Full English

by Rachel Spangler

“Why not?” Diane hopped up. “Let’s see it.”

  “I really didn’t expect . . .”

  “Half the town to be here,” Brogan finished for her. “Sorry about that.”

  “No, it’s not your fault,” Emma said. “I should’ve called, or not, and made a decision for myself for once, instead of running to you . . . again.”

  “It’s no problem.” Brogan wished she could soothe the panic and doubt in Emma’s eyes again. “I’m sure whatever you wear will be fine.”

  “But this is my first trip to a castle, and I’m so awkward anyway without adding nobility to the mix.”

  Everyone at the corner booth turned from Emma to Brogan with each comment as if watching a verbal tennis match.

  “You’re not awkward,” Brogan said softly.

  Emma laughed, a sharp shot laced with disbelief and embarrassment. “I don’t know how you could possibly still believe that after dinner and how I . . .”

  Her face flushed profusely, and Brogan suspected she’d been about to mention the kiss Brogan had still been completely unable to wrap her head around. Five days later she still had no explanation that didn’t leave her confused. Still, her desire for answers was overridden by her instinct to protect Emma and put her at ease. “No worries. We’ll figure something out. I don’t know what I have to wear, either.”

  Reggie sighed dramatically. “That’s why I said she should ask my mum. She knows about dresses and fancy parties.”

  Ciara laughed but added, “She’s not wrong.”

  Brogan nodded. Of all the McKay children, Ciara had got the only real stitch of fashion sense that went past purely utilitarian.

  “And you’ve been to the castle,” Reggie added, a hint of pride in her voice that made her mother smile sweetly at her.

  “I have once or twice. They held a fundraiser for the parent-teacher organization once, and there was also a reception for small-business owners. Neither one was excessively formal, but they were evening events with an open bar and hors d’oeuvres.”

  Emma nodded. “I expect this will be about the same.”

  “I’ve been to a few of them as well,” Brogan admitted reluctantly. “If you want me to stop by and look at the dress later, I’d be happy to.”

  “No,” Esther practically whined. “I’ve never been to the castle for a party. I’d like to see the dress.”

  “Me, too,” Diane said.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing the girl in a dress,” Tom muttered, earning him a sharp poke in the ribs.

  “Can’t we please have a look?” Diane asked, then seemed to realize she might be pushing too hard, and added, “if it’s not too personal.”

  Emma smiled nervously, and Brogan could tell she was trying to politely extract herself from the situation. “Leave the poor woman alone. She doesn’t need a committee to dress her.”

  “You hush,” Esther said. “I’ve got bones enough to pick with you later.”

  Brogan hung her head, knowing she had a proper grilling coming her way as soon as Emma was out of earshot.

  “Ms. Volant.” Will finally spoke. “Don’t let them turn you into a toy doll if you don’t want to. What you wear isn’t anyone’s business but your own, but they mean no harm. They’re just excited to have something new and nice to think about.”

  Emma’s expression softened, the worry lines fading from her face. “I know. Everyone here has been so wonderful to me. I feel silly asking strangers what to wear.”

  “We’re not strangers!” Esther exclaimed. “We’re neighbors.”

  “And don’t feel bad about not knowing something. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’d still have to ask someone what to wear to a party with Lady Victoria,” Charlie offered. “That doesn’t make you silly. It makes you one of us.”

  Emma glanced from him to Brogan, then back again. “You wouldn’t happen to be Charlie, would you?”

  He chuckled. “Was it the hair?”

  “Your easy smile,” Emma said sweetly, then widened her own smile to include the rest of the group. “You all have been incredibly warm and welcoming.”

  “Then show us the dress,” Diane said, clasping her hands together excitedly.

  “Okay.” Emma nodded, then took a deep breath before holding out the scrunched-up black cloth at arm’s length.

  Brogan turned her head, first to one side, then the other, trying to make out the completely formless black sack, then turned to the others for some sort of cue and noticed the same expressions of confusion on all their faces.

  “Is it terrible?” Emma finally asked.

  “Well,” Esther said kindly, “I can’t tell.”

  “It doesn’t exactly hold its form when you hold it out like a dead snake,” Tom added.

  “I think what my husband is trying to suggest is, you might need to put it on to give us the full picture.”

  Emma sighed resignedly. “I was afraid of that.”

  “You don’t have to.” Brogan tried to offer one more exit.

  “I’m going to have to do it sooner or later.”

  “We promise to be gentle,” Ciara said, then excitedly pointed her toward the back of the bar. “The loo’s through the dining room and down the hall.”

  “I’ll show you,” Reggie said, grabbing her hand and leading her off.

  Brogan tried to give Emma her most apologetic facial expression as she watched her edge down the bar before she turned and wandered around the corner. Bracing herself for what was sure to come next, she tightened her shoulders and turned back toward the corner booth. “Anyone need a refill?”

  Charlie was the only one who managed to look amused. Everyone else stared at her with a range from confusion to accusation.

  Finally, Ciara spoke for the group when she said, “Talk fast.”

  Brogan shook her head. “Don’t make a bigger deal out of this than it is.”

  “Why would I make a big deal about my sister going on a date to a castle party with a famous writer?”

  “And what about Emma saying she can’t run to you ‘again’? How many times has she already done so?” Esther asked.

  “And there was a mention of dinner,” Diane said quickly. “Add that to the sailing we already knew about, and the castle would make three dates.”

  “Four,” Charlie offered. “There was a tea in Warkworth.”

  “Have you ever had four dates with the same woman in your life?” Ciara asked.

  “They weren’t dates,” Brogan said, a tad too defensively. “We have spent some time together, yes, but as friends.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows shot up under his ruddy mop top, but she silenced him with a sharp look, and he retreated behind his pint glass.

  “I don’t know if Emma would share that assessment,” Esther said almost pensively. “She didn’t look at you with the eyes of someone looking for the opinion of a friend. She turned to you hopefully, for support, for affirmation.”

  “She really did,” Will said, as if he found the idea amusing. “If I were a younger man, I’d have felt a little twinge of jealousy.”

  “Younger man, humph,” Tom said. “I’m not young, and I still wouldn’t mind being the one to add that little hint of pink to those pale cheeks of hers.”

  “You lot are so eager for something that isn’t there, you’re going to paint it into the picture yourself,” Brogan said, weary of having this conversation, both with herself and with everyone else. “Emma’s in a new place, finding herself in foreign situations, and coming off a hard time.”

  “You’re the one working hard for explanations that aren’t there,” Esther shot back. “And she doesn’t appear nearly as lost or heartbroken as she did a month ago. She’s got life back in her body and a little gleam in her eye.”

  “Because she’s going to a party at a castle on the personal invitation of the daughter of a duke.”

  “Exactly,” Diane said, “she’s getting out again. She’s getting back into the swing of things, and aside from her adorable little fuss o
ver the dress, why shouldn’t she be there? She’s every bit as prestigious as anyone else who’ll be on the guest list.”

  “Absolutely,” Brogan agreed, as her chest constricted. “Emma will fall into those circles because that’s where she belongs, but we all know I’m no royalist, much less part of the high-end party set Lady Victoria runs with.”

  Everyone sat back, a few frowns between them, and Brogan was torn between the desire to end this conversation, and sadness that not one of them had even mounted an argument to her last point. “It’s the way things are. I know it, and Emma will, too, as soon as she’s back on her feet.”

  “But will she know it in the meantime?” Diane mused. “Have you told her you just want friendship?”

  “I don’t think I need to state the obvious.”

  Will leaned back in his chair until the front legs lifted off the floor. “I wouldn’t be so sure about yourself there. I don’t want to be indelicate, but plenty of women have come through that door looking for something more than friendship from you.”

  Now it was her turn to blush, but she managed to say, “And every one of them has walked right back out again in a short time. I’ve never had to tell any of them to head out of town, either.”

  “Right,” Ciara said slowly. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet for the last few minutes. “All of them went back to their own homes and lives, but this is Emma’s home now. She chose this place as her sanctuary as much as you have. You’re going to see each other. You already have, more than you planned. If that’s not going to change, maybe you need to change the way you handle those encounters.”

  “So, what?” Brogan asked hesitantly, her heart feeling uncomfortably scrunched in her chest at the thought of seeing Emma every day, and the thought of not. Both prospects felt equally fraught. “You don’t think I should go to the party with her?”

  “We’re saying maybe you shouldn’t lead her on,” Diane said gently. “It could make things complicated later. You might have to face a little awkward conversation straight away.”

  “We don’t want to see any hearts get broken,” Ciara added.

  Brogan noticed her sister didn’t specify any heart in particular, but the way her own had beat in an erratic rhythm since she’d seen Emma shrouded in the golden light made her suspect things had already got further out of hand than she’d intended. She never thought there was much chance of the two of them getting close enough to worry about intentions and misconceptions, but still, there was the kiss.

  She sighed at the memory of Emma’s lips, so soft and sweet, and could no longer convince herself they weren’t quickly approaching heartbreak territory. Maybe the others were right, and it was time to step back. Screwing up all her resolve, she gave one sharp nod and said, “Okay.”

  “Okay what?” Tom asked. “Okay, you’re just friends? Okay, you’re going to go where she leads? Or okay, you’re going to call this whole thing off right now?”

  “I don’t know,” Brogan admitted.

  “You better decide real fast, because here she comes.”

  Brogan turned to glance over her shoulder as Emma stepped through the doorway from the dining area. Her smile was shy, but Brogan couldn’t see why. A woman who looked like her, wearing a dress like that, had nothing to feel insecure about. The black cloth hugged her body loosely enough to accent her subtle curves without begging for attention. The straps covered the tops of the shoulders, but nothing else, and the neckline offered the most tantalizing peek of collar bone Brogan had ever laid eyes on. She was about to offer a comment along the lines of saying such a tasteful option would be welcome anywhere, when Emma turned slowly around, revealing the most deliciously sweeping plunge that gathered at her shoulder before swooping down to her mid-back, then up to the other shoulder.

  Whatever inadequate words she’d been about to utter died, parched to oblivion in the desert of her mouth. All she could manage to do was stare at the smooth, creamy expanse between Emma’s shoulder blades, as if it were an oasis amid a desert.

  Distantly she could make out the voices of other people in the room. Random words floated over her— “beautiful,” “stunning,” “superb.” They were all insufficient.

  Then Emma turned to her, lips curled up, eyebrows arched expectantly, blue eyes sparkling with a devastating mix of hope and uncertainty. Brogan realized she was being asked a question, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Something about Emma, and honesty, and her intentions. Oh yeah, a party. A party where Emma would wear that dress. The little spark of clarity that realization offered was enough for her to form and say a single word.

  “Perfect.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Brogan opened the door to her car for Emma. Emma could see she’d cleaned it since their last driving lesson. Gone were the bits of mud from country roads and gone were the scraps of paper and receipts from the floorboards. The little touch warmed her chest every bit as much as the sight of Brogan in her dark slacks, gray sweater, and black sport coat had. How did the woman always manage to get things right?

  Emma felt dull and awkward by comparison, despite the hint of color that appeared in Brogan’s cheeks upon seeing her, though she’d admit to not hating the reaction. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at her the way Brogan had in the pub last week. Even before her divorce, Amalie had lost interest in her on nearly every front, including the physical, which, of course, contributed a great deal to the divorce. The thought cooled the heat she’d been basking in.

  Brogan slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled out of town.

  “Will we be the first ones there?” Emma asked nervously. “I never want to be late, so I always get to events too early, and then I end up hiding in a bathroom or something. I don’t want to stand there awkwardly by myself, but I don’t want to have to make small talk with other awkward, early-arrivers either.” She grimaced. “Isn’t that terrible?”

  Brogan laughed. “Not at all. I’m cringe-worthily familiar with the feeling you so perfectly described there.”

  “No. You’re easy to talk to, and you always say the right thing. I only get the words right when I put them to paper and spend months revising them.”

  “Not true. You describe things with such vivid detail, like when you talked about the view from my room, or even the process of being socially awkward. I’ve seen or experienced those things hundreds of times, but I’ve only ever felt them in the pit of my stomach. I’ve never even considered the fact that there might be words for those sensations.”

  “When you’ve spent as much time as I have hiding in the coatrooms of events being thrown in your honor, you have plenty of opportunity to inspect and chastise your own reactions.”

  “Maybe that’s it then,” Brogan said. “I haven’t had many events thrown in my honor.”

  “It’s sort of terrible,” Emma admitted. “You feel so unworthy, so ungraceful, and everyone is looking at you, and you don’t know what to do with your hands. Then you have to say something thankful, but also self-effacing, because you don’t want to come across as patronizing, but also you don’t want to seem unappreciative even though you wish everyone would let you get back to your couch and pajamas. And then, once again, you have to make conversation with people who know much more about you than you know about them, and they all expect you to be witty and charming, but I’m not good off the cuff, so I say bland things.” She was rambling now, but as the words continued to spill out, her anxiety rose, and it must have shown in her voice or in her verbal flood, because Brogan moved her hand from the gear shift and set it lightly atop her own.

  Emma looked up as Brogan took her eyes from the road long enough to meet hers and smile. “It’ll be okay.”

  “Really?”

  “I promise you won’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to. I’ll run interference all night. We could even have a signal.”

  “Like what?”

  Brogan pursed her lips together. “How about if you’re talking to so
meone and you start to feel uncomfortable, you can tug on your ear, and I’ll step in?”

  Emma’s eyes watered, and she blinked away the tears but found the emotions behind them harder to erase.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Brogan whispered, as she turned onto a wider road.

  She shook her head. “You said something right, again, like always.”

  “If you don’t like the plan, you can say so.”

  “Not only do I like the plan, I invented it. Early on, after my first book became a bestseller, I started finding myself in these situations more often. I asked Amalie if she could help rescue me when I got overwhelmed. I suggested we could have a sign or something.”

  Brogan’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t say anything, giving Emma the freedom to dive deeper into that particular memory. Amalie had laughed at her at first. Then she’d grown irritated. She’d accused Emma of being childish and immature. She’d told her if she didn’t want the praise, maybe it should go to someone else. “She always loved the limelight. She had a hard time understanding why someone wouldn’t want to make the most of it. It wasn’t easy for her to go to all of those events and watch me struggle with people fawning over me, so eventually she stopped.”

  “She stopped what?”

  “Going to the events. Which made sense. I mean, most partners don’t follow each other to work, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Brogan said, as if measuring her words. “I suppose not every day, but expecting a partner to go to a special function in your honor isn’t unreasonable.”

  “It got to the point where it was easier for both of us if she used that time to do her own thing.” The phrase stuck in her throat a little, because doing her own thing had eventually turned into doing someone else.

  “Emma, you know it’s not your fault, right?”

  She smiled weakly, and Brogan slowed the car before turning onto a little farm lane.

  “What she did to you, whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “She had an affair with another one of her writing protégés,” Emma said bluntly.

  Brogan nodded. “I’m sorry to have that confirmed, but I’m not surprised, given what you’ve told me about her.”