Juliet clutched Emmie’s sleeve and said, “Graham is coming later.” It occurred to Emmie that that was all Blondie had said to her all night. “Graham is coming later.” Okay, that was three times. Emmie nodded and tried to detach herself so she could avert the impending blowup a few steps away.
“I beg your pardon—” Wilma huffed.
“You’d better,” Annette countered. “That bedroom’s giving my kid nightmares!”
Emmie looked around for some help, to no avail. Avery and Adam still sat cozily on the couch, gleefully dividing their attention between the Design War on their left and Drunken Juliet on their right, like they were at Wimbledon.
“I don’t know why he isn’t here yet,” Juliet mumbled into her glass, and Emmie was glad she had found something else to say, although she wished she’d get off the Graham subject.
From somewhere beneath the din, a phone rang. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Trish digging in her purse. “Hello . . . yes?”
The exchange between Trish and the caller was suddenly drowned out by the most god-awful noise Emmie had ever heard—and it wasn’t Annette braining Wilma with an antique glass ashtray, although that seemed imminent. No, this terrible, terrifying sound was like . . . the hounds of hell. No, wait—the hounds of hell were . . . singing a Christmas carol?
Emmie pinpointed the source soon enough: Artie had turned off her iPod speaker dock that had been churning out tastefully religion-neutral holiday tunes and instead had fired up a CD. No, she hadn’t been having an auditory hallucination—there really were dogs howling “O Holy Night,” accompanied by . . . was that an accordion/ bagpipes combo? What was worse, Artie had turned it up to eleven.
Emmie stood stock still, at a loss for words, while Artie smiled excitedly and shouted over the music, “This is the band I was telling you about! MacGregor and McGraw! They were at the dinner tonight. I bought their CD! Of course, they didn’t bring the dogs—kind of a shame, because that’s their hook, you know?” And Artie gleefully shoved two or three cocktail wieners into his grinning maw.
Meanwhile, across the room, Trish was gasping into the phone, “He what!” while desperately casting around the room for Rick’s attention. “How did he even get that into the washing machine? . . . Never mind. We’ll be home in five minutes.” Trish hung up and, after bellowing, “Rick! Coats!” she spared a second to shoot a regretful look at Emmie. “Sorry, hon,” she said. “We’ve gotta go.”
Emmie sighed. “Will it involve an emergency call to the plumber?”
“Third time this year. Got him on speed dial.” Trish shrugged on her coat and gave Emmie a quick, tight hug. “I’m so sorry,” she shouted into her ear to be heard over the accordion/bagpipes/canine chorus, which had moved on to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” “I’ll try to come back, okay?”
Emmie knew she wouldn’t, but she appreciated the gesture. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you with the postmortem tomorrow.” And it would be the mortem-est of postmortems. She just had a feeling.
Emmie followed Trish and Rick to the front door and got a faceful of snow for her trouble. The wind was really whipping now; she held her breath as Rick backed the Mom-Mobile slowly out of the driveway. As the minivan crept down the street, another vehicle came up at a pretty good clip for a zero-visibility winter night. Emmie frowned at how fast the idiot was driving and watched carefully to make sure he didn’t hit any of her friends’ cars that were parked at the curb. Granted, the street was wide enough for the driver to avoid them, but not if he slid on a patch of black ice or was driving with a little too much holiday cheer under his belt.
But the driver didn’t hit any of the cars on the street. He did something worse. He pulled up and parked. It slowly registered in Emmie’s addled cranium that she was looking at a white pickup truck. A very familiar white pickup truck.
“Shit.”
She slammed the door and leaned on it, wishing for a nice, thick portcullis to drop down and prevent what was going to happen next. Before her, Juliet was now hanging on Adam, who was leaning away from her desperately (Avery was laughing and not helping his boyfriend in the slightest). Annette was still giving Wilma a piece of her mind, loudly (as if she did it any other way), and Travis wasn’t interfering—apparently he was rather enjoying the fact that his significant other was being taken down a peg for once. Artie was now dancing, albeit just a sort of in-place bounce, along with the travesty of a CD he had brought along. Her father and his new girlfriend were staying out of the fray, in the dining room area, watching all the activity with alarmed expressions.
Even though she knew it was coming, Emmie jumped a mile when the doorbell rang. This was the last thing she needed. What she needed was everyone to get the hell out so she could run a bubble bath and open up a fresh bottle of wine, but she wasn’t about to get that anytime soon.
Oh, what the hell, she thought. What’s one more crazy person at this point? So she opened the door.
No, not one more crazy person. Two.
“Hiya, Emmaline,” Kyle said with a broad grin. “Wazzup?”
“Kyle, why are you here? With . . .”
“You remember Caitlynn, right?” The girl was slumped under his arm, looking a whole lot the worse for wear.
Emmie glared. Of course she remembered Caitlynn. How could she not?
“Gonna let us in? It’s a frickin’ blizzard out here.”
Emmie was in no rush to give Kyle any sort of relief whatsoever. Instead she watched Caitlynn the way a biologist might study the activity of some critters in a petri dish: detached, calm, and observant. The girl was clearly under the influence. Too much influence. She leaned heavily against Kyle’s side, her nose in his armpit—proof right there she was pretty far out of it.
Kyle looked down at the half-conscious girl. “We’ve been out having a good time tonight, haven’t we?” he said, jostling her. She groaned in response, then mumbled something into his jacket. “What’s that, sweet pea?” he asked in a sugary tone.
Caitlynn said, louder, “I’m gonna throw up.”
Honey, you just read my mind, Emmie said to herself.
“Aw, of course you aren’t.” Kyle chuckled, giving her another little shake.
“Ky-ullll!” Caitlynn groaned, quite clearly, and it wiped the stupid grin off his face.
“Aw, dammit, Caitlynn. I told you that last Jäegerbomb was a bad idea!” He appealed to Emmie. “Can she boot in your bathroom?”
Emmie looked stricken. What a choice—let Caitlynn in to hurl or watch it all come up on her front porch. Judging by how pale the girl was, there was no time to get her back into Kyle’s truck and let him deal with the consequences. She sighed heavily and opened the door wider. As Kyle ushered Caitlynn into the house, Emmie called after them, “Make sure she hits the target, Kyle, or you’re cleaning it up.”
Kyle waved over his shoulder with his free hand to let her know he heard her as they made their way through the gathering. “Hey, everybody!” he found time to exclaim. “Nice party!”
Caitlynn only slammed against the wall in the hallway once before Kyle managed to steer her into the bathroom and shut the door. Now everyone at the party was quiet, peering down the hall. Annette wrested the CD player remote away from her husband and turned off the yowling dogs. In the new silence, everyone could hear Caitlynn whining about something, likely announcing that she was going to vomit, and Kyle’s low-toned, wheedling responses, likely telling her to aim for the toilet bowl instead of the intricate throw rug that would be much harder to clean up. You could hear an appetizer toothpick drop in the living room as the exchange went on—whine, whine, mutter, mutter, whine, whine, mutter, “Ky-ulllll!”—and finally the juicy, choking gag that signaled an end to the discussion.
Everyone in the living room winced. And again, amplified by the concave porcelain: “Blarggghhhh.”
Bob Brewster approached his daughter and murmured, “Emmaline, shouldn’t you go in there and see if she’s all right?”
“Dad,” Emmie replied, “this may be my house, but whatever is going on in there is not my responsibility.” And she crossed the room to turn her iPod back on. The more sedate holiday music she had originally chosen as the dignified soundtrack to the nice party she had envisioned didn’t do a whole lot to drown out the sound effects coming from the bathroom—now it appeared Caitlynn was alternately sobbing and whining during a vomit intermission—but it helped.
“Shrimp puffs, anyone?” At her guests’ unanimously stricken looks, she muttered, “Oh. Sorry.”
Emmie retreated to the kitchen to find her mop and bucket, just in case all did not go well in the bathroom. By the time she emerged from the broom closet with the necessary cleanup items, she found herself facing a mass exodus. Nearly everyone had their coats on or were lined up to pull them out of the closet. Her guests froze, guilty, as she stared at them.
“Weather’s getting bad, sweetheart,” Travis rumbled. “It’s gonna be rough going to get home. You understand.”
Emmie could never be mad at Travis, so she willingly fell into his big bear hug when he stretched out his arms, deeply inhaling the scent of his leather coat. “Drive safe,” was all she said. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to John, would we?”
Travis chuckled. “And deny Mrs. Polschuk a second chance to take him apart? Never.”
Wilma barely nodded to her before he dashed out the door, followed by the rest of her guests, in a veritable stampede. Not that she blamed them. Heck, if it weren’t her party, she’d be beating a hasty retreat as well.
Bob Brewster and Concetta didn’t run out the door, and Emmie appreciated the older generation’s better manners.
As her father helped Concetta with her coat, he said to Emmie, “You’ll be all right here?”
“What, with the barfer? She’s probably limp as a wet noodle by now. I can take her.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, Dad, I know. I’ll be fine.”
“It was lovely meeting you,” Concetta said. “It was a very nice party.”
Emmie winced. “It’s nice of you to say so, Concetta.”
Her father ventured, “Perhaps we can all get together another time, without . . .”
“Howling dogs? Vomiting girlfriends of ex-boyfriends? Clients yelling at Wilma?”
“Something like that.”
Emmie closed the door behind them, heaved a sigh, and leaned her forehead against the heavy, solid wood. It was over. So much for her great idea, and Graham never even showed—but that meant he wasn’t treated to the travesty she thought she could call a party. All good in the end. She reveled in the calm of her nearly empty house, the shush of the snow on the porch roof—
“Hic.”
Aw, geez.
Well, at least the hiccupping Caitlynn sounded more composed than she had five minutes ago. No whining—that was an improvement. And no projectile-vomiting noises—even better. Emmie decided she would just make sure the bathroom was decent, and if Kyle didn’t have any cleanup duties to attend to, she’d usher the two of them out the door and finally have some peace and—
“I should go home . . .”
Emmie whirled around. There in the middle of the room stood—or, rather, wobbled—Juliet. An absolutely hammered Juliet. In the partygoers’ mad rush for the door, Emmie hadn’t even noticed that she wasn’t among the escapees. And now the little candy cane looked half melted and, to be honest, pretty sad. Her makeup was a bit smeared, her curls weren’t neatly in place, and overall she definitely looked a little rough around the edges.
“Can I have my coat? I think my keys are in the pocket. I didn’t bring a purse, did I?” And she started for the closet.
Emmie stepped in front of her. “Uh, Juliet? I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive.”
Juliet brightened a bit. “I should wait for Graham?”
“Er . . .” Emmie hesitated, then admitted, “I don’t think he’s coming, to be honest with you. Sorry.” What was she apologizing to Juliet for? Graham had stood her up, not Juliet. Well, okay, Juliet, too . . . but it was her party!
Alarm breaking through her drunkenness, Juliet exclaimed, frantic, “I’ve got to get home!”
“Okay,” Emmie said placatingly, “okay. We’ll get you home. Um, can we call Kevin?”
“No! He’s with the kids. I don’t want him to leave them alone—”
“Or wake them up and put them in the car. I get it. Okay,” she said again. Emmie knew the town’s taxi service was nearly nonexistent, so with a sigh, she said, “I’ll drive you. Give me one second.” Juliet just stood there, swaying slightly. “Juliet?” Emmie prompted. “Did you hear me? Nod or something.” Juliet nodded. “All right, then. Stay right there.”
Emmie knocked on the bathroom door, where Kyle and Caitlynn were still holed up. “Kyle? Everything all right in there?”
Someone turned on the faucet. Kyle said over the sound of running water, “Everything’s cool, Em.”
“Fantastic,” she muttered drily. “Come on out of there. I’ve got to leave.”
Pause. “Uh . . . can you give us, like, five, ten more minutes?”
“Are you cleaning up a mess or something?”
Another pause. “Yeah. Cleaning.”
Emmie sighed. “I’d rather not wait, Kyle. Is Caitlynn all right?”
“I’m fine,” came a clearer response than Emmie had expected.
“Hey, Emmaline, why don’t you go on ahead,” Kyle said from behind the still-closed door. “We’ll finish up here and let ourselves out. How’s that sound?”
“No way. I’m not leaving you two alone in my house. Now move it.”
“Can’t you just wait—”
“I said no!”
Juliet tugged on her arm—more like pulling on it heavily—and Emmie wasn’t sure if she was trying to get her attention or remain standing.
“I have to get home!” Juliet whined again.
“I heard you the first time,” Emmie hissed at her.
Her bathroom door remained closed. Emmie rattled the handle. Locked. Juliet pulled on her arm again, and Emmie nearly fell into her.
“Oh, for . . . Fine,” she snapped. “Fine. But I want you guys gone by the time I get back. I have to drive Juliet home.” The sooner the better. “And I sure don’t trust you guys to do it,” she muttered. “Caitlynn,” Emmie ordered, “do not use my toothbrush, got it?” She grimaced when she thought she heard the girl whisper, “Oops,” and made a mental note to dig a new one out of the bathroom cabinet when she got back. “And don’t forget your crap in the garage, Kyle.”
“My what?”
Emmie paused and stared at the door suspiciously. He sounded distracted, and a distracted Kyle was never a good thing.
“The stuff you came here for,” she reminded him.
“Oh—right.”
“And try to leave at least one wall standing.”
Kyle forced a laugh. “You can trust me, Emmaline.”
Emmie rolled her eyes and tried not to think too much about that. “Gone by the time I get back. I mean it!”
No answer. Emmie glanced around her living room, past a confused-looking Juliet—who would be gone soon enough, thank goodness—at the forlorn remnants of her party: half-eaten appetizers, empty glasses, empty house. She sighed. So much for festive, she thought as she started blowing out tea light after tea light and unplugging her fairy lights. What a miserable night.
Chapter 12
Emmie inched her Honda down the road, leaning forward, her nose almost touching the windshield, as if that would help her see better. The only thing she saw, however, was snow, snow, and more snow. That was it. The tiny flakes swirling madly in her headlight beams were giving her a headache . . . or perhaps it was the culmination of the entire night’s adventures. But the snow assault definitely wasn’t helping.
She stopped at a red light. The intersection was completely empty. She was the only idiot on the road. As she stared up a
t the stoplight and listened to the hiss of the frozen pellets as they scuttled across the roof of her car, Emmie started to wonder if she should have insisted on putting Juliet up for the night—a blanket on the couch and a bucket beside her—but it was too late now. They were more than halfway to her house; she might as well keep going, unless someone on cross-country skis or snowshoes lapped her. She’d take that as a cue to turn back.
The light turned green and, after a couple of quick glances to the left and right to make sure nobody was unwillingly sliding through the intersection, Emmie slowly started the car rolling again. She caught a glimpse of Juliet in the passenger seat, completely silent, her head resting against the side window. Her curls were mashed up against the glass, creating swirls in mist that quickly turned to frost. Emmie was a little worried about her—not only because she was completely shitfaced, but also because she seemed so out of sorts. The usually bubbly Juliet had turned into a maudlin drunk, and it knocked Emmie off-kilter. She knew how to deal with a giddy Juliet, even if it was fake cheer, but this sad clown, not so much. Juliet’s mood was going to have to wait, though. Right now she needed to focus on not getting them killed.
Her passenger heaved a sigh. “You must hate me.”
She sighed back. “No, I don’t hate you.”
“Graham hates me.”
“No.” She sighed again, trying to remain patient. “I’m sure Graham doesn’t hate you, either.”
“Oh, he does. You don’t know.”
Juliet sniffled, and Emmie realized she was crying daintily. Trust Juliet not to be a sloppy crier even when she was drunk. That irritated Emmie even more. Her temples were throbbing, and she caught herself clenching her jaw. She wondered how long she’d been doing that. Judging by the intensity of her headache, quite a while.
Juliet whisked some tears off her cheeks. “He’s going to break up with me, you know. He is.”
“Juliet, you’re just”—totally plastered—“out of sorts. Things will look brighter in the morning and all those clichés.”
By Design Page 14