Edge of Heaven

by Teresa Hill

  Emma stared up at Rye. Rye who'd looked so troubled and so reluctant all along. She thought of the way he was so reluctant for Sam to even know he was here, almost like he was testing the situation first, before deciding whether he was willing to reveal his true identity.

  But why? If he really was Sam's brother...

  Emma put her hand over the receiver and faced Rye. "Who are you?"

  He stared for a second, then turned and looked away, up toward the ceiling and through the window and off the back porch, anywhere but at her.

  Wow.

  He looked so uncomfortable, she thought he might head for the door and not come back. She couldn't let that happen.

  "Sam?" she said into the phone. "I'll do something tonight. I'll go somewhere or have someone come stay at the house. Promise."

  "I wish you'd come here," he said.

  "I know... I just... I have some things to figure out on my own. I'll talk to you, tomorrow, okay?"

  "No, it's not okay."

  "Sam—"

  "I know. You're not a little girl anymore."

  He sounded like such a father then, like such a great father. He was having a really hard time with the idea that she was growing up. Not that she seemed to be doing a good job of taking care of herself at the moment.

  But if this was his brother...

  She looked back at Rye, pacing the length of the kitchen. Sam would be so surprised. What a wonderful Christmas present that would be.

  "I love you, Sam. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  She felt so much better, so excited, and she might just have to pull out her helpless female act again. Might as well have something good come from it. Because she had to get Rye to stay. Maybe between now and when Sam came home, she could figure out why he was so reluctant to tell anyone who he was.

  "He's not coming?" Rye asked when she hung up the phone.

  "No. I told him not to."

  "And he agreed to that?"

  "You think he should ignore what I want?" she asked.

  "If it doesn't make any sense, yes."

  Oh, that was Sam, all right. In truth, she was surprised he'd given in so easily. But there had been those very earnest conversations about her growing up and their faith in her ability to take care of herself, them wanting her to have the chance to make decisions on her own. They were both trying so hard. Sam just wasn't any good at letting go of people. He'd lost too many people.

  "What?" Rye asked.

  He sounded nearly as gruff and out of sorts as Sam could at times, when he felt too much and tried to hide it. It reminded her of the Sam of the old days, the man he'd been when she and her brother and sister had first come here. A man who was afraid to care too much, but did anyway. She liked to think they'd given as much back to him as he'd given to them.

  "Nothing," she said. "I was just... You never told me how you felt about Christmas decorations."

  "Christmas decorations?" He looked incredulous at the change of topic.

  "You know, lights, wreaths, ribbons, bows? I'm all for them, myself." Especially if they'd keep him here for a while. No way was she letting him go.

  He tilted his head to the side and frowned. "You want my philosophical take on Christmas?"

  "No," she admitted. "I just want you to stay. Just for today?"

  "Emma," he protested.

  "Please. I have to get the Christmas lights up, one way or another. I'd have to be outside for hours, and you were so worried about me being locked up safe and sound yesterday that I just thought, you might..."

  "You're going to blackmail me now?" he asked.

  "Would it work?"

  * * *

  She was up to something. Rye knew it. But at least she didn't look so scared anymore. Her hand had shook as she picked up the phone when Sam called, and he hated the idea of Emma so scared her hands were shaking.

  There'd been something odd about that phone call, too. For a minute, he could have sworn she knew everything. But she couldn't, because he was once again in the wrong place, checking out the wrong man.

  She couldn't know. Something else was going on.

  "You look guilty, Emma." She was no good at hiding her feelings behind that pretty face of hers. "What are you up to?"

  "Well... I may not have told you the whole truth about what you're getting into, decorating and all."

  "A few lights?" He shrugged. "How hard could it be?"

  "Okay, you've been warned. I gave you a chance to get out of this, and you didn't take it."

  She must have taken that as his agreement, because she took him by the hand, touching him once more. It still felt good. He started to pull his hand from hers, but she tugged until he turned around and followed her.

  "Boxes are in the basement," she said. "Far left corner, marked Christmas decorations—Outside. I think there are twelve."

  "Twelve?"

  "We'll leave the inside boxes down there for now." She plowed ahead to what must be the basement door. "They'd only get in the way."

  He stopped, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "No one could have twelve boxes of decorations just for the outside of their house."

  "Bet me," she said. "Loser fixes dinner."

  So, he was staying for dinner, huh?

  He knew that wasn't such a good idea.

  She frowned. "You can't run out on me now."

  "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

  "I know you," she said, her index finger tapping against his chest. "I know you wouldn't leave me alone, and I'm grateful for that. Thank you."

  This time—thankfully—there was no kiss accompanying the words.

  God, he'd kissed her.

  Bad, bad idea.

  And he'd liked it.

  A lot.

  An even worse idea.

  Life was getting more complicated by the moment.

  "All right. Boxes," he said. Twelve. That should keep his hands off her for a while, maybe his mind, too.

  "Right down there." She opened the door, flipping on the light above the wide, well-maintained stairway, then pointing to the far-left corner of the basement. "And the extension ladder's in the garage."

  He paused on the top step to turn back to her. "Extension ladder?"

  "It's a long way to the top of the house," she said.

  He remembered. It was. "What do you plan to contribute to this effort?"

  "I'll tell you what to do. Every step of the way." She looked like she'd enjoy it, too.

  "Gee, thanks." Her smile, he couldn't help but notice, was enough to light up a room. It came slowly across her face, seeming to warm him as it did. There was chilly air coming from the basement and drifting past them, but he was very, very warm.

  "I'll hold things," she said. "Hand them to you. You'll need that."

  "That's it?" As long as she wasn't holding him, he might be okay.

  "And I'll cook for you tonight."

  "Emma..." He hadn't been fishing for an invitation.

  "We're both here," she reasoned. "We both have to eat. And once all the decorations are up, you'll need food."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "And I'll try to keep my hands off you."

  She said it lightly, teasingly, a twinkle in her eyes.

  He responded the same way. "You do that."

  "I'm not usually... Well, I don't make a habit of..." He just stood there, one step down, which brought him near to eye level with her. He watched her struggle for the right words, her embarrassment growing. "I'm sorry."

  "Emma, it's not that I didn't like it. Not at all."

  "Oh," she said.

  It would be much easier if it was all coming from her, if he didn't like it or want more of her. "Look, I'm not staying here," he said. "I'm just passing through. A day or two. That's it."

  "Okay."

  But he didn't seem to have changed her mind about anything.

  "I'm going to get busy," he said, making a full retreat when nothing else seemed to be working.

  T
here were indeed twelve boxes marked Christmas decorations—outside. He didn't count the ones labeled Christmas decorations—inside. He just carted the outside ones up the stairs and to the front porch. She came outside, all bundled up, and handed him a small key on a crowded ring. He got the extension ladder from the garage, took her advice in beginning at the tip-top corner of the house, three stories up and dead center. It seems they were going to outline the whole front face of the house.

  He took a strand of lights in hand and climbed to the very top. It was a long way to the ground. Thank goodness he wasn't afraid of heights. He looked down at her and said, "This is nuts."

  "This is Christmas," she insisted.

  "It's nuts." He worked from the center of the strand, down the angled roofline on either side, until he couldn't reach anymore, than climbed all the way back down in order to move the ladder all of six feet to the left.

  "It's tradition," she argued. "Surely you have some Christmas traditions."

  "None that involve ten thousand friggin' lights." Not much of any kind of tradition anymore, but that wasn't something she needed to know.

  He climbed back up. The lights were tiny and it looked like they were all clear. Little bitty, blinking lights. He did as much as he could to either side of the ladder without risking falling off, then climbed back down.

  "You don't know what you're missing." Emma unraveled the next strand of lights. "But on Thursday, you'll see. We all turn on the lights on Thursday."

  He leaned against the ladder for a moment. He'd built houses that were easier than this job was going to be. "What, you all made a pact or something?"

  "It's part of the festival. Lights come on the first day, which is Thursday. Just wait. It's beautiful."

  No, she was beautiful. He'd been trying hard not to look at her, bundled up in red: a long, red coat; red hat; red mittens; and a little red nose from the cold. She hadn't been moving around as much as he had, and he knew she was cold. He was fighting the urge to warm her up.

  Damn.

  He climbed back up. They outlined the entire front face of the house, up and down the angled roofline, across the second story and each of its windows, and across the first story.

  Climbing the ladder about a thousand times had helped take his mind off her. Attaching lights to the house until he thought his arms would drop off from sheer exhaustion had helped.

  He climbed down for what he hoped was the last time. Emma, he saw, had been working on the first-story windows, and she was done with those. That left just the porch. She started at one end. He decided it was best to start at the other, although working his way to her didn't seem like a good idea at all, once he thought of it. He did it anyway, winding lights around each individual post.

  "No more lights after this?" he asked hopefully. "Not that I can imagine an empty surface to which we might attach any more lights."

  "Bushes. We have lots of bushes. But we can leave those until tomorrow." She was on her knees at the far end of the porch. "Thanks for this. I'd have been forced to call in reinforcements if you hadn't volunteered."

  "Reinforcements?" Guys, he was thinking. Guy friends. More boyfriends. He hoped the rest of them treated her well.

  "Cousins, most likely. I have lots of cousins."

  He came to a column and wound his way up, remembering he'd come here to find someone, not to save her from her crazy ex-boyfriend. And he was fairly sure he was in the wrong place, but how hard could it be just to ask?

  "Big family?"

  "Yes." She rattled off lists of aunts, uncles, cousins, great-aunts, great-uncles, a grandfather, most of whom lived right here, all of whom were from Sam's wife's side of the family.

  He concentrated on the task at hand, careful to space the swirls of lights at precise intervals so they would all match. As if that mattered at all. He was using her. Her and her too-trusting soul. She made it incredibly easy for him. All he had to say was, "Sam doesn't have any relatives here?"

  "A grandfather, but he passed away a long time ago. They weren't close."

  There'd been no mention of a grandfather in any records he'd seen. The Sam McRae he was looking for wasn't supposed to have one.

  "What about his parents?"

  "They died when Sam was young."

  "Really?" He worked his way up another column with lights, thinking it had to be a coincidence. "Must have been tough. How young was he?"

  "I'm not sure. I don't think he's ever said."

  "Somebody told me Sam's been here since he was fourteen or fifteen?"

  "That's right." Emma frowned at the third column on her side, making minute adjustments to the lights, seemingly concentrating on nothing but that. "Rachel talks about the first time she ever saw him, when she was thirteen, and he's two years older than she is. So he would have been fifteen. Why?"

  He shrugged. "It's a long time to stay in one town."

  "Not really. Rachel was born here. Her father. Her aunts. And they're all still here. I know it sounds odd to a lot of people these days, but they've all stayed close to home. All except my Aunt Ann. What about you? Your family doesn't know how to stay in one place?"

  "Last I heard, they were right where I left 'em," he said.

  "And when was that? The last time you heard from them?"

  He tucked the end of the last strand on his side into place and suddenly wished he weren't done. "Almost eight years ago."

  She paused and looked at him. "Rye? How can you not speak to your family for eight years?"

  "We're not exactly close," he said evasively.

  "Siblings?" She went back to fiddling with her lights, but he thought one more time that she knew.

  "I was an only child," he said. He'd been raised that way, hadn't been told otherwise until he was fifteen.

  "Oh. I can't imagine that. I can't imagine being without my family."

  "Well, you didn't have a family like mine," he said, hoping he didn't sound as bitter as he still felt at times.

  "Mine's not exactly your typical American family, either," she said, still working diligently, still not looking at him.

  "I know. Sorry. I didn't mean to imply that everything's been easy for you." Hell, no way it could have been. She said her father had beat her mother, and somehow she'd come to be adopted by the people she now called her parents.

  "We all need people we can count on," she said.

  "Do we?"

  "Yes," she insisted, getting to her feet and handing him what was left of her strand of lights to put up the last column.

  He could reach the top much easier than she could. She wasn't that tall, and she might be strong, but if anyone wanted to hurt her... It made him mad all of a sudden. All this talk about family, but look at the shape she was in, counting on someone like him to take care of her.

  "Who exactly are you counting on right now, Emma? Where is this wonderful family of yours when you need them?"

  "You don't know what you're talking about."

  "What's to know? Look at you." He did, finally. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, but he knew where the bruise was. "Your ex-boyfriend hit you and now he's calling here and scaring you half to death. If Sam McRae's such a fabulous father, where the hell is he?"

  "He doesn't know Mark hit me. If he did, he'd be here in a second."

  "So why haven't you told him? He's your family now. He's supposed to be the one you can count on when things get tough."

  "I do." She crossed her arms, looking like she was stubborn enough that it would take a bulldozer to move her. "He's always been here for me."

  "But not now? Come on? I know how scared you are." And he knew about needing people and having them turn their backs on you. He knew about how ugly life could get.

  "He needs to be there right now."

  "Because your aunt's having trouble with her baby?" He finished with the damned lights. What was he supposed to do now?

  "No, because if her baby comes now, it may well die."

  "Which would be bad
," he admitted. "But you're his daughter, and you need him."

  "I happen to think there are other people who need him more."

  "How can that possibly be?"

  She rolled her eyes and groaned, then said, "Where are your keys?"

  "What?"

  "The keys to your truck? Do you have them with you?"

  "Yes." He pulled them out of his pocket and held them up. "So?"

  "So, we're going somewhere. You can drive. Just let me get my purse and lock up the house."

  "Where are we going?"

  "I'm through trying to tell you about why Sam isn't here. I'm going to show you."

  "Show me what?" What could there be for him to see?

  "You'll see," she insisted, disappearing into the house.

  He put the ladder and the empty boxes away, and ten minutes later they climbed into his truck. She directed him to a shop at the edge of downtown, a pretty, dainty-looking place called Nanette's Buds and Blossoms.

  "Flowers?" he asked.

  She frowned at him. "We could go back and string lights around the bushes in the front yard, if you'd rather."

  "No, flower shops are fine," he said.

  Emma reached into her purse and pulled out some money. "I called in an order. Would you mind picking them up? I'm thinking if I can hide from anyone who knows me for another two days, the whole town won't have to know my ex-boyfriend's been hitting me."

  "Sure," he said.

  He went in and asked the woman behind the counter, whom he soon learned was Nanette herself, a nosy-looking woman in her forties, for Emma's order. She came back with a simple spray of baby pink roses, tiny and delicate looking against the dark green leaves and the green tissue paper.

  "Sam and Rachel still in Cleveland with Ann and her baby?"

  "Yes," Sam said, extending the bill Emma had given him.

  "And the baby still hasn't come?" She made change without a break in conversation.

  "Not yet," he said, taking the flowers and Emma's money.

  The woman shook her head. "You tell them we'll be thinking of them. All of them and that baby."

  Small-town living, huh? Even the floral shop owner knew them and was worried about Ann's baby. Rye went back to the truck, climbed in, and gave Emma the flowers and her change.