By Design

by Denker, Jayne

  “Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, blessed Yule, happy Kwanzaa, and whatever else goes on in December,” Avery said, crossing to her and kissing her on the cheek. “Hope you don’t mind us barging in.”

  “What’s going on?” Emmie asked, hugging Adam and taking in the added seats and settings at the table, the relegation of three place settings to a newly appointed kids’ table, and more side dishes than she remembered making.

  Trish said, “Well, we thought we’d try to wipe out the memory of that . . . other party. Avery and Adam were traumatized, too, you know, even though it wasn’t their house that got torched.”

  Adam looked around furtively. “You aren’t expecting any drunk blondes to show up tonight, are you?”

  As Emmie laughed, Trish went on, “So I invited these guys and made some extra food. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? You could’ve made the whole meal as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Everything’s ready. We can eat as soon as Graham and Sophie get here.”

  Avery cocked an eyebrow at Emmie. “Oh really?” Emmie blushed. “Oh really!” he repeated. “I want details. Pour me a glass of something and start talking.”

  Emmie glanced nervously at the front door. “But he’s going to be here any minute.”

  “So talk fast. Go!”

  Emmie tried to fill him and Adam in as best she could while craning her neck at every random noise outside in case it was Graham and Sophie climbing the porch steps. She had pretty much covered everything when she caught a glimpse of someone tall at the front door and her stomach leaped accordingly. This time Graham had come to her gathering, no fuss, no bother, with his young daughter, yet another bottle of wine, and, best of all, a big smile on his face.

  Emmie took Sophie’s coat and crouched down in front of her. “I’m really glad you’re here, Miss Sophie,” she said to the girl, who looked pleased to see her but overcome by bashfulness at the unfamiliar setting with unfamiliar people. “I’m going to introduce you to two special friends of mine named Justin and Logan, and then maybe you could help me investigate a package by your plate in the dining room—whaddya say?”

  Emmie had picked up an inexpensive beaded bracelet (yellow, of course) for her and some trading cards for the boys, as well as some Christmas crackers, so once the kids had been introduced, they merrily set to pulling those apart even before the meal started. Soon enough the three were acting like old friends—especially when Sophie informed the boys that she could whip their butts at Mario Kart.

  Graham was happy to see Avery again, and pleased to meet Adam, and soon the wine was flowing and the adults were having as good a time as the children. Trish discreetly directed Graham to the chair beside Emmie’s, and they enjoyed some private conversation between bites of turkey and stuffing as well as contributing to the general raucousness that Trish and Rick inspired. It was so contagious that even Emmie’s father found himself forgetting that he was supposed to be maudlin about the holiday, and was soon laughing and telling as many jokes as the rest of them.

  When dinner was over, Emmie leaned against Graham’s arm and enjoyed his fond look as he gazed down at her. She felt warmer and safer than she had in ages. Those unfamiliar feelings of happiness and contentment that had made their presence known earlier in the day were definitely real. This was enough. Nearly. As everyone was pushing away their half-finished pie—or, in her father’s case, scraping the plate clean of the crumbs from his second piece—she announced, “Presents!”

  She asked the children to help her distribute them, but once they had found their own gifts, they were a lost cause; the boys focused on tearing open their Nerf guns to the exclusion of their distributing duties. As the adults unwrapped their trinkets—and Avery and Adam insisted that the only thing they wanted from Emmie was another bottle of wine opened—Emmie turned to Sophie, who was looking a little lost.

  She took the girl’s hand and said, “There’s something for you upstairs. It was a little too big to bring down here.”

  Sophie’s eyes lit up at the magic words “a little too big” and allowed herself to be led up the stairs. Graham followed, also curious. Emmie turned on the light in her room and ushered the little girl inside. Sophie looked around for a second before her eyes were drawn to a big red bow—the siren song of Christmas presents.

  “A little bird told me you’ve been wanting a dollhouse,” Emmie said, and Sophie spun around to look at her, as if she had forgotten Emmie and her father were there. She nodded mutely. “Well, then, I hope you’ll like this one. It was mine when I was little.”

  Sophie stood still, gazing at it from across the room, so Graham gave her a tiny nudge. “Go ahead.” And his daughter ran toward it. She eagerly peeked in the windows and poked at the door. Graham gently turned the dollhouse, showing her where it latched and how to open the one wall on its hinges. In quick order, Sophie discovered the homemade touches—and laughed at the beanbag chair—as well as the family of four that Emmie had hunted down in a box of toys that had survived periodic purges over the years. “Wow,” she whispered, more than once.

  “Emmie . . .”

  She turned to Graham, who was looking at her in amazement. Emmie was certain every inch of her was melting and spreading all over the floor. That look, those eyes . . .

  “I can’t believe you did this,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t have. It’s yours—a piece of your childhood.”

  “And now I play with real houses,” she said. “So I want Sophie to have this one.”

  Graham’s gaze was full of gratitude, but still he hesitated. “That’s too generous, Emmie. It’s such a nice piece—an heirloom.”

  Emmie thought, Well, it’ll still be in the family when we’re married, won’t it? But she only said, “I really want Sophie to have it. Honest.”

  After a moment, he said, “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Think she likes it?”

  “Oh, I think maybe. Whaddya say, Sophie girl? Do you like it?”

  “I love it. Can I really have it?”

  Emmie knelt down beside her. “Well sure! But it’s gonna cost you.”

  “Cost me what?”

  “A hug.”

  The little girl immediately flung her arms around Emmie’s neck, gave her a tight, grateful squeeze, then went back to the dollhouse.

  Emmie looked up at Graham; he was smiling as well, happy that his daughter was happy. He started to say something to Emmie when his phone rang. As he pulled it out of his pocket, he said, “Sorry,” and answered it quickly. “Graham Cooper. This had better be good.”

  Emmie showed Sophie how to turn the lights on in the dollhouse, which also lit up the “fire” in the fireplace, eliciting even more oohs and aahs, while Graham edged out into the hallway to focus on his call. Emmie watched as Sophie touched every stick of furniture, every fixture, every accessory, then studied the dolls closely.

  The little girl frowned. “This mommy doll has yellow hair.”

  “Yep. Why? You don’t like it?”

  “I want her to have brown hair. Like yours.”

  “Why is that?”

  Sophie shrugged, still studying the doll. “I just do.”

  “Well,” Emmie said, “I happen to know of a really great store where they have all kinds of things for dollhouses, including dollhouse families. We can go there, and you can pick out a new family—one with a mommy with brown hair. And maybe we can get a few new pieces of furniture while we’re there too, hmm?”

  Sophie brightened again. “Can we go now?”

  “Oh, the place isn’t open on Christmas Eve! But I promise we’ll go there soon, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  While Sophie played with the dollhouse, Emmie, hearing Graham speaking a little louder, peeked into the hallway. He shrugged as if to say “sorry” again, and held up his finger in a one-more-minute gesture. Emmie went back into the bedroom to give him his privacy. She had a sneaking suspicion who was on the other end of the line.

&
nbsp; Sophie, working busily, had taken the bow off the roof, but something else was in its place—the mommy doll was perched precariously on a gable, her bent legs sticking up in the air.

  “What’s up with the mommy doll?” Emmie asked as casually as she could. “You hate her yellow hair so much you banished her to the roof?” I know one particular blonde I’d like to banish to the roof, she thought.

  “No,” Sophie answered plainly. “That’s heaven.”

  “Oh?”

  “My mommy died,” she said, still matter-of-factly. “Did you know that?”

  “I did. Your daddy told me.”

  “And he said she’s in heaven, so that’s where that mommy is.”

  “I get it.” Emmie sat in one of the kiddie chairs and studied Sophie. She didn’t seem upset—she was just dealing with her mother’s death as best she could, and for her, that meant stating the facts. Emmie took her cue from the girl. “You know what? My mommy died, too.”

  Sophie stopped playing to look her in the eye. “Really?”

  “Really. A little over a year ago.”

  “Did you cry?”

  “Oh, sure. She was my mommy, after all.”

  “I cried, too.”

  “I’ll bet you did. It’s only normal to cry.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ll always miss her. But I know that someday it won’t hurt as much as it does now.”

  “I miss my mommy, too.”

  “You know, you’re very lucky to have such a great daddy who loves you so much.”

  “I know,” Sophie replied. “Do you have a daddy?”

  “Who do you think that old guy downstairs is?” Emmie laughed.

  “That’s your daddy?”

  “Sure he is!”

  Then she laughed. “I thought he was your grandpa!”

  “What’s going on in here?” Graham’s voice came from the bedroom doorway. He crossed to his daughter and put a hand on her head. “Not tired of it yet?”

  “Daddy!”

  “Okay, okay, just checking. Hey, look, you two, I’ve got an emergency to take care of. Nothing huge; I should be back by the time you guys whip up some turkey sandwiches. Soph, would you be okay hanging with Emmie till I get back?” No answer. “Sophie?”

  Sophie, so wrapped up in playing with the dollhouse, barely heard him. “Sure, Daddy. I’m fine.”

  Her father rolled his eyes. “Stupendous. Good to know that you’ll miss me so much. Emmie? Is that okay?”

  Emmie made an are-you-kidding face. “Of course! We’re doing great here. Go, do your stuff.”

  Graham breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. Hey, before I go, it might be wise if I brought that downstairs; otherwise she’s going to trap you up here.”

  Graham gently wrested the dollhouse away from his daughter, reassuring her it would arrive on the first floor in one piece, and, hoisting it carefully, headed for the stairs, his daughter following closely. After Graham put the dollhouse in a clear spot on the living room floor and kissed his daughter good-bye, Emmie followed him to the door.

  “Everything okay?” she asked as he shrugged on his jacket.

  “Oh, yeah. It’s nothing, really.” And he gave her an unconvincing smile.

  “Graham, what’s going on?”

  He looked away and sighed. Emmie was getting pretty familiar with what that aggravated sound meant, and sure enough, he murmured, “That was Juliet on the phone.”

  “What did she say?” Emmie didn’t mean for it to come out clipped and angry, but she was getting pretty fed up with the other woman’s manipulative tactics. Calling Graham, likely crying her eyes out, on Christmas Eve? Predictable. Tacky. And unacceptable.

  “She . . . well, you called it. She’s alone—she doesn’t have the kids till late tonight—and she’s been stewing—”

  “You mean she’s stewed?”

  “Probably.”

  Now it was Emmie’s turn to sigh. “All right. But nip this thing in the bud, understand? Or she’s going to keep doing this till you go back to her.”

  Graham tucked his hand under her hair, cradling the back of her neck. “I’m never going back to her.”

  “Then you’d better let her know that. Tonight.”

  “I will. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He kissed her, called out a good-bye to his daughter, who barely waved because her hands were full of small furniture (already redecorating, Emmie noticed—girl after my own heart), and he ducked out the door.

  Emmie returned to the dining room, where her friends lounged among the remains of the meal.

  “What’s going on, kid?” Trish queried, noticing Emmie’s stormy expression.

  “Pour me some of that and I’ll tell you.” Adam reached for her glass and tipped some wine into it. “More than that. Amateur.” He obeyed. Emmie dropped into her seat and glanced over at Graham’s empty chair. They could have something really great . . . if only Juliet would get the hell out of the way.

  The house was virtually silent. Emmie carried a stack of plates into the kitchen and glanced at the rooster-shaped clock. Ten fifteen. Graham had been gone for more than two hours. The rest of her friends had just left; Emmie wouldn’t let them help clean up. She found washing dishes a soothing meditation, and she wanted time to think. Her father was in his recliner, already snoring. Emmie had tucked Sophie under a multicolored crocheted afghan with a black border—one of those items that had been in the living room since the dawn of time, it seemed—and she had nodded off about half an hour before. SpongeBob prattled on the TV at a low volume.

  With a sigh, she turned on the old radio on the shelf and started filling the sink with water. Her mother had never believed in dishwashers, so she had at least a good half hour with her arms in sudsy water. She plunged the first round of dishes in, thinking back on her conversation with her friends. She had been gratified to find that they were as incensed at Juliet’s behavior as she was, and they agreed with Emmie that she could very well have a field day taking advantage of Graham’s compassion. But they hadn’t been able to come up with any suggestions for stopping her. It all came back to the same “what if”—what if Graham ignored her and she actually did do something drastic, like harm herself? What then?

  Emmie was wiping down the kitchen counters when she heard the front door open and close. She let Graham come find her in the kitchen, but she took a peek as he stopped in the living room to kiss his daughter on the forehead and pull the bottom of the afghan over her feet. When he turned toward the kitchen, Emmie ducked away from the doorway so he wouldn’t see her staring. Dammit, she sure didn’t want her heart to get all oozy—not for somebody whose attention was divided, like Graham’s appeared to be—but she just couldn’t seem to stop it. Yep, there it went, all melty, seeping into her shoes.

  “Hey.”

  Oh, that melodic baritone always got her. Damn, damn, damn. She took a deep, steadying breath before she spoke. “Hey yourself.”

  “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

  She shrugged. “You do what you have to do.”

  “Was Sophie okay?”

  “Oh, she was fine. We had a great time.”

  “Really?”

  Emmie smiled tightly. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “I—I didn’t mean it that way,” he stammered.

  “Relax,” she said, reaching up to push his jacket off his shoulders and hanging it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit. Want some pie?”

  “There’s pie left?”

  “One slice. Be honored—I usually booby-trap the fridge to prevent anybody else from getting the last piece.”

  She retrieved the plate from the fridge, along with the last half bottle of chardonnay. “I’m not sure this goes with apple pie, but I don’t think either one of us is going to be picky at this point.”

  “You’re not going to get any argument from me. Let’s have it.”

  Emmie put the pie, the wine, two glasses, and two forks on the e
namel-topped table in front of Graham, then sat down beside him. “You look tired.”

  “I am tired.” Chivalrous to the last, he gestured to her to take the first bite of pie.

  “So what happened? If,” she added hastily, “you feel like sharing. I realize I’ve been pretty nosy about all of . . . this . . . lately, and I don’t want to be that kind of person.”

  “You aren’t. And you have every right to know what’s going on.”

  “Okay.” She rested her chin on her hand and waited for him to talk.

  After a bite of pie, Graham said, “So I went over to Juliet’s—”

  “And she was sozzled . . .”

  “Hey, were you a fly on the wall?”

  Emmie rolled her eyes. “The odds are always good.”

  “So . . . she was ‘relieved’ to see me and started going on and on about how she was afraid she’d lost me forever—”

  “And you said, yes, she had . . .”

  “Well, I said that I was still her friend.”

  “And then she hung on to you and begged you not to leave her.”

  “You could make a lot of money doing this for a living, you know—call yourself Madame Emmaline, get yourself a nine-hundred number. I should buy you a crystal ball for Christmas.”

  “Well, Juliet’s not really that hard to figure out.”

  “I guess not.”

  “And?”

  “She had ‘conveniently’ arranged a bunch of pill bottles on the kitchen island where I’d see them. When she left the room, I took a look.” He shook his head slowly, in disbelief.

  “What?”

  “She was so out of it, she didn’t even realize she had . . .”

  “What?” Emmie asked again, fearing the worst.

  Graham gazed at her with his deep blue eyes. “Baby aspirin—”

  “Baby aspirin!”

  “Some expired antibiotics . . .”

  Emmie rolled her eyes.

  “And . . .”

  “There’s more?”

  “Old suppositories. For their dog. Who died three years ago.”

  “What!”

  “She just grabbed every plastic bottle in the cupboard, for effect. If she thought she was going to convince me that she was actually going to harm herself, she was sorely mistaken.”