“Today?”
She handed Emmalyn a pen. “The CPS lady is coming tomorrow, right?”
“Uh, yes, Ms. Drummond. I’m part owner of The Wild Iris Inn and Café.” Bougie’s contract offered her gainful employment, in a way.
“Cleverly done, Ms. Unfortunate.”
“Your catering and executive chef experience will serve you well in this position. Food ordering. Bookkeeping. You’re already helping with menu selections and design.”
“And mini-quiches.”
“There you go.” Bougie’s face could be so convincing. She had a persuasive Voice coaching her. “My mother and I spent a few seasons in a women’s shelter when I was younger.”
Bougie’s story. Finally.
“We walked away from several of her misguided infatuations with only what our arms could carry. Most of my high school years, I didn’t have an address. I don’t want to lose this place.”
“You could make me temporary manager or something.” Compassion threatened to choke her.
Bougie caught her gaze. “I severely dislike the word temporary.”
“Me, too.”
“I have to know today.”
Two foreign but welcome thoughts coursed through Emmalyn’s mind. She’d lived independently since Max’s sentencing. Now her first thought was to consult her husband’s wisdom on the decision. Her second was to pray about it.
“CPS may still place Hope with her aunt instead of me, Bougie.” The idea made her lungs cramp.
“And if so, where would you want to be?”
Emmalyn considered the stark days of winter without Hope. “Here. I’d want to be here.”
* * *
“Is that what you want to do, Emmalyn?” Max’s voice flowed over her soul like a chocolate fountain submerges a strawberry, the same general feeling she’d had when she realized how attached she’d become to The Wild Iris and all it stood for.
“You’re gifted for it,” he said. “From the descriptions you’ve written about The Wild Iris in your emails and letters, it seems intriguing, but not what I would have called your style.”
“It’s the style I want to become when I grow up, Max.” Saying it aloud felt like a puzzle piece sliding into place. She tapped it for good measure. The outside edges linked together.
“I have no doubt you’re the one person who could pull this off successfully, even with Hope’s off-site schooling.”
“That’s not a sure thing yet.” Emmalyn wanted to cling to optimism about CPS’s upcoming evaluation, but the parade of past disappointments looped back around.
“I thought the curriculm sounded ideal for Hope.”
“You’re not against the homeschooling idea anymore?”
Max’s response came slowly. “I was never against homeschooling. I was opposed to your feeling forced into an uncomfortable position, to my mistakes costing you more than they already had.”
The more they’d communicated, the more kinks they’d worked out of communicating. The distance shrank. Steel bars narrowed and thinned. His blog posts gave her insights about what she’d missed. They read like high-quality nonfiction, like a story he should tell someday in a larger arena.
“Em? The curriculm?”
Emmalyn rubbed the tense knot in her neck. “It’s not the schooling that isn’t a sure thing, directly, Max. It’s Hope being placed here. Not a given.”
He was quiet longer than Emmalyn wanted. “In my heart, it’s already a done deal.”
“So you think I should sign the contract?”
“You don’t need my approval.”
“I’d like to believe we’re in this together.”
Another long pause. “We are.”
Emmalyn vowed to create a Jesus Jar for bad attitude for every time the corrections system interrupted their conversations and used too much time to remind them how little time they had left.
“Tell Hope I’ll call her as soon as I can, and that I love her.”
The familiar muscle cramp in her neck intensified. “I will.”
“And you. Tell . . . you.”
The phone’s dial tone made it impossible to reply.
Max had said it again, earlier in their discussion, unlayering more of the past so she could remind him again he was forgiven. “If I’d been where I should have been that night . . . ”
Emmalyn had replied with her well-rehearsed and truer-than-true, “If we’d been where we should have been . . . ”
Inching their way back to where they should be.
Emmalyn had been sitting on the steps to the inn’s second floor, away from the noise and bustle in the café and kitchen. She re-entered the hub of activity. Bougie wiped her hands on a towel tucked into a vintage apron on her way from the kitchen, eyes questioning. Was Emmalyn on board with the contract or not?
Emmalyn nodded her head. Neutral as she wanted to remain, she couldn’t suppress her joy. Hope caught the exchange. Her expression gave away nothing.
Bougie gestured, “Come. Come!”
Papers signed, the food prep for the Christmas meal for the women’s shelters resumed. Pirate Joe taught her to peel potatoes a new way—praying for the woman or child who would eat them. The added layer of activity helped Emmalyn keep her mind off the swirling uncertainties that remained.
“M?”
“Yes?” Emmalyn kept peeling.
“We have something for you.”
She put down the peeler and turned toward Hope and Bougie. Each held a stoneware mug in her right hand. Bougie offered the one in her left to Emmalyn.
“What is it?” The liquid in the mug didn’t look like coffee, tea, or cocoa. She sniffed it. “Cherry juice?”
Bougie tilted her head. “It’s the closest I could get to champagne. To the beauty of partnerships!”
They clinked their mugs. Hope, too.
Then, why the tears?
* * *
“Tireder than tired” is how Hope expressed it when they finally reached the cottage that night. But they fortified themselves with a great artisan pizza then set about to get the cottage ready for the CPS appointment the next day.
Hope was as picky about tidiness and turning end table displays into “vignettes” as Emmalyn.
“I hope the sun’s shining tomorrow,” Hope said, sweeping around Comfort’s dog dish. “It always looks stupendous in here when the sun’s shining.”
“Stupendous?”
“It earned me extra points in Boggle last night, if you remember.”
Emmalyn remembered. She also remembered the moment the blocks spelled MOM in four directions. Game over. For both of them. The sweeping slowed. Emmalyn watched Hope’s elegant dancer posture slump. Just a little. Just enough for a . . .
For a mom to notice.
“Let’s say you’re officially on Christmas break as of tonight. No classes until after the new year. How does that sound?” Emmalyn wiped a spot from the granite on the kitchen island.
“Whatever.”
“Even lifelong learners need time off.”
Hope looked incredulous. “From learning?”
Emmalyn cringed at the harshness in her delivery. “Hope. Hope, please look at me. I will listen to anything you have to say, to anything, even if it isn’t something I want to hear, as long as you say it respectfully. Understand, hon?”
She leaned farther toward thirteen than twelve in her facial expression. “Yes, Mrs. Ross.”
Emmalyn would have turned it into a teaching moment if the phone hadn’t rung. Hope ran from the room to the phone-arms of her daddy.
Fifteen minutes later, precisely, Hope leaned down the stairs and said, “I’m going to clean my room, if that’s okay.”
Asking permission to clean her room? The mood fluctuations could be so much worse. Emmalyn shook her head. Only Comfort paid any attention.
* * *
Max, while Hope cleaned her room tonight—which, by the way, is never messy—I sat in the opposite chair from the one I usually choose
in this cottage that looks so different from when you last saw it. Nothing’s really the same, is it? This chair, this second one, is an exact duplicate of the one I sit in. I guess I’ve always left this one for you.
Hope prefers the couch.
I realize that by the time you receive this, Hope may be gone. I can’t predict how Child Protective Services will react. Or if Hope will be in her “this is the best place ever!” frame of mind or locked in grief mode. I was just starting to get comfortable with realizing no one walks into parenting—or step-parenting—fully grown, no matter how old the child. Then I’ll say the wrong thing, or she will, and we slide down the hill in this long, slippery trek toward how-is-this-going-to-look-long-term?
I appreciate the father you’ve been to her more every day. Your gentle but firm ways with her are an inspiration. She respects you. And I can see why.
Brief time out. I’m listening to Elsa’s Procession to the Cathedral while I write, and I had to stop for the part when the French horns come in toward the end. I can’t listen to that section with my eyes open. Or my arms at my sides.
I fell in love with you in that section, Max. The concert under the stars. You let me lean on you through that song. When the French horns came in, you drew in a quick breath and I melted into the music and your tightening embrace.
Your prison chapel Christmas Eve service will be finished by the time you get this, too. I wish I were there to share the moment with you. Well, not there. Here. I wish all three of us could spend Christmas together here in this room. With the indoor-outdoor Christmas tree lighting a path to the lake and you in the spot I’m occupying now.
Elsa’s Procession one more time. I suppose I should be listening to Christmas music. But I fell in love to this.
She closed her eyes, tireder than tired.
* * *
“Bougie, Hope’s gone!” Emmalyn sank to the floor, her back against the island, the skylight screaming a brightness out of character with the heaviness in her heart.
“What do you mean?” Bougie’s voice through the phone should have been calming. It was always calming. Not this morning.
“She took the dog for a walk after breakfast. I told her it was okay.”
“That’s not unusual, is it?” The serenity tone was back.
“They left an hour and a half ago. I’m frantic, Bougie! She’s never been gone this long. Never wanders far alone. The woman from Child Protective Services will be here in a couple of hours.” Emmalyn drew a deeper breath than the gasping through which she’d tried to tell the story.
“Where have you looked?”
“Everywhere. The beach . . . both directions. The woods right behind the house. I looked for their tracks in the snow but what’s falling now is filling in the tracks too fast. Visibility isn’t great out there. Oh, Bougie!”
“I’ll call reinforcements. We’ll get to the cottage as soon as we can. I’ll send Cora and Nick the back way, if they’re home, and we’ll watch the roads. Maybe she needed time to think.”
“In a snowstorm? She’s smarter than that.”
“She’s also twelve. And grieving.”
“Oh, Bougie!” Emmalyn’s throat closed off. “I can’t . . . lose . . . another . . . baby! Erase that. I can’t lose this child.”
* * *
Emmalyn ignored the melted snow on her bamboo floors. The people crammed into the cottage at the moment brought enough heart and genuine caring to cover any messes. Their hugs counted for a lot, but her pulse refused to slow.
“Map of the island,” Nick said. “Here’s us. There’s Amnicon Point. Oh.”
“What is it?” Emmalyn leaned over the map. The irregular blue spot in the interior of the island, not far from them. “Bog Lake. She wouldn’t have gone there. It’s wild and impossible to—”
Nick drew their attention to the less gruesome possibilities on the map. “A girl and a dog trudging through a couple of inches of snow can’t move very fast.”
“Unless she hitched a ride with someone on the road.” Cora shrugged. “Could happen. We have to think of every possibility.”
Emmalyn’s lungs threatened to collapse. “What if . . . ? What if she somehow got all the way to the ferry? Oh, Lord God!” Hope was bright enough to think through fifty ways to leave the island if she wanted to. This time of year, every way funneled through the ferry.
Bougie pulled off her Scandinavian mittens. “I checked with the ferry line. No single travelers. No young girls.”
She might have been afraid of the meeting with Ms. Drummond. Afraid she’d make Hope stay. Afraid she’d make her leave. The alternative—that she hadn’t intended to leave but had gotten in trouble, gotten lost, hurt—made Emmalyn feel even more ill.
“We’ll fan out,” Nick said. “We can cover more ground that way. Let’s check in with each other every ten minutes via cell phone.”
“You sound as if you inherited your mother’s search and rescue skills,” Bougie said.
Nick’s mouth curled at the ends. “I could do worse than turn out like my mom.” He circled four search areas. “Is one of us staying here at the cottage? Someone should be here if she . . . when she comes home.”
Emmalyn’s sniffs turned to sobs.
Bougie stepped to Emmalyn’s side. “Whatever voice you’re listening to, it better be the one saying, ‘I’ve got this. Trust Me.’ If it’s telling you you’ve failed that girl, it’s lying.”
The front door flew open. “Mom! I mean, M. Comfort’s missing! She was there one minute and then . . . just . . . gone. I’ve looked all over!”
Emmalyn clutched the sides of her skull, grabbing handfuls of search-dampened hair. “Hope! Oh—!” Her words disintegrated in relief. She ran to the girl, parting the crowd like Moses to get to her. “Hope! I was so worried I’d lost you!”
“I wasn’t lost. Comfort is.” Her facial expression danced with worry and confusion.
Emmalyn removed Hope’s gloves and wrapped her hands around the girl’s icy fingers. She switched quickly to a bear hug that left Hope begging for air.
“We’ll get you something warm to drink.”
“Already started,” Cora called from the kitchen.
“Nick, you’ll help me find her, won’t you?” Hope’s was the only face still wracked with pain.
“Sure, little sister. I’ll look. But . . . ” Nick searched the women in the room for a fitting response.
Bougie came to the rescue. “Honey, Comfort’s an interesting animal. She comes and goes, showing up wherever, staying an indeterminate amount of time. She doesn’t stay long with any one family.”
“M, why aren’t you worried about her?”
Emmalyn sat on the couch and drew Hope down beside her. “You know how I feel about that dog. I miss her when she’s gone a couple of minutes. Frankly, I didn’t think we were done needing her. You can imagine how I feel about her not living here anymore, if that’s how this turns out. I loved that little mop.” She pulled the knit cap from Hope’s head and stroked her now stringy hair. “But I love you more.”
Bougie rounded up the troops, wiping snowmelt as they backed out of the cottage to let Hope and Emmalyn pull their thoughts together before the CPS representative arrived. The two stayed on the couch, breathing in sync. Was Emmalyn the only one of them wondering if by late afternoon the cottage’s two remaining residents would be whittled down to one?
29
Delane Drummond from CPS turned out to be a fan of shabby chic—heavy on the chic, of quaint cottages, of snow globe snowstorms, and of mischievous little dogs like the one that slept off her morning adventure in her favorite spot in front of the fire. She’d barked at the door ten minutes before Delane pulled in. Hope and Emmalyn threw a party for the prodigal puppy.
“Not funny,” Emmalyn scolded the animal. Then she wiped the dog dry and dug a treat out of the pantry. “But welcome back.”
Hope and Emmalyn had scurried to blow-dry their hair and pick up the last reminders of the morning
’s trauma. The two had passed each other with looks that said, “We’re going to need to talk about this, but not right now.”
When Ms. Drummond arrived, she walked into a cozy scene with no reminders of what could have happened.
The woman requested private interviews with each of them, then a group discussion. When it got to the part about employment, Emmalyn held her chagrin to a manageable level when she answered, “I’m part owner of The Wild Iris Inn and Café in LaPointe. Not far from the ferry landing.”
Delane’s eyebrows rose. “Cute place. I’d hoped to stop there for a cup of coffee before driving out, but they were closed.”
“Our crew is delivering Christmas meals to the Bayfield County and Ashland County women’s shelters this afternoon. They”—she glanced at Hope—“got a later start than they hoped.”
Emmalyn tried to gauge how Hope felt about her individual interview with Delane, but couldn’t get a read.
“As I told Hope, I’ve spoken with her Aunt Delia at length.”
Max, I hope you’re praying right now!
“It appears adding another child to their household would not be in Hope’s best interests at this point.”
Emmalyn’s pulse started up again. “What does that mean? Can she stay here?”
“There’s another consideration.” Delane scribbled something on her leather-bound legal pad. “Hope’s father.”
As if rehearsed, Emmalyn and Hope both clasped their hands together in their laps.
Hope spoke. “Prison doesn’t mean he isn’t a good dad.”
Emmalyn laid a hand on Hope’s knee, not to stop her, but to applaud her. “He’s a remarkable man.”
“I can see that. He’s written to our office every day since Claire’s death. I know more about the two of you than I do most of the cases I see. I wasn’t made aware, however, of your ownership of The Wild Orchid.”
“Iris. The Wild Iris. A relatively new development for me.” Emmalyn sat up straighter, as if that would help. “I worked there part-time until recently.”
“I see.” She scribbled another few moments. Was she taking notes or playing tic-tac-toe?
“Hope, your wishes count for a lot in situations like this. I want you to know that. But we have to consider many factors in our decisions. Safety. Stability. Security. Schooling.”
As Waters Gone By Page 27