by Leigh Riker
“That’s what she said.” Emma clearly didn’t believe her.
Frankie frowned. “You don’t imagine that husband of hers is some kind of abuser?”
“For heaven’s sake,” Emma said. “Grace wouldn’t fall in love with a man who doesn’t treat her well.” She paused. “Christian and I weren’t happy when they eloped, but it’s clear they love each other. Rafe’s age isn’t that great an issue for them—in fact, it may be a help—and sooner or later,” she said with a faint smile, “Grace will grow up a little more.”
Frankie wasn’t convinced. “Grace hasn’t been herself lately.”
“Grace hasn’t really been herself since...”
Neither she nor Emma seemed willing to go any further on that topic, at least, not today. One day her resentment might bubble over the top. For now, Frankie paced again. And frowned at the white plastic-coated metal shelves meant for someone’s laundry room. They were simply unacceptable.
“If I were you, I’d get to the bottom of things with Grace. I’ll be talking to Melanie about her, as well.”
She tried not to see the flash of hurt cross Emma’s face at the thoughtless reminder that Melanie, not Emma, was Grace’s mother. Frankie returned her attention to the offending catalogs.
Her aversion to the party had become almost an obsession—like her fixation on the daily paper’s obituary section—but this past dreadful year was coming to a head. Frankie wouldn’t call attention to it in any way.
How foolish it would be to confide in her son’s second wife, a woman with whom she had never fully connected. Yet they were alone in the shop. No one would hear them, and Emma would never be like some of Frankie’s friends, saying one thing with a sweet smile while meaning another.
“How would you feel,” she said, “if Christian came to you and said he’d like to throw a birthday party for...?” She couldn’t finish. She didn’t know which was worse. That horrid day nearly a year ago and the crushing loss she still felt, or a celebration that would only bring more unbearable expressions of sympathy.
“A party for Owen?” Emma finished for her. “I would be shocked.”
“That’s how I feel about my anniversary.”
Frankie snatched a catalog off the desk. She recognized the printing firm, one she’d used for some charity event. And her gaze homed in on a page that had fallen open. The company did fine work.
“Lanier will be home tonight,” she said, riffling through the catalog. “Probably dragging some poor deer’s carcass on the hood of his truck. His dogs will be so overly excited from the hunt they’ll howl all night. I’ll tell him then. You may cancel whatever arrangements have been made.”
She skimmed the page, then another. And another.
“Oh, this one’s very nice,” she murmured.
Emma leaned over to look at it. “That’s one of the designs Grace and I liked.” She raised an eyebrow. “I know you’d prefer a small dinner rather than a large party...”
Frankie sighed. “And I know Lanier dropped this on you, the same way he relies on Christian to do his bidding.”
Emma half smiled. “I was glad to help, but I’m a household organizer not an event planner.” She paused. “You are.”
Frankie couldn’t argue with that. She had the suddenly exhilarated feeling she often got when she was asked to chair an event like the Pink Ball or the Coolidge Park fund-raiser. She had a poor record of saying no.
“Please, Frankie. You’d add so much to this event—which would help both of us.”
“Well. Then maybe... I can offer a bit of help. And some of my friends would never forgive me if they weren’t included. Just a few, though,” she said, already searching through her mental Rolodex.
Emma looked stunned.
“An about-face, I realize,” Frankie said, not meeting her gaze. “I should tell you something else. Another reason I’ve objected to this occasion is indeed my friends. Most are nothing but sympathetic, and none of them would ever dare to say a harsh word to my face about what happened last year, but at a party with the drinks flowing...loose tongues can be very cruel, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes,” Emma said.
“Still. Since Lanier is so bent upon having this party...”
The look of relief in Emma’s eyes was something to see.
“If we’re going to do this,” Frankie said, “let’s do it right.” She glanced around the shop, taking in the boxes, the clutter that was so unusual for a business called No More Clutter.
She glanced at her Rolex, a birthday present from Lanier last year, mere months before the accident that had stopped time for Frankie and frozen her heart once more. “But all that will have to wait. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for a meeting.”
CHAPTER TEN
AFTER FRANKIE LEFT the shop, Emma sat immobilized at her desk. Still shocked at her mother-in-law’s turnaround, she canceled her appointment with Nicole to look at office space in St. Elmo.
She couldn’t quite take in what had just happened, but the knowledge that Frankie would actually help with the party felt more than great.
Emma checked her calendar for the rest of the day—and found it empty. That wasn’t normally a good sign, but right now it was welcome. And, except for the growing disarray in the shop, everything else seemed in order.
Even Grace’s desk looked as clean as Lanier’s. The only thing on its surface was a picture of Rafe taken at their impromptu wedding with some justice of the peace. If only she and Frankie could have planned that event together. Maybe, considering Emma’s ever-growing insistence on order, Grace had tidied up yesterday before she went home, already knowing she wouldn’t come in today.
Grabbing her bag, Emma closed the shop and drove across town to Mallory Trucking. After six years of marriage, and despite what had happened to them, Christian was still her go-to guy. She couldn’t wait to tell him about Frankie.
* * *
“HEY,” HE SAID, glancing up from his work. Did she imagine that quick flash of warmth in his eyes, the faint upward tilt of his mouth at seeing her here?
Emma had sailed straight through the anteroom past Becky, his administrative assistant, with only a quick greeting for the woman who kept Christian’s day in perfect order. Now, he rose and circled his desk to close the office door behind her. He led Emma toward one of the two armchairs in a corner but took the sofa across from it.
“What’s up?”
For one long moment, she didn’t answer but allowed herself to simply drink in the sight of him. His dark hair, his clear gray-green gaze, his strength and always the certainty that if she needed to lean on him he would support her.
“Your mother,” she said.
Christian let out a breath. “Don’t tell me. Dad showed her the catalogs and she flipped out.”
“He didn’t show them,” she said.
“Well, his mind isn’t often on the latest social event. He leaves that to my mother. What did she say?”
“Christian, she said yes.” Beaming, Emma told him about the conversation that had more than surprised her.
He smiled. “That may be both the good news and the bad news. It’s never easy to work with family. Dad and I have been going around all week about the new fleet of trucks he wants to buy. I keep asking where he’ll get the working capital.” Christian paused. “The only good thing is, he went hunting today with his pals—and I didn’t.”
She grinned. “Bob must feel relieved. She won’t have to give up her afternoon nap on the sofa.”
“Not half as relieved as I am.”
Emma took a deep breath. “We’re running out of time, though, to plan this party.”
For a long moment she gazed at him. His eyes had that rim of black around their irises that always drew her in.
“I’m s
orry about the other night,” she said. “The files.”
“Ah, Em. Me, too.” In the next instant he was on his feet. He pulled her up, slipped his arms around her and drew her close. Christian rested his cheek against the top of her head. “Let’s both cancel anything else for today. You deserve an afternoon off and I need to get out of this office. We can take a drive, talk, eat somewhere—you love that restaurant near the Georgia border—”
“I don’t know if they serve lunch.”
“Somewhere else, then. Downtown or Bluffview...” He waited a moment before going on. “Yeah, let’s go there,” he said. “We could take a walk in the sculpture garden afterward. There won’t be many more days like today before winter sets in. We could...” His next words were low. “Maybe even get a room at the inn.”
“How romantic,” she said, her pulse picking up.
“We both need to relax. Take a break. A long one,” he said.
His teasing words made her remember a night, more than six years ago, when he’d taken her to dinner, then dropped down on one knee on the stone patio and asked her to marry him. She could still smell the river that night, see the lights and candles on the white-clothed tables, feel the warm breeze on her skin and the touch of his hand when he’d slipped the diamond ring onto her finger. And told her again how much he loved her.
Yes. Oh, yes, she’d said. I’ll marry you.
Christian was already living with her by then, but instead of going home they’d stayed the night at the inn in an upstairs room, arms around each other in front of a glowing fire. They’d planned their dream house—which was where they lived now—their perfect life together, the children they would have...
How could he still love her?
“It’s been way too long, Emma.” Christian cradled her face in both hands, then slowly brought his mouth to hers. That one light kiss reminded her of all they’d had; all they’d lost.
For a long moment she let him kiss her anyway, gave in to the luxurious feel of his lips on hers, his strong arms around her, just like the night they’d become engaged. She went boneless in his embrace and kissed him back. The temptation to sink into him, as she had so often in their years together, to share his love again, was almost overwhelming. Then, as if by instinct, the old need to protect her emotions made Emma straighten.
Slowly, she drew her mouth from his. Inch by inch she backed away until the coldness had settled between them once more, like a chill wind blowing down the mountain.
There could be no going back, no forgiveness. Because of her.
* * *
WITH A HEAVY HEART, Christian watched Emma leave his office. She said something to his admin, then he heard the clatter of her heels on the floor as she walked out of the building. She hadn’t been here more than twenty minutes.
He could still taste her on his lips, smell the fresh scent of shampoo in her hair. The fragrance lingered on his fingers, but in the end she’d slipped through them again. He sank down at his desk and put his head in his hands. They’d come so close to reaching each other but then...
He lifted his head, yanked at his tie. He picked up the photo on his desk. He loved that picture of Emma with Owen, light and life shining in their eyes. Her love for him, his obvious delight in her. His mama. That was all gone, like Emma a moment ago. He didn’t know what to do.
Christian swiveled his chair to the window.
Six years, he thought; it was as if they’d never happened. He remembered their first years together—when they’d really been together—her town house, then their rental home on Signal Mountain, the fun, the love they’d shared in too-tight quarters. He remembered buying their larger home when she’d told him they were pregnant and how happy he’d been because, like Chet Berglund, he’d wanted a boy, too. He remembered the day Owen was born.
In the hospital gift shop, Christian had bought the new baby a teddy bear, later named Grizzle, and for Emma flowers and a card. He’d written I love you, Em. So much. Thank you for our beautiful son.
Then, today, he’d heard his admin saying, “Go right in,” and there was Emma, like a savior from this job he’d come to hate, standing in his doorway looking so happy, as if she had a delicious secret to share.
“Christian?” Someone was in his doorway again. He set the photo back in place. This time it was Chester Berglund, looking at him with that eternal smirk. He already knew what was coming before Chet stepped into his office. “I’ve got an updated quote on the fleet we want. Can you take a look?”
“The trucks you want,” Christian muttered, grabbing the sheet Chet held out. He scanned the numbers, then tossed it down. “Not good enough. Have you talked to Finance? We have a cash flow problem. Two of our biggest accounts didn’t pay their invoices this month. Where am I supposed to get the money?”
“Creative accounting,” Chet said with a wider grin.
“Has my dad seen this quote?”
“He’s out of the office today.”
Christian bit his tongue to avoid shouting that he already knew. He didn’t like it when Chet acted as if he had inside information that Christian, the owner’s son, wasn’t privy to.
“I need to give these people an answer. You can authorize, can’t you?”
“I can,” Christian said mildly, “but I won’t.”
Chet huffed out a breath. “You’re being stubborn. Either you’re VP of Sales, not to mention acquisitions in this case, or you’re not.”
“And you’d be glad to take my place.” He tapped a pen against his blotter.
For a moment Chet stared at him. So what if he wanted Christian’s job? Christian couldn’t focus, anyway. Every time he tried, some memory came swooping in like a predatory bird, talons sinking deep into him. Once he’d been good at his job, and if it wasn’t his dream career he’d been mostly content to climb the ladder here, had even looked forward to taking over someday. He wondered now if he’d ever be able to concentrate.
“Hey, I’m not the golden boy here,” Chet finally said. His smile was gone. He nodded toward the nameplate on Christian’s desk. “My name’s not Mallory.”
“Well, mine is, and I’m not signing off on this. I’ll talk to Dad again but as far as I’m concerned, the two of you are wrong. Now, if that’s all,” he said, “I have other work to do.”
What a lie, he thought after Chet had left his office. All morning, he’d looked out his window and daydreamed, part of the time about Max Barrett’s woodworking shop, as if he’d been lured there by some Pied Piper. Away from duty and obligation. Yet all he could think of was trying to make something better, something good out of the accident to honor Owen’s memory. Like what?
Christian sat there for another few minutes until he finally knew what he had to do. What had been lurking inside him for most of the past year. He was coming out of his skin.
Turning to his computer, he tapped out a short note, then printed and signed his resignation. Bypassing Becky, he took it down the hall to his father’s office and laid it on his desk. He’d talk to him later. But for now...
He grabbed his jacket and left the building.
* * *
“DRIVE A TRUCK?” his father asked. “Are you out of your mind?”
“I need a break, Dad.” Christian hadn’t come into work the next morning. For once he’d slept late. Emma had gone to an early appointment with a supplier so they hadn’t had to edge around each other in the kitchen. Alone in the house, with Bob standing guard in case a piece of bacon fell her way, Christian had fixed a four-egg omelet, then lingered over a third cup of coffee.
Now, even more determined than he’d been yesterday, he was in his father’s office and his dad was loaded for bear. His face was a mottled red, his eyes hard.
“After everything we’ve done for you, you’d take to the road again—like some young kid? Spend yo
ur days running freight in an eighteen-wheeler? You’re almost forty years old, Christian. Grow up.”
“Yeah, I was a trainee once. With a newborn and a wife to support. I’ve kept up my license,” he said. “I can start tomorrow.”
“Over my dead body.”
His throat tightened. “Give my assignments to Chet Berglund. I was hoping you could understand but I guess not.” He’d told his father about Chet’s complaining.
“Chester was right. That nameplate on your desk says Mallory, not Berglund,” Lanier said. “You are the one I chose to succeed me.” He eyed Christian from the other side of his desk. “If your mother and I had been able to have more children after you, I might be able to choose from two or three of your brothers. But I can’t.” He hesitated before adding in a choked tone, “I can’t even hand the reins to...Sarah.”
Christian looked away. The mention of the sister he’d never known was so rare all he could do was blink silently for a moment. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t keep on like I have been. I’ll lose my mind.”
His dad threw his pen on the desk. “We’re all damaged, Christian. You don’t go through an experience like the one we had last year and not come out with some deep bruises. But that’s the point. We do have to go on.”
“Like Emma?” he said, still not meeting his father’s eyes. “She came in here yesterday. I’m glad she and Mom are going to work together for your party. But when I tried to buy her lunch and spend the rest of the day with her, she pulled away. She always does.”
“I forgot to show those catalogs to Frankie.” Lanier pursed his lips. “So after Emma left, you decided to jump ship, leave me high and dry. I know,” he said, “that’s too many lame clichés, but it’s how I feel.”
“No,” he said. “I decided after Chet gave me the business—again—about the new fleet.” Christian met his father’s gaze at last. “I realized he cares more about the company than I do.”
His father flinched. “You know, your mother and I have talked about this. It’s been plain you’re unhappy here. I threatened to leave this company to Chester Berglund—and she reminded me that blood is thicker than water.”