Emma Knows All

by Briggs, Laura

  Emma Knows All

  By Laura Briggs and Sarah Burgess

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2015 Laura Briggs

  Cover Image: “Calling Dr. Emma.” Original art, “Business Woman Showing Photo” by Lordalea. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter One

  "It's devastating, doctor. I can't get over it. I've tried I don't know how many times, but ... I keep failing."

  "It's okay." Em's voice was soothing. "Everyone fails sometimes. It's a part of life, Louisa. You have to keep that in mind, and you can't constantly beat yourself up over it."

  "But I feel like it's all my fault!" Louisa's voice was muffled over the phone, probably due to a tissue, since loud sniffles punctuated the silence between her words.

  "Is it really? Are you saying that Chad did nothing in your relationship that led to its failure? Be honest with yourself, Louisa. No one is perfect. And until you can be honest about that, you can't change these feelings you have, much less become the kind of person who's strong enough to begin another relationship."

  "Well...I don't know, Doctor Emma...it's so hard."

  "You want to be happy again, Louisa. I want you to be happy. Everyone who's listening today has the same problems, the same fears, deep down inside, even if on the outside, they seem to have it all together. And a lot of them are wishing you the best, Louisa. Because if you can do this, it gives them hope, too."

  A loud snuffle on the other end of the line. "Thanks, doctor."

  "No, thank you for sharing with us, Louisa," said Em. "And please, feel free to call in again in a few weeks and update us about your process of letting go. If you'll hold on the line, we'll give you the name of a therapist or support group near you who will be happy to listen if you need someone else to talk to in the meantime."

  From the corner of her eye, she caught the 'all clear' signal from her producer, Isabel, in the form of a thumbs up. "And listeners, don't forget that our review show is coming up in four weeks. Those of you who have phoned in over the past three months are invited to join us and share your relationship progress and setbacks since last time. Remember, first-time callers are given priority, but we're always open to hearing from those of you who have shared before."

  Isabel was giving her the wind-down signal: thirty seconds. "And that's all we have time for today, so please hold your phone calls until tomorrow. This is Heart Therapy and I'm Doctor Emma, wishing you a better, brighter future in love."

  "And that's a wrap." Isabel removed her headphones.

  Em rubbed the back of her neck, twisting the stiff muscles. "That felt like longer than two hours," she said. "Thank heavens that was the last caller. I've been dying to move my muscles for more than a twenty-second commercial break."

  "The curse of being popular," said Isabel, with a mischievous grin. She opened the door between the producer's booth and the broadcast room. Free from her headset's strap, her kinky, black corkscrew curls were springing to life again.

  "Don't rub it in," Em grinned back. "It's partly your fault, you know." Isabel had been her producer since the beginning of her career five years ago. Ten years' more experience in the broadcast world and in relationships —and her marriage-wise status — made Isabel Taylor's opinion invaluable to Em, even before Heart Therapy's audition tape finally caught the attention of Seattle's KYMK.

  "There's a phone message from your mother, by the way." Isabel held up her notepad. "She says 'Have Emmagene call ASAP. Family emergency. Needed at home.'"

  Emmagene. No one but her mother would ever call her that — and only when she was especially ticked off. Everyone else might know her as Doctor Emma — or Emmy or Em, if they were close to her — but her ties to the past of Emmagene Benton were still knotted tight, whether she wanted it that way or not.

  Em rolled her eyes. "I'm sure." She shrugged on her blazer over her graphic tee. "You can toss that one, Izzy."

  "Sure you don't want to call her back? It might be real this time."

  "It would be a first," answered Em.

  "All the same, I kind of envy you," said Izzy. "I mean, my mom's all the way out on the East coast. She never calls, unless somebody died. And I hardly ever go home, except when I fly there for Thanksgiving. You're way closer to yours. You'd be even closer if you'd taken that offer from Vancouver."

  "Exactly," Em answered. "Trust me, there's such a thing as being too close to your family." Isabel's smile was proof that her producer was only kidding, and more than aware why that offer had been turned down flat. Em hoisted her shoulder bag from the floor.

  "Whoa, who's doing heavy reading these days?"

  "This?" said Em, glancing down at her bag. "It's just the draft chapters from Frank's manuscript. I finished reading it, so I'm taking it back to him tonight."

  "Frank Weston." Isabel's grin became something more suggestive. "How is the 'Modern Man' these days? Still as sexy as the photo on his book jacket?" Her choice of moniker referred to the author's popular self-help book, one which had made the top of the nonfiction bestseller's list three years ago.

  Em managed not to blush. "He's fine," she answered, coyly. "And ... yes. He is." Rats. There was the blush, emerging from its hiding place with this admission. Not that Frank's looks were the least bit important to her. They were just icing on an already-attractive cupcake, so to speak.

  "So he's asked for your opinion on his book. You, no one else, reading his unseen draft."

  "So? What are you saying?" Em asked. "He asked my opinion. Nothing to it, really."

  "Sure. Nothing. Just that you two must be working really closely these days." With an innocent expression, Isabel ducked back inside the producer's booth.

  "See you tomorrow," answered Em, ignoring this remark.

  "See you tomorrow, Em. Oh — and don't forget, tomorrow's that featured guest segment. The one Lucas has been dying to schedule."

  Em groaned. "Is it?" she said, pausing with her hand on the studio door handle. "I forgot all about it. Who is it again?"

  "The hottest new thing to be released in self-help," answered Isabel. "Again, Lucas heard about it through the grapevine and was keen to get on it while the fire's still raging."

  "Fine, I suppose. Anything for the KYMK team, right?" answered Em, with a smile that was more grimace than cheer. These guest segments were rarely anybody whom she'd heard of, or whose work she admired, but the station had a bevy of contacts in the publishing and media world, all of whom had clients with projects in need of a push.

  In KYMK's lobby, Em emerged from the elevator to collide
with the station manager himself. Jovial Bill Lucas, who seemed to spend half his time wandering the radio station's halls, intercepting the talent who broadcast from his booths.

  "Wonderful show, Emma! Good work with that guy in the middle, the one who's in love with his sister-in-law. Grant from Georgia or something. Wild stuff."

  "Gary from Gatlinburg," replied Em, bobbing her head politely. "Yes, a problem that delicate is always a challenge —"

  "But handled admirably, Doctor Emma, admirably. Keep it up and you'll finish that march across the East Coast before the year's out. Taking Massachusetts by storm, I hear."

  "Well, I —" Maybe not a storm, but good enough, in Em's estimation. The last time she had really taken notice of where her show's syndication had spread was two years ago, when it reached airwaves in her former hometown, and her family had taken up listening. That wasn't exactly her favorite moment in her career thus far.

  "Here at KYMK, you know we pride ourselves on giving more than our share of talent their big push into the wide world. First Cooking with Martha Blane, then Car Repair with Motormouth Dan, and, now, Heart Therapy making the top forty in syndicated shows. You've seen that in the trades?"

  "Thank you, Mr. Lucas, that's very kind of you to remember —"

  "Looking forward to tomorrow's show. Should be another winner!" Bill Lucas pushed the button to his office's floor as he stepped inside. "Brains and beauty, Doctor Emma. That's what KYMK likes about you." The elevator doors closed at this point.

  Brains and beauty. Yes, that was the sort of remark Bill Lucas made often to the talent from KYMK, as if oblivious to the modern sexist connotations of it all. Em smiled wryly to herself as she strolled along beneath the welcome sunshine of a non-rainy afternoon in Seattle. There were plenty of people who would argue with both halves of Lucas's statement — including herself, since she was no great beauty, judging from her mirror's reflection.

  In her car, she inserted a CD — Adele's 19, on random setting— and cranked up the volume. The newscast from KYMK blipped from existence through her stereo speakers in response, drowning out Rainy Dave Makintosh's weather report.

  In the opposite lane, a city transit bus blew past, sporting a banner ad for her show. She glanced its way for a fraction of a second, following the words until they were gone. Heart Therapy with Doctor Emma. Five Days a Week on KYMK. Below the slogan was a picture of Em's petite figure in a blazer and denim jeans— stylish business suits were not her image — with her dark curls pinned sleekly behind her neck. Her fingers tucked casually in her pockets, a smile on her red lips that Em supposed was meant to convey hidden wisdom, but only made her look rather cheeky, her dark eyes suggesting that the relationship answers she held could be imparted only in strict secrecy.

  The smile on her lips at this moment resembled it, except it was one of humor. Every time she saw that poster somewhere, she wanted to laugh.

  Airbrushed. Photoshop magic meant to make her look more attractive than she really was. Especially that shade of lipstick, the kind she would never wear except to a party.

  You should never be afraid to laugh at yourself when something you can't control embarrasses you. That's what she always told her callers. It's the best way to avoid losing your temper, or bursting into tears when it hits you that you're stuck with it.

  Em tells herself this whenever she deals with her family, and when she has to deal with people who mocked the idea of a former deejay turned radio therapist simply because listeners claimed her advice actually helped them. Listeners weren't good enough. Not compared to a degree in psychology. Not that Em had ever claimed to be a doctor — no, that tactic was the brainchild of KYMK, Lucas in particular, who thought it sounded better.

  Em had thought being advertised as a comforting voice was enough, a sister figure, a coffee gal pal, or something less serious-sounding yet hokey than fake therapist. But having a radio show meant keeping the station happy. And, in her opinion, the show was a better way to reach people who needed to talk about their problems than merely taking song requests at two in the morning.

  Her phone rang as she parallel parked outside the gourmet foods shop a few blocks from her apartment. She pulled it out of her pocket, smiling as she checked the screen. "Hi, Frank." She climbed out of her car. "Bring an appetizer? You must have read my mind because I'm just walking inside the place now."

  *****

  "So you didn't think I'm going in the wrong direction — mentioning the idea of the metro complex in making first impressions?" Frank asked.

  "No. I think it's a valid point." Em stacked the pages together again. "I think readers have an awareness about guys who overplay the city status to outsiders. It being a benefit or a curse, depending upon the girl — but, basically, an insincere and insecure approach every time. I haven't seen the next chapters of course, but I'm guessing that's the focus."

  "You read my mind for the second time today. We must have a karmic connection or something." He kissed the top of her head as he stacked the pasta plates, the remains of fettuccine and portabella mushrooms in garlic sauce clinging to them.

  For dinner with anyone but Frank, Em would be afraid to consume garlic, onions, or anything else offensive, but they were past that point now. For the past two years, ever since the spark between them at the Seattle conference for self-help and psychology in the media, their relationship had moved steadily towards a promising future. Dinners at Frank's apartment, dinners at restaurants, parties, book signings, concerts at CenturyLink Field — evenings together were numerous enough after a month or two of afternoon coffee dates and park lunches, the deeply personal and professional debates they had over sushi or butter-sauce ravioli.

  Frank Weston. The author of The Modern Man's Guide to Relationships. Only seven years ago, Em couldn't have imagined meeting someone like him, much less having dinner in his apartment, reading his in-progress manuscript with him asking for her opinion on whether it was good. If not for Heart Therapy's success, Frank would be nothing more to her than a self-help celebrity, a cardboard cutout in a bookstore posed next to a stack of his best-selling book.

  He sat in the chair across from her again. His wire-rimmed glasses were drawn low on his perfect nose, revealing a pair of intensely blue eyes. Frank's smile was his best feature, however. It was so perfect, so charming. The first time he smiled at her, Em had melted beneath its warmth, like a candy bar in the sunlight. She loved his smile best. Then came his mild voice spiced with a touch of humor or sarcasm at the right moments, then the careless way his honey-colored hair curled on its ends despite being so carefully trimmed and groomed — Frank wasn't the metro male's choice of relationship guru for nothing.

  "You don't have to ask my opinion, you know," she said, taking a sip from the contents pooled at the bottom of her wine glass. "You have an editor. A very capable one who'd be happy to see your brainchild in its early stages of development, I have no doubt ... and whose opinion would matter more than a radio talk show host."

  "Talk show host," scoffed Frank. "You are as much a therapist as half the people with degrees who do the same thing, Em. More so. It's that real connection with people that matters, which is why I'm asking you to read it instead of some editor."

  "I don't feel like a therapist," answered Em. "I mean, my psychology knowledge could fit on this bread plate, Frank." She held it up in illustration. "I don't understand half the terminology in the books I make myself read — that includes your book, too."

  She took another sip. "You know, I actually read more books about it when I was still a deejay. There was more time while I was sitting there and all those songs were playing. Maybe that's what made me start talking to the callers in between, and not just taking their lovelorn requests."

  "That's what got you out of that desert station and into a day job," said Frank, who knew the history of Em's career as well as she did. "That's what I love about you. See, that's why I love your advice. It's amazing. That's the kind of opinion I want for my brainchild'
s birth, as you call it —"

  "I know its name," Em defended, playfully.

  "You do?" Frank's brow furrowed. "When did I decide?"

  "Last week. At the Taj restaurant. Remember? Modern Man's Guide to Making Romantic Connections."

  "Right." Frank snapped his fingers. "Let me write it down this time..." He fished one of the pages from his latest draft, flipping it over to scribble on the back. His work was always in easy reach in his apartment — strewn across a makeshift desk beside his dining table, where a laptop sat surrounded by a sea of printed pages with pencil mark-through evident in more than one line. Frank seldom cleaned his place, his stuff scattered everywhere on evenings when the two of them shared romantic meals here.

  His draft had been in the works, on again and off again, for the past two years now. The follow-up to his bestseller was battling a severe case of writer's block. What his publisher thought of his slow progress, Em had no idea, but for the past few months, she had been trying to help him untangle the knots in his mind.

  "Just a minute longer ..." His pencil was traveling almost to the edge of the page with each line.

  Em watched him with a hidden smile. That studious, serious look he had when he was writing always struck her as humorous, for some reason. Maybe because she'd never worn such an expression in her love ... well, except maybe when her family had a real crisis, rare as it was. For instance, when they were all thrown into a panic after her younger sister disappeared for a whole night, followed by the defiant girl's discovery at the remains of a party held at an abandoned house — that, thank heavens, led to two weeks of much-needed grounding.

  "You've got that look on your face." Frank was done scribbling, his eyes on her again as he took a sip from his own glass. "The one you get when the past sucks you in."

  She shook her head. "Just a wandering mind."

  "Your mind tends to wander whenever we bring up your radio past," said Frank. "Back to Charles at three a.m., and all the broken hearts from before." He said this, however, with a smile.