“I will, dear. Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
Since Tuesday was the day the library hosted a series of story hours for children of various ages, there was lots of activity throughout the morning and early afternoon. The previous summer, Emma’s friend Jane Hamilton had taken over the read-aloud duties while staying in town. This year, Emma had hired a couple of college students, home for the summer, and so far, thanks to their boundless enthusiasm, they had been a big hit with the children, as well as with Emma. Though she still had some supervising to do, they had helped to lighten her workload considerably, much as Jane had done.
As she returned to her office on the second floor of the library, Emma wished Jane were still living in Serenity. With her friend close by, she would have had an easier time asking her advice about Sam. But Jane was in Seattle, happily married and mothering her young son.
Burdening her from a distance with a problem that had no real solution—at least as far as Emma could see—didn’t seem fair. Especially when Jane had gone through such a hapless time herself only a year ago.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women dealt successfully with the effects of unrequited love, Emma reminded herself. She might feel like the only one facing heartache on a daily basis, but she wasn’t. And she had dealt with so much grief already. As long as she put her mind to it, she could deal with her feelings for Sam, as well.
She had no doubt he was just as eager to stay out of her way as she was to stay out of his, and that would certainly work to her advantage. Since she was going to be away over the weekend, she had good reason to spend time at her house the next few days, battening down the hatches. And the house on Galveston Island was huge. They would hardly have to cross paths at all except at mealtimes.
By three o’clock, Emma was on her way home, confident that Marion would be able to cope on her own during what was usually the quietest time on a summer weekday. Eager for fresh air and exercise after her long, deep sleep, she had walked to work that morning, and she enjoyed the walk back to Margaret’s house equally despite the increased afternoon heat.
Half a block away, Emma slowed her pace and scanned the front yard for any sign of Sam. Margaret’s Volvo was parked in the driveway, so he was probably home. Emma hoped he was still working on the back fence. That would make it easier for her to slip into the house, change clothes, load her rosebushes into her car and get away without a hassle.
Not that she expected Sam to go out of his way to cause her any problems. But just running into him would leave her feeling…flustered.
Emma let herself into the cool, quiet house, made a detour to the kitchen to see if Margaret was there and found it empty. After a glance out the window into the equally empty, but newly fenced, backyard, she quickly headed upstairs.
She paused at the partially closed door to Margaret’s darkened bedroom, noting that her friend was napping peacefully on the bed as she had been doing most afternoons lately. Otherwise, Emma had the upstairs all to herself.
Relieved, she wasted no time changing into faded denim cutoffs and a lemon yellow tank top. She slathered sun lotion on her face, arms and legs, grabbed her straw hat, purse and keys and hurried down to the kitchen again.
She couldn’t help but wonder where Sam had gone, especially without the car. She doubted he would be out running at that time of day. Maybe he had walked into downtown Serenity for the same reason she had that morning—for the fresh air and exercise.
Telling herself she didn’t care where he was or what he was doing as long as he wasn’t anywhere around the house, Emma left a note for Margaret detailing when she would return, then exited through the back door.
The containers holding her rosebushes should still be lined up along the side of the house. All she had to do was pull her car into the driveway behind Margaret’s, load them into the trunk and she could be on her way.
Only the containers weren’t where Sam had left them Sunday evening, Emma realized as she rounded the corner of the house. Halting in midstride, she stared at the grassy spot, a grimace tugging at the corners of her mouth. Surely they hadn’t been stolen. Theft wasn’t unknown in Serenity, but who would want her rosebushes besides old Mr. Bukowski? And he would never stoop to stealing them. Maybe Sam had moved them for some reason.
Uncertain what to do, Emma looked up and saw Sam leaning against his mother’s car, arms crossed over his chest, watching her. He was dressed in worn khaki shorts and a dark blue, sleeveless sweatshirt that had seen better days. As usual, his mirrored sunglasses hid his expression.
She hesitated, a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Recalling her talk with Margaret that morning, she had a pretty good idea of why he was there.
“Ready to go?” he asked as if their meeting were not only prearranged but also mutually agreeable.
Emma didn’t appreciate the casual way in which he assumed his assistance would be welcome. But how could she turn down his offer—such as it was—without being rude? Obviously, her rosebushes were already loaded into the trunk of Margaret’s car. And he had a determined-to-do-my-duty look about him that warned her arguing would be a waste of breath. By sheer force of will, he would end up getting his way, and she would come across as a thankless wretch.
So go along graciously, she told herself. Let him help with the rosebushes without making a big deal of it. She had already given him too much power over her as it was. And no matter how much she would have preferred to keep him away from her house, allowing him to dig a few holes in her back garden certainly wouldn’t traumatize her for life.
Yet she couldn’t just…give in.
“As soon as I find my rosebushes,” she quipped with a slight smile, choosing to play dumb.
“They’re in the car.” Straightening, Sam gestured toward the Volvo’s trunk, then opened the passenger’s door for her. “I’ll drive you over and give you a hand with them.”
“That’s not really necessary,” she began in a last-ditch effort to dissuade him. “I know you have a lot to do around here—”
“I want to talk to you about my mother,” he cut in. “And I thought it would be…easier at your house.”
“Was she feeling bad today?” Emma asked, making no effort to hide her sudden concern as she walked toward him.
“Not really. But there’s a lot she isn’t telling me about her illness. I figured maybe you could fill in some of the blanks.”
“Of course,” Emma agreed, feeling foolish as she slid onto the car seat.
Talk about jumping to all the wrong conclusions. He wanted to ask about his mother’s condition somewhere where they could speak freely—nothing more, nothing less. She should have suggested it herself, but she had been so self-involved…
“You’ll have to give me directions to your house,” Sam said, sliding in beside her and starting the engine.
“It’s not far. Just about three blocks. Turn left at the corner, go down to Bay Leaf Lane, then turn right.”
They made the short drive in silence, arriving at her house within a few minutes.
“Where are you going to plant the rosebushes?” Sam asked as he pulled into her driveway.
“In the back garden by the gazebo. Let me open the gate, then I’ll help you carry the containers into the yard.”
“Why don’t you get your gardening tools while I do the heavy lifting,” he suggested instead.
“All right,” she agreed after a moment’s hesitation.
She could manage the containers as easily as he could, but they would finish the planting much sooner by dividing the tasks. And the less time they spent together, the better for her fragile peace of mind.
While Sam transferred the containers from Margaret’s car to Emma’s back garden, she gathered the necessary equipment from the little shed behind her garage. With the two shovels she had, they could each work on digging the holes, then Sam could help her set the bushes in the ground.
“Now what?” he asked as he set the l
ast container on the grass edging the garden.
“Have you planted rosebushes before?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s fairly simply. The holes should be about twenty-four inches wide and eighteen inches deep—large enough to accommodate the container. We want to give the bushes plenty of room to grow and we don’t want to crowd the roots.”
“Okay. Where do I start?”
“How about here?” Emma indicated one of several sparsely planted sections alongside the steps of the gazebo.
Sam nodded agreeably.
“Let me know when you’re finished, and I’ll tell you where to dig next. I’ll be working on the other side of the steps.”
Sam nodded again, then dug into the dry soil with obvious ease.
They worked quietly for several minutes, Sam doing most of the digging since he was stronger and faster. Considering the heat, even in the shaded area where they were working, Emma was more grateful for his help than she had anticipated.
When all the holes had been dug, she showed him how to remove a bush from the container, loosen the soil at the bottom of the root ball, then plant the bush with the top of the root ball at the same level as it had been in the container.
Sam followed her instructions with care, handling the rosebush gently. Emma knelt beside him in the grass, watching as he set it in the hole, then scooped the loose soil around it.
The caressing way in which his long, lean fingers moved under the thorny stems caught and held her gaze.
Around them, birds twittered and insects buzzed. A slight breeze ruffled her curls and cooled her heated skin. Her thoughts drifted lazily, and suddenly, unaccountably, she found herself imagining Sam’s clever, capable hands deftly skimming over her, stroking her—
“How’s that?” he asked, interrupting her reverie with a questioning glance.
“Fine. Just…fine,” she replied as she stood quickly and took a step back, desperate to put some distance between them.
What in the world had come over her? He had been planting a rosebush, for heaven’s sake. But she’d had something entirely different on her mind—something that likely would have appalled him if he’d been able to read her thoughts.
“Why don’t you plant this one here,” she said, gesturing to one of the remaining containers, then to the spot where she wanted the bush to go.
Still looking somewhat bemused, Sam nodded.
As he set to work, Emma lugged another of the containers to the opposite side of the garden and began to work the root ball loose, mentally chastising herself all over again.
Really, she had to get a grip.
They finished the planting, exchanging no more than a few words. Emma kept waiting for Sam to ask about his mother, but he seemed interested only in the task at hand.
When all the bushes were in place, Emma set out the water sprinklers and turned them on while Sam gathered the gardening tools and took them back to the shed.
Emma wished she could simply send him home now, but she couldn’t bring herself to be that crass. He had spared her a lot of hard work—not without his own good reasons, of course. Still, he had to be as hot and tired as she was. The least she could do was offer him a cold drink and give him one last chance to ask about his mother. Even if it meant inviting him into her house as she would have to do so he, too, could wash the dirt from his hands.
“How about a beer?” she asked as he joined her by the garden’s edge.
He glanced at her, his surprise obvious, then nodded once.
“Sounds good to me.”
“Just let me get my keys and we can go inside.”
Leaving him by the back porch, Emma hurried out to Margaret’s car and retrieved her purse from the front seat. As she joined him again, she noticed that he’d tucked his sunglasses in the pocket of his T-shirt.
She met his gaze for a moment, then looked away uncomfortably as she fit her key into the lock and opened the door. Whether intentional or not, his scrutiny made her feel as if she were lacking in some way.
“There’s a bathroom in the downstairs hallway,” she said, gesturing toward the doorway on the far side of the kitchen. “In case you want to get cleaned up.”
“That would probably be a good idea.” Smiling slightly, he moved past her.
“I need to get a couple of things upstairs, then I’ll meet you back here, okay?”
“Okay.”
“The beer is in the refrigerator. Just help yourself.”
Feeling oddly breathless, Emma trailed across the kitchen after him. He seemed so at ease, as if he’d been there a hundred times before. And belonged…
She should have offered to bring him a beer, then let him wash off at the faucet outside, she thought ruefully, just a tad too late.
Oh, well, they didn’t have to linger long. They could drink a beer, talk a bit about Margaret, then he could go on home while she erased all trace of his presence as quickly as she could. Or at least tried, she amended as she took the stairs two at a time, the sound of water running in the bathroom below echoing in her ears.
Chapter 9
Emma hadn’t wanted his help with her rosebushes. Sam had known that as surely as he knew his own name. But he had refused to let her put him off. He had wanted to talk to her away from his mother’s house, and Margaret’s suggestion that he give her a hand with her planting had presented the perfect opportunity.
Now, standing at the sink, washing his hands, Sam eyed himself in the mirror and acknowledged that she hadn’t wanted him in her house, either. Again, however, he had chosen to stand fast. Not only because they had yet to talk, but also because he had wanted, needed, to see the place she had chosen to call home.
He had heard the hesitation in her voice when she invited him to have a beer. And he had sensed her apprehension as she unlocked the door, then stood aside so he could cross the threshold.
Yet she hadn’t seemed afraid of him. He wouldn’t have taken her up on the offer if she’d given that impression. Instead, she had seemed vaguely troubled, as if she hadn’t been sure exactly what to expect of him.
Nothing hurtful, he had sworn as he slowly made his way through her bright, cheerful little kitchen, taking in the warm, homey feel of it. At least not if he could help it. He just wanted something to take away with him—some small, special memories of the place where she lived so he could think of her there months from now in the loneliness of the night.
Perhaps she had reason to be uneasy, Sam mused, a wry twist to his lips as he rinsed the soap from his hands, then splashed cool water on his face, washing away the dusty film of sweat that coated his skin. How rational was it to obsess over a woman he had yet to believe he could ever have?
Unless he took a chance and told her the truth…
Would Emma understand as his mother had insisted? Could she?
With a muttered curse, Sam dried his face and hands on a fluffy dark green towel that exactly matched the tiny ivy leaves in the patterned wallpaper. Then he opened the bathroom door, stepped into the hallway and paused.
Sounds came from overhead—as good a sign as any that Emma was still upstairs. That meant he had a few more minutes to himself. Not to snoop, he told himself as he turned toward the living room doorway. Just to…look around.
Floral-print fabric in shades of rose and blue covered the cushioned sofa, a deep, comfortable-looking chair and an ottoman. Cherry-wood end tables topped by brass lamps, a matching coffee table and wardrobe, doors open to reveal a television, small stereo, books and several framed photographs, completed the furnishings. A lovely Oriental carpet, also in shades of rose and blue, added warmth to the highly polished hardwood floor. And old-fashioned, wide-slatted wooden blinds, slanted to let in the late-afternoon sunlight, covered the windows.
The room suited Emma—feminine, but not frilly. The blend of soft colors and sturdy wood made it livable. Pretty as the furnishings were, a man could still feel at ease there. At home, Sam thought, drawn into the room despite his
intention not to leave the doorway.
He prowled around slowly, savoring the ambience Emma had created. He could stay there forever, he admitted. Quite happily, as long as he had Emma by his side.
At the wardrobe, he paused, eyeing the silver-framed photographs curiously.
One was older, taken when Emma was nine or ten, he guessed. She stood between a lovely, fragile-looking, unsmiling woman with curly red hair similar to hers and a tall, dark man with a wild, rakish grin—her parents, more than likely.
Another, featuring a tall, handsome couple, the man holding a baby in his arms, had been taken more recently—her friends Jane and Max Hamilton, he supposed. There was also one of Emma holding the baby—their son, Emma’s godson.
Grouped together on another shelf were three photographs that caused Sam’s breath to catch in his throat. All were of Teddy and him: one taken years ago at the swimming pool in the park outside of town, one of them with their mother at the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding and one of them dressed in their tuxedos, a picture he remembered Margaret taking the following morning just before they’d left for the church.
Of all the photographs Emma must have of Teddy, why had she chosen to display those that included him, too? Sam wondered. Was it her way of constantly reminding herself of his role in his brother’s death?
No, she wouldn’t do that. Not when she had made such a point of telling him she’d never really blamed him for what had happened.
Looking at the photographs more closely, Sam noted that in the older one he and Teddy appeared to be quite happy. Their smiles were carefree and…genuine. By contrast, their smiles seemed oddly strained in the other pictures.
Understandable for him, Sam mused. He had been on the verge of watching the woman he’d only just admitted he loved exchange vows with his younger brother. But Teddy should have been grinning broadly. Had he been in his brother’s position, Sam knew he wouldn’t have been able to contain his jubilation. Yet Teddy looked more like a man doing his dreaded duty than a man about to have his dream come true.
The Major and the Librarian Page 10