The handsome man before her was silent, his eyes searching her face for . . . what? She wasn’t sure.
“Look,” she tried again, “you want to help me, to take care of things, make everything better . . . and I could really, really get used to that. But I won’t. I can’t. I’m a big girl, and I need to slay my own scary dragons. That’d be John, in case you’re wondering,” she added.
Graham smiled in spite of Emmie’s earnestness. “He is sort of scary, in a dragon-y kind of way. Maybe it’s the . . . you know . . .” He gestured loosely, drawing his fingers into a cone in front of his face. “Maybe it’s the teeth.”
She smiled a little, but stayed on topic. “You understand, right?”
He sighed. “Honestly, no, I don’t understand. I want to help you . . .” He stopped, changed his emphasis. “I want to help you, because I—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off. “Don’t say it.”
“Why not, if I mean it?”
“You know why.” Her phone rang again. She tore her eyes away from his anguished gaze, glanced at her phone. “It’s John again. I really have to go.”
Chapter 20
Emmie dutifully took her sorry butt back to the office as fast as her little Honda could carry her. While it had been cathartic reading Wilma the riot act and gloriously stalking out, she knew she was now going to pay for it, and every additional minute she was late getting back was going to cost her even more dearly. So when she flew into the claustrophobic parking lot behind the small brick building that housed Wilman Designs, she nearly freaked out when she saw that somebody had planted a Hummer H3 in her parking spot. (Okay, technically it wasn’t her spot, but she figured it was hers by four years’ worth of squatter’s rights.)
She took a quick moment to marvel at how the driver had, in fact, not only successfully squeezed the automotive behemoth down the narrow drive between buildings, but also had managed to swing nearly 180 degrees to park without playing bumper cars with the other vehicles. Then she pulled out to find a spot on the street, vowing to submit an expense report for whatever she ended up paying at a parking meter.
As she drove past the office at a crawl, searching for an open parking space, she caught a glimpse of Wilma through the front windows. She noticed his nervous pacing (thank goodness he wasn’t looking out the window as she passed) and her stomach clenched. And then New Emmie quietly stepped forward. Why should she voluntarily go to her own flogging? She knew it was going to be ugly, and she knew she was going to have to face him sooner or later, but it didn’t have to be now. Dear God, not after the gut-wrenching experience of seeing Graham. She was tapped out.
Emmie swung her car into an open spot down the block, dug out some change for the meter, and started walking—in the opposite direction from the office. There was no time like the present to look for the bedroom set Graham had requested. It was a bit of a hike to get to Rod’s Roost, her favorite haunt for vintage furniture, but she needed to clear her head.
When she pulled on the glass door of the cavernous warehouse, she let out a huge, relieved, satisfied sigh. She inhaled the familiar scent of mildewy fabric, aged leather, and old wood. There was nothing like antique hunting to make her feel better.
She strolled among the furniture, running her fingertips over the decorative tacks on the arm of a low, deep leather club chair and the delicate carving on a fine walnut armoire. Rod’s wasn’t the fanciest place in the area, not by a long shot, and there was a lot of junk mixed in with the good stuff. But with a little bit of patience and persistence, she always found amazing treasures in the dusty corners of the sprawling building.
Rod was in the back, behind the Formica counter, on the phone. He waved to her and she smiled and pointed up. She was headed for the second floor, a vast loft expanse where the bedroom sets were on display. He nodded. She knew he’d follow her up when he was done with his phone call, but for the moment she was glad for some time alone.
It was cold upstairs; some of the grimy windows of the former factory were broken, and at least one or two were still propped open from summer, when the place was stifling and any breath of air was welcome. The dusty floorboards creaked under her snow boots. It was so silent, she would have been a little weirded out if she hadn’t been so familiar with the place. She passed a row of nightstands and wash-basin tables, then dozens of head- and footboard sets leaning up against the walls, as she made for the full suites farther back. As she wandered in the gloom, she heard Rod coming up the stairs behind her.
“Miss Emmaline!” he said in a jovial, lilting voice, puffing a little after his exertion of getting up the staircase. Rod used to be in a Motown group back in the record company’s ’60s heyday, and Emmie could still hear the music in his voice. “To what do I owe this honor today?”
“Hey, Rod.”
“Whatcha looking for?” he asked. “Because I got it. You know I do. And if I don’t got it, I’ll find it, just for you.”
“I know you will.” The briefest of smiles flitted across her face—not her usual reaction to Rod’s kindness.
“Now, what’s the matter, little girl?” he said, frowning. “You don’t look so good.”
She pushed her hands into her coat pockets and shrugged. “I’m fine, Rod. Just one of those days, you know?”
“Aw, now,” he said, “I don’t like to hear that from my best girl.”
“I’m okay,” she reassured him. And the more time she spent in his presence, the better she felt. “Really.”
“Maybe buying up some nice furniture make you happy.”
“It always does.”
“You still working on that old house on West?”
“Yep. Master bedroom this time.”
“Well, whatcha got in mind?”
Emmie said, “Well, Graham—Mr. Cooper—gave me free rein for this one, and I have to admit, it’s a little intimidating.”
“Aw, he trusts you.” Rod winked. “That’s quite an honor.” Then he went to work. “Well, you know we got all these lined up by era. You want 1820s, like the house, you start here and go about halfway back. Mahogany, oak, you name it. You get into the later Victorian stuff, though, it’s dark—heavy. Bedroom big enough to handle it?”
“You have no idea.”
Rod laughed his deep, gurgling chuckle. “Well, all right.” The shop’s phone rang again. “You look around. I be back to check on you. You find something, I know it. And I get you a good deal—you trust your Uncle Rodney now.” And he lumbered back down the stairs, talking the entire time, mumbling variants of what he had just said to her.
Emmie wandered the full length and breadth of the warehouse’s top floor. Rod did indeed have everything, from sets that might have been brought over on the Mayflower to bright brass that looked like it had done time on the set of Miami Vice. She snickered at one of the more modern pieces, loaded with brass and plastic. She knew she shouldn’t laugh, though. Right now the style was a joke, but give it fifty more years, and it’d be a collector’s item. Not yet, though. Right now it was the height—or depth—of tacky kitsch.
She made her way to the period pieces, considered a sleigh bed, rejected an ornate French Provincial set, toyed with a Shaker theme. What to get? What would Graham like? Then she remembered his instructions—to get what she would like. What she would like to wake up to, he said. The images that conjured up in her head made her shiver. Focus, Emmaline, she commanded herself. She sighed and closed her eyes, picturing that beautiful bedroom space. What would she pick if it were hers? But dammit, Graham was in her mental picture anyway. So she indulged her fantasy: What would she pick if the bedroom were theirs?
And then she knew exactly what she wanted. She went back through the rows of matching furniture. Rod had to have what she was thinking of. He had everything.
Moments later, Rod rejoined her in the loft. He stood beside her in front of her choice, nodding in approval. “Nice,” was all he said.
Emmie gritted her teeth, pushing her hands d
eeper into her coat pockets and hunching her shoulders against the cold. Why had she decided to walk to Rod’s, again? Oh, yeah—to clear her head. Well, it was clear all right—cleared clean out by the frigid wind that barreled down the street, funneled straight at her between the tall buildings, carrying what felt like splinters of ice jamming themselves into her watering eyeballs and numb cheeks. The only thought in her head right now was to get someplace warm—even the office would be a welcome respite at this point.
She rounded a corner, and the cutting wind eased up. She had left the warehouse district behind and entered the quainter area of the city, with small shops and wide sidewalks. The last time she had strolled around this area was the night of the winter festival, when she and Avery had gone on their date and run into Graham and Juliet. God, it seemed so long ago. And Juliet had dragged them to her shop . . . and she and Graham had had their little tête-à-tête in the back room. Under other circumstances, she would have cherished that memory, especially since she knew now that Graham had already been attracted to her. It cast that evening in a whole new light. As it was, though, the thought of their moment in the shadows just plunged her back into the despair she thought she had shaken off by chatting with Rod.
And then there it was—Juliet’s shop, on the next block. Emmie considered crossing the street. But she steeled herself. New Emmie would never cross the street just to avoid an empty shop. Fer chrissakes!
The wind picked up again, and her eyes watered against the cold. As another blast of frigid air hit her, Emmie turned up the collar of her coat as far as it would go, which wasn’t anywhere near far enough. She buried her nose in the faux fur around the top button and pushed on, occasionally bumping shoulders with other pedestrians because she wasn’t looking up, but instead down into her coat to keep her nose warm.
She stopped at the corner, at least retaining the presence of mind to wait for the light to change so she could cross the side street. She squinted at the crossing sign—still a red hand—and then she focused past it.
Juliet.
Juliet on the sidewalk, shivering in tan riding pants (designer, of course) tucked into expensive-looking leather boots and topped by a deep green chunky-knit turtleneck sweater. Of course only Juliet would still look slim in that hefty a sweater. She had her arms crossed just below her chest, and she was talking with . . . Graham.
Emmie felt stuck to the curb. Even though the stoplight changed, she stayed on the corner while other people bumped around her. She couldn’t take one step forward, wouldn’t get any closer to them. She watched as Juliet reached out a hand and rubbed Graham’s upper arm briskly. She smiled, didn’t she? Emmie could see that. And then she felt her stomach flip over. The couple before her embraced and stayed in a tight hug for a moment.
Graham and Juliet parted, and Emmie knew she had to disappear. Move, she commanded herself. Move before he sees you. But she was still rooted to the spot by the sight of the two of them together. Why had she ever even dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, Graham had gotten rid of that millstone around his neck? Then again, why had she ever dared to think that he wanted to be rid of her?
After exchanging a couple more words, Juliet went back in her shop. As Graham turned to go, he seemed to glance her way. That finally got Emmie to dislodge herself from the corner. She spun around and practically sprinted the other way, on alert for his voice calling her name.
And she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to come after her or not.
By the time she got back to the office, her feet were so frozen she felt as though she were walking on stumps. But she didn’t go inside. Instead, she hurried to her car, jumped in, and drove off. She just wanted to go home and hide . . . and then she remembered that her father was back. She couldn’t bear having to make small talk, hear about his trip, explain to him why she was home in the middle of the day. Good grief, she had no place to go.
She drove to her house, parked on the street, watched the workers come and go. She needed her house back, she decided. Sooner rather than later. Then she could hole up in her sacred space and not come out again. For anything. Ever.
Emmie tumbled out of her car, flew past a couple of carpenters, and burst through her front door. “Mitch!” she called, almost in a panic. “Mitch?”
“Down here!” she heard a voice shout from the basement.
Emmie rushed down the stairs, the same ones Graham had so chivalrously navigated to get her some clothes to wear the day after the fire. Now the steps were clean and dry, and a couple of them had been replaced, the yellowish-green pressure-treated wood, still to be painted, standing out from the others. The basement was brightly lit, the block walls gleaming with a new coat of glossy white paint.
The job foreman was in the corner, fingers hooked in his tool belt, talking with the electrician, who was noodling with something in the breaker box. When she rushed up to him, he said, “Hey, Emmie. What’s up? You okay?”
She nodded and spoke quickly. “I need to get back in the house. To live. Right away.”
He frowned. “Well, we’ve still got a lot to—”
“Please,” she begged. “I just . . . I need my house back. Please.” Mitch studied her with concern, and she tried to hold it together and sound calm. “I promise I won’t get in anybody’s way. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll go in to work early and stay late, too; I won’t come home till you’ve left for the day.”
After considering the implications for a few moments, he sighed and scratched his chin beneath his beard. “Okay, how about this. We work double-quick for the rest of the week, and you can have your house on Friday. How’s that sound?”
Emmie’s eyes lit up. “Really?” It was more than she had hoped for.
“Sure.” Mitch smiled gently. “Yeah, we can do that.” He shook his head and chuckled. “My men are gonna hate me, but . . .”
“Oh, please, Mitch.”
“Can you hold out that long?”
“I’ll try.”
With something to look forward to, Emmie’s spirits rose, and she decided she could manage to spend the rest of the day in the office, no matter what Wilma flung at her. On the drive back, she thought of one more thing that would make her feel even better. She pulled into a strip mall parking lot and called Rod.
“Miss Emmaline!” he cried. “Talking to you twice in one day—now that’s a good day. You calling with a delivery date for Mr. Cooper’s bedroom suite?”
“Not yet, Rod. I’ll let you know when they’re ready for it. But there’s something else.”
“You name it, little girl.”
“I’ve changed my mind. About the furniture.”
“What’s that you say?”
“I think a different set would suit Mr. Cooper’s master bedroom better. Got a pencil?”
She rattled off the specifics, and Rod dutifully wrote them down, then asked hesitantly, “Emmaline, my girl, you sure about this?”
“Completely.”
“Well, all right. I’ll set it aside, and you let me know when they want it delivered to the house.”
“I’ll do that, Rod. Thanks for everything. I owe you one.”
Chapter 21
The night before she moved back home, Emmie left Wilma a voice mail telling him that she was going to be taking the day off. She didn’t ask, and she didn’t care how Wilma felt about it. In fact, they hadn’t spoken since their last bust-up. For some reason, Wilma had chosen to hit her with the silent treatment instead of another round of aggravation, and Emmie was fine with that, even though the tension in the office was so thick you could slice it with an upholstery foam cutter.
Emmie finally got in touch with Trish, just to tell her she was moving back into her home, but like a bloodhound, her bestie picked up on the scent of trouble and dragged the truth out of her. Not that she put up much of a fight. Even though Emmie had been operating on autopilot for days, Trish’s concern broke down her barriers, and she told her that she and Graham had broken up, and why. She tried
to tell Trish everything that happened after that, but she couldn’t manage to get it all out, so she just stopped.
Although she turned down Trish’s offer to help her move, her friend declared, “Then I’m bringing some groceries over. And alcohol. Just the essentials. We’ll talk more then.”
“If you insist.”
Emmie’s father reacted differently, much to her surprise. He actually looked dejected that she was moving out again.
“Dad!” she chided. “You’re supposed to be glad to have your bachelor pad back.”
Her father nudged his dinner plate away. “Are you absolutely sure, Emmaline?”
“What, that I want to go home? Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” she said sarcastically. She couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.
“This is always your home, too, you know.”
She smiled gently. “No, Dad, it isn’t. And that’s fine. You were right, you know—I have to move on, live my own life. And so do you.”
“And whatever happened with that Graham fella?”
Emmie took a sip of her tea to stall. “Uh . . . the timing was bad,” she said lamely.
“That doesn’t make any sense, Emmaline—”
“He’s got somebody else,” she said abruptly. No use watering it down.
Bob Brewster frowned. “And he was stringing you along? I didn’t think he was the type—”
“He’s not. Graham is a good person. He’s . . . one of the best people I’ve ever met, in fact. It’s just . . . he thought he was over this other woman, but it turns out he’s not.”
By Design Page 25