked. “Because I’ve come to understand that, when it comes to my parents, Jackson, I really have no control over them whatsoever.”

  Jackson squeezed her hand. “Emma, he gave me some good advice, actually.”

  She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Do tell.”

  “He taught me a little something about poker.”

  She took a moment to think that over, but she came up blank. “Sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “He told me you need to know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em.”

  Emma cocked her head slightly. “Know when to walk away, and know when to run? Like the Kenny Rogers song?”

  Jackson belted out a laugh and lifted her hand, kissing her knuckles. “Just like that.”

  “So . . . you’re going to play cards with my father?”

  “No,” he stated. “I think it’s time to fold ’em.”

  Emma’s heart began to race again, and her face flushed with sudden heat. The pressure in her ears caused her words to sound hollow as she spoke them.

  “You’re selling The Tanglewood?”

  Jackson heaved another sigh. “I’m selling.”

  6

  You have got to be kidding me!” Sherilyn exclaimed. “Didn’t you tell him how you feel? That you don’t want him to sell the hotel?”

  Emma felt the grind of a headache coming on. She leaned forward, propping her elbows over the cake sketch on the desk as she massaged her throbbing temples. For some reason, the topsy-turvy wedding cake idea seemed very appropriate for her marriage to Jackson.

  “You can’t give up The Tanglewood, Em.”

  Sherilyn’s turquoise eyes brimmed with tears, and the moment she blinked they spilled over and ran in streams down her face. A few droplets plummeted from her chin and landed on the large pink strawberry embroidered on baby Isabel’s cotton sack.

  “I don’t want to sound terrible here,” she continued, caressing Izzy’s peach-fuzzed head, “but this place doesn’t just belong to Jackson anymore, Emma Rae. It belongs to all of us now.”

  “In our hearts, yes. But the deed just has one name on it, Sher. And he’s the one who gets to make the choice.”

  “And he’s made it,” she said, “just like that?”

  Emma’s blood simmered a little at that. “Of. Course. Not.”

  “Sorry. I get it.”

  “Jackson has been tortured over this decision, Sher.”

  “Then . . . why?”

  Emma lifted her eyes and gazed at her friend’s mournful expression. The grief seemed almost palpable. It really was a bit like a death, she supposed.

  “Can’t you change his mind?”

  Emma replied in a raspy whisper. “It’s not my place to do that.”

  “If not yours, then whose?”

  Emma wrung her hands and sighed. “No one’s. It’s Jackson’s hotel, Sherilyn. Do I wish he’d gone another way? Of course. But it’s his decision.”

  “You can’t just tell him how you feel, Em? You can’t just weigh in on this? He’ll listen to you.”

  Muted conversation drew their attention to Jackson and Fee in the kitchen beyond the other side of the closed office door.

  Sherilyn turned back toward Emma and raised one arched eyebrow. “Now’s your chance. Tell him how you feel.”

  Jackson nodded at Emma through the glass and headed toward them.

  “Tell him,” Sherilyn blurted just before he turned the knob and opened the door.

  “Hey, Sherilyn. How’s little Isabel today?”

  She stood up and stared at him for a long and serious moment. Jackson glanced at Emma before half-smiling at Sherilyn. “What did I interrupt?”

  “How could you, Jackson?” she asked him. “I mean, I know it’s your hotel and you get to make the choice about what to do with it, but there’s a whole community of people here who feel like family. You’re going to just pull the rug out from underneath every one of us.”

  “Sherilyn, selling The Tanglewood does not mean you’ll all lose your jobs,” he told her. “The concept of the hotel will remain intact, and they’ll need you all to stay on staff.”

  “Oh, goodie,” she cracked. “From a family environment to . . . to . . . a corporation.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Look!” she exclaimed as she gathered her things. “You’re going to do whatever you’re going to do, but at least talk to your future wife about how she feels instead of just making a decision and issuing a sentence without even asking her because, you know what, Jackson? You’re the only one who thinks this is a good idea. And I’m just so . . . so . . . disappointed in you.”

  And with that, Emma’s forthright friend stomped out of the office and through the kitchen without a word to Fee as she passed her. At the door, she paused for a good, long moment before turning back and grabbing one of several dozen miniature chocolate muffins on Fee’s worktable and throwing the thing into her mouth.

  “They’re really GOOD!” she snarled before reeling back toward the door and blowing through it.

  Emma pulled a bottle of aspirin from her desk drawer and took two of them.

  “Nice, Emma,” Jackson snapped.

  “What? You said I could tell her, Jackson. You had to know she would take it like this. I mean, you have met Sherilyn before, right?”

  “You told her you don’t want me to sell?”

  “Well . . . no . . . not exactly.”

 
; “Great. You don’t want me to, they don’t want me to, and me . . . I’m just the big tyrant yanking their lives out from under them and tossing them to the corporate wolves to be eaten alive. Way to stand beside me in this, Emma. Way to present a united front.”

  “Jackson, that’s not—”

  “And for the record, I did ask you what you thought, didn’t I? You just chose to say it was my hotel, my decision.”

  “Well, it is!”

  “You should have spoken up, Emma. Told me your opinion. But you sure did manage to tell Sherilyn, didn’t you?”

  “I think you’re—”

  “A tyrant. I know.”

  Emma hadn’t even known her office door was capable of such a good, hard Slam! But Jackson showed her that it was. And even though the swinging door at the other end of the kitchen couldn’t manage another one, the way it flew back and forth behind Jackson made the point in its own gaping way.

  The elevator doors couldn’t open fast enough for Jackson once the car came to a stop on the fourth floor. Pushing his way through them, he stomped down the hall and rounded the corner into his office. He might have tromped right on past reception if not for the What’s Wrong With This Picture? flash of neon that stopped him.

  “Hello.”

  The fortyish brunette wearing a bright orange jacket and seated behind Susannah’s desk didn’t strike him as even remotely familiar.

  “You must be Mr. Drake?”

  He squinted at her for a moment before replying. “Yes.”

  She hopped up and sidestepped the desk with her hand extended. “I’m Bree Olding. Like the cheese?”

  The cheese?

  “You know. Brie. The cheese.”

  “Oh. Right,” he said, shaking her hand vacantly. “And Bree, you’re . . . here . . . because . . .”

  “I’m helping Miss Littlefield.”

  Still. Why are you here?

  “Oh, Jackson,” Susannah said as she emerged from his office. “You’ve met Bree.”

  “I have. And I was just asking—”

  “I’ll explain all that to you. Why don’t we step into your office then?” Susannah started back inside as she added, “Hold down the fort, will you, Bree?”