Dear Emily

by Fern Michaels

  “Thank God,” Emily muttered. She heard water running, felt something cool on the back of her neck. “I’ve never been drunk before. Like this I mean,” Emily gasped.

  Ben was on his knees, his arm around her shoulders. “One more good one and it’s over.” His voice was soothing, calm, a balm to her quaking body.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been where you are. When my wife left me, I did this almost every night. I wasn’t celebrating, I was mourning. You should have stuck to the Lemon Zinger. What the hell were you all celebrating anyway? Come on, brush your teeth and use some mouthwash. I’ll make you a cup of peppermint tea and that will help your stomach a little. So, what were you celebrating?” He squeezed blue toothpaste onto a yellow toothbrush.

  “Franchises,” Emily said around the bubbles in her mouth. “Some lawyers came by the offices today and more or less offered us…told us to think about it and they’d be willing to set it up. It sounded real good, but they were a pair of sharks. I hate lawyers as much as I hate used car salesmen and insurance agents.” She spat in the sink, then rinsed her mouth until Ben jerked her head backward.

  “That’s enough, you’ll wear out your tongue.”

  “You’re too damn bossy, Ben Jackson. I told you to go home. Now, every time I look at you, I’m going to remember you watching me puke my guts out. We’re thinking about it because it will give you lots of money to send Ted to an Ivy League school like you want. I look awful, don’t I?”

  “Yeah. Wait till tomorrow when you wake up. You’re going to feel like you look.”

  “Oh, shut up, Ben. Get some blankets so we can cover everyone up.”

  “Mother Emily. Always thinking about other people.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Emily grumbled as she pulled blankets from the linen closet.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it and everything right. It’s who you are, Emily. I think you were born to nurture.”

  She was walking like a puppet on a string as Ben guided her down the steps and into the living room, where they covered the sleeping women, then led her out to the kitchen, where he put water on to boil. “I want a cigarette.”

  “You don’t need a cigarette.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need and don’t need. I want one. I’m going to get one. It’s my last vice, and when I’m ready to give that vice up completely, I will, but not one minute before or when some damn man tells me I have to.”

  “Fine, burn your lungs out, see if I care.”

  “They’re my lungs, so shut up, Ben Jackson.”

  “You are the damnedest, the stubbornest female I’ve ever met. I don’t know why I love you, but I do.”

  “What’s wrong with being stubborn? I have a right to my convictions. I…what did you say?” Her head reeled as she reached across the table to the pack of cigarettes she’d left there earlier.

  “The part about you being stubborn or the part where I said I love you?”

  “That part…about loving me. Are you in love with me or are you saying you love me. The way I love all the women.”

  “I love you and I am in love with you.”

  “That’s not good, Ben. I don’t want you to be in love with me. I don’t think I’m capable of…what we have is wonderful, an easygoing, comfortable relationship with mutual respect on both sides. I’m not prepared…I probably will never…I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  “Drink this,” Ben said, setting the tea in front of her. He sat down, reached for her free hand. “Emily, every man in the world isn’t like Ian Thorn. Some of us are rather nice. Take me, for example. I’m a loving guy. I treat old people with the respect they deserve. I’m kind to animals. I love children, especially my own kid. I have an honest job I work at because I love what I do. I’m considerate and I don’t think I have a malicious bone in my body. I go to church on occasion, donate on occasion, do my share of volunteer work for the community, and I try to give back as much as I can. I’m pleading with you. Jesus, I’m pleading with you to love me.” His face was full of dismay. “Good night, Emily. If I intruded, I’m sorry. I hope you feel better in the morning. Call me if you need me.”

  Emily burst into tears. Ben Jackson was indeed all those things he’d said. He was everything Ian wasn’t. And he loved her. He didn’t care about her wrinkles and the fat pads under her eyes. He’d seen her puke her guts out, held her hand, made her tea, and then announced his love. He’d seen her at her worst, seen her when she was at the bottom with nowhere to go but up. He’d made sweet, gentle love with her, held her in his arms when she cried. He’d kissed away the tears. He was that oh so rare person called friend. The friend who was there no matter what, just like the women. He was part of them, part of the family. He belonged to all of them.

  Emily finished the tea because Ben had taken the time to make it for her because he cared about her. She set the cup in the sink. She was still crying when she climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

  Emily flopped back onto the pillows. Maybe she didn’t know what love was. This warm, gentle feeling she felt for Ben was like cuddling with a giant teddy bear. Love meant putting the other person first. She’d done that with Ian, but in a sick perverted way. Days and weeks could go by where she didn’t see or talk to Ben, but that was okay because she knew all she had to do was pick up the phone and he’d be there for her. Was she using him until something better came along? Was there in fact something better than Ben Jackson? She doubted it. Where were the fireworks, the butterflies in her stomach, the wild anticipation? Were those just clichés slick magazines wrote about? And where in the hell were the multiple orgasms? Myths. Myths designed by men to make women miserable.

  Emily rolled over, reached for the phone. She dialed Ben’s number from memory. She smiled when she heard his voice. “I called to say good night and thank you. Everyone is sleeping peacefully and I’m ready to turn in myself.”

  “Did you turn the alarm on?”

  “Yes, and all the doors and windows are locked. The television is off and so are the lights. Good night, Ben.”

  “Good night, Emily. Dream sweet dreams.”

  “I’ll dream about us walking through a meadow filled with clover and daisies. You dream the same thing, okay, but put a lake in your dream. Tomorrow we’ll compare notes. Thanks again, Ben.”

  Emily turned off the light and rolled over. Damn, she’d forgotten to turn the heat down. Oh, well, she wouldn’t need any covers and the girls would wake up warm instead of shivering.

  Emily was asleep almost immediately. She knew she was going to dream as soon as she closed her eyes and slipped into that dark place called sleep…

  She thrashed about as she tried to free herself from the strings attached to her wrists and ankles.

  “Do as I say,” came the iron command.

  “I can’t unless you loosen these strings,” she wailed.

  “How do you expect me to move the iron while you’re jerking the strings. I can’t put the shirt on the hanger and I can’t hang it on the door. Take the string off, Ian. Besides, it’s too tight, it’s hurting me. Don’t you care that you’re hurting me?”

  “What’s so damn hard about ironing shirts? You said you loved to do it.” The string jerked, almost pulling her arm out of its socket. She whimpered.

  “It’s too cold. I shouldn’t be shoveling this snow. I shouldn’t be doing half the things I do. Oh, sir, thank you for offering to help me.” She was breathless from her exertion to do more than hand the shovel over to the good Samaritan, who in turn handed her a bunch of daisies wrapped in green tissue paper.

  “Why were you shoveling the snow?” the man demanded.

  “Because I did something terrible and I have to try and make it right.” She held the daisies up to cheek. How pretty they were, but they were going to die out there in the cold. She said so.

  “I’ll buy you some more.”

  “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

  “Yes, I know
you. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet someone like you. I’m not like that person who tied the strings to your arms and legs and I know you didn’t do something terrible. I wouldn’t give you daisies if you weren’t a nice person. I’m a good judge of character.”

  “Do you think I’m as beautiful as a butterfly?”

  The good Samaritan stopped shoveling to stare at her. “No. Butterflies are free with no shackles; that’s what makes them beautiful. Their coloring is just window dressing. You could be as pretty as the first star at night, as pretty as the first spring flower if you’d smile from your heart and let it reach your eyes. You seem to have lost your spirit.”

  “Can I get it back?”

  “I don’t know. You have too much laundry piled up. You’re never going to see the bottom of the basket. Okay, get in and start the car and let’s see if it moves. I might have to shovel some more.”

  Emily held out the daisies. “I can’t get in that car,” she cried.

  “Why not?”

  “Look! There’s no room,” she said, pointing to the mounds of white shirts stuffed into the car.

  “Throw the shirts away. I’ll help you.”

  “I can’t. I can’t do that.”

  “Then I’ll do it for you,” the good Samaritan said, opening the door of the car. White shirts sailed upward in the gusty wind, white kites flying in every direction. “See, they’re like the butterflies. Now do you believe me?”

  The good Samaritan held out his hand. “Come with me. I know a place where there are no white shirts, no strings, no butterflies. Come with me, Emily.”

  “I’m married,” Emily said sadly.

  “Will you always be married?”

  “Forever and ever. Marriage means forever and ever.”

  Emily dabbed at her eyes.

  “Forever and ever are just words, wishes. Sometimes it doesn’t work out like that.”

  “It has to work like that. Ian promised me. He promised me!” Emily screamed.

  “Promises, promises, promises,” the good Samaritan said as he backed away from the car.

  Emily rolled the window down. “Tell me your name.”

  “You know my name, Emily.”

  “No, no, I don’t. Tell me.”

  Emily woke, her eyes wild as she scrambled from her bed.

  She must be out of her mind. Nobody with any sense left a warm bed at three in the morning to go and visit someone else who was sound asleep. And just what in the hell was she going to say when she got there? Listen, Ben, I had this bad dream and I didn’t want to be alone. I have the Queen Mother of all headaches and I need…I need…comfort. Well, hell yes, Ben would absolutely understand that, especially the comfort part. After all, that’s what he’d been doing now for almost two years. Comforting her, making love to her, making her life easier when he could. Ben was her port in a storm. Everyone needed someone like Ben in their life.

  Emily parked her car next to Ben’s. She wondered if her stomach was going to rebel. She sat with the window rolled down, drinking in the cold, night air.

  The townhouse was dark. Inside she knew there would be a dim nightlight in the kitchen to aid Ben in his nocturnal wanderings looking for sweets. His Achilles’ heel.

  Emily let herself into the house, closed her eyes to get her bearings in the dark, and removed her jacket, dropping it by the front door. With the heels of her feet, she kicked off her sneakers.

  Cold moonlight sliced into the room through the blinds, outlining the chrome and glass in Ben’s living room. A beer bottle stood out starkly on the coffee table next to a pile of wrappers from a bag of Hershey Kisses. She skirted the table, walked around Ben’s recliner, and made her way to the carpeted stairs. As always, she paused on every third step to stare at the pictures of Ben’s son. One of Ted on his first pony ride, one holding a fish that was almost as big as he was, one of Ted in a pool with his water wings. Her favorite was a snapshot blown up to poster size of Ben and Ted with knapsacks on their backs and wide grins on their faces. Ben was a wonderful father, a wonderful friend, a wonderful lover, a wonderful human being.

  Emily stood in the doorway, uncertain if she should call Ben’s name, walk over to the bed, and shake him gently, or just crawl into bed next to him. She shivered, then opted to crawl into the queen-size bed with the brown and white sheets that Ben preferred. She squirmed and snuggled until her backside curved into his stomach.

  “Emily?”

  “Uh-huh. Sorry if I woke you.”

  “What’s wrong. What the hell time is it?”

  “Three o’clock, maybe later. I left around three.”

  “Are you sick? Is something wrong?” He was wide awake now, propped up on one elbow. Somehow in his maneuverings, he’d turned her around so she was facing him. “Talk to me, Emily.”

  “If you were going to give me flowers, Ben, what kind would you give me?”

  “You came over here at three in the morning to ask me that? Why didn’t you call? Wait now, don’t take that wrong, it’s okay that you came here. Flowers…Jesus, I don’t know. Colored ones, maybe roses. Maybe those big ones that look like pompoms. This is important to you, isn’t it?”

  “I had a bad dream and you were in it. It’s the same dream I always have, but with a few variations.”

  “Maybe you should tell me about it,” Ben said, drawing her close.

  She told him. There was silence in the bedroom for a long time before Ben spoke. “You need to let go, Emily. I thought when you got your divorce papers, it was all over.”

  “I thought so too. I don’t have the dreams as often, but they still come. Especially when I’m tired or stressed out.”

  “Part of your dream was true, the part about me. I do love you, Emily. I think I’ll probably always love you. In your heart, in your subconscious, you know that. I can handle it if you don’t love me. It is my…opinion, you won’t ever be able to love anyone until you put Ian behind you. You say you have, but you haven’t, not really. Look, this is going to come at you from left field, but you can, if you want, track Ian down through the AMA and go to wherever he is. I think you need that confrontation. That final ending where you get to say something. I don’t know what that something is. Ted has a saying when we’re at odds. He always says, ‘Dad, I didn’t get up to bat.’ What that means is it can’t be just me talking to him, giving orders. He has a voice and he wants to be heard too. Then, after he has his say, it’s okay for me to exert my parental authority. It works, Emily.”

  “Go to see Ian?” Her voice was a harsh whisper.

  “I think it’s time to do that.”

  “My God, what would I say?”

  “Whatever you want. I think it’s safe to say you’ve earned the right to punch his lights out if that’s what you want to do. Of course he might call the cops and you’ll have to deal with spousal abuse or some damn thing. If you decide to do it, you’ll know what to say when the time comes.”

  “Do you really think I should do that?”

  Ben listened to the excitement creeping into her voice. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, Emily.”

  “Let’s make love, Ben.”

  “No.”

  “No? Why?”

  “Because there’s one person too many in this room. I suggest we go to sleep now and talk some more in the morning. Good night, Emily.”

  Emily dutifully closed her eyes, knowing she wasn’t going to fall asleep. Suddenly she wanted to go home, back to her room, the one she’d shared with Ian. She needed to think about what Ben had said. She waited until she was certain Ben was sound asleep before she crept from the bed and let herself out of the townhouse. Before she got back into her car, she looked toward Ben’s bedroom window. She thought she saw him outlined in the moonlight. She waved at the shadow.

  It was a quarter to five when Emily carried a cup of tea and her cigarettes to her room. She closed the door, and for some unexplained reason, she locked it.

  Aside from the pounding inside her skull
, Emily felt buoyant. Ben had just given her permission to seek out Ian. He said she needed to do it, to confront her ex-husband. As if she needed permission. Of course you do, Emily. You could have done it anytime these past years, but you didn’t. You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay to do it, which doesn’t say much for you, Emily Thorn. Admit it, you want to see Ian so badly you can taste the feeling. Admit it. Admit it and go on.

  Emily started to plan.

  Chapter 14

  A year later, on the second day of the New Year, Emily Thorn checked into the Plaza Hotel in New York City. She unpacked her bag, then checked the contents of her purse before she locked it in her suitcase. In the pocket of her coat she had a wad of traveler’s checks and forty dollars in cash. Enough to pay for a taxi ride to and from Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center.

  Three days before Christmas she’d called the center to make an appointment to consult with a plastic surgeon and was fortunate enough to be given another woman’s canceled appointment for January second to have a face-lift. According to the receptionist, the woman had the flu and had to be rescheduled. Emily had taken the train the day after Christmas, did all of her pretesting, and was home by six o’clock.