“I will after Dad goes.” To her astonishment, Emma realized she was rising to her feet. “I guess I should go talk to him.”
“Yeah.” Jo flashed her this big smile. “You should. It’ll be good for you.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “I hate things that are good for me.”
Jo laughed. “Don’t we all.”
Emma’s feet carried her out to the entry hall. Through the arch, she could see Mom on the couch, seemingly relaxed and nodding at something Dad was saying.
Emma took a deep breath and walked into the living room. Mom saw her first and smiled much as Jo had. When Dad saw Mom’s head turn, he stood.
“Emma.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“You look…” He changed his mind and gave a little cough. “It’s great to see you.”
Sure. Yeah. You’ve become a swan. What a beauty my Emma is. Uh-huh. That was going to happen.
Mixed with her sickening disappointment was a wave of relief, because Dad was…well, just Dad. Like Mom said. A man. Still hot, for a guy his age. His eyes were bright blue, and even Emma could see that the few lines beside them added character to his face. The little bit of gray in his hair was all at his temples. Mom used to tease him about turning gray.
He was looking Emma up and down with the same critical gaze that used to make her shrivel, but today she just ignored him and walked over to the couch, where she sat next to Mom.
“Are you sure she should be out of the hospital?” he asked her, as if Emma wasn’t there. “She looks like a concentration camp survivor.”
“Were you this tactless when you courted me?” Mom wondered aloud.
“I’m just concerned,” he said stiffly.
Emma wanted to wave a hand in the air. Hello! I’m here, too. “I’ve gained thirteen pounds.”
He looked at her as if she’d just announced that she wanted to be a car mechanic when she grew up. “Thirteen pounds!”
“Actually,” Mom smiled warmly at Emma, “she’s doing very well.”
“Good God!”
Following his exclamation, there was this uncomfortable little silence. Nobody knew what to say. Gee, how are you, Dad?
The doorbell rang, making Emma and Mom, at least, jump. “Who could that be?” Mom asked.
“Maybe Uncle Ryan,” Emma suggested. “Or Logan.”
“Oh, I don’t think…”
“I’ll go see.” She stood, then realized she was too late. The front door opened and Jo was talking to somebody.
Holding a dish towel, Jo appeared in the arched doorway, her expression a little anxious and a little amused. “Kathleen, Logan is here.”
Dismay on her face, Mom mumbled something Emma couldn’t hear and started to rise, but Logan appeared behind Jo. Face expressionless, his gaze took in Mom, Emma and then Dad.
Dad stood, too. “A friend of yours?” he asked Mom, with this slightly sarcastic tone.
The muscles in her jaw bunched. “That’s right. Ian, this is Logan Carr. Logan, my ex-husband, Ian Monroe.”
The two men nodded. Neither held out a hand to shake.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Logan said. “I’ll come back another time.” He backed toward the entry hall.
“No! I mean…” Mom looked back at Dad, then at Logan. “Actually…can I call you?”
“Sure.” He took a last look at Emma’s father, then at Mom’s face, dipped his head awkwardly and disappeared. A moment later, the front door opened and closed again.
Mom had this weird expression on her face, as if…well, Emma didn’t know as if what. Only that something had upset her.
But she forced a smile and said, “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Ian?”
“Thanks,” he said with a nod.
Emma almost panicked, knowing why Mom had offered. Of course, she meant to leave them alone. Emma bit her lip, then sat again.
Dad did the same. He waited until Mom was gone, then looked squarely at Emma. “This is way overdue, but I came to say that I’m sorry. I lost my temper. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Emma swallowed. “You scared me.”
“I know I must have. I scared myself.”
“I didn’t think I ever wanted to see you again.” She could hardly believe she was saying these things. It was like someone else talking. “I hated you so much.”
He flinched. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“I wanted to be pretty,” Emma heard herself say.
“What?”
“I thought maybe, if I got skinny, you’d think I was pretty.”
“But…you are pretty. You always have been. You look like your mother.”
“You never told me I was pretty. You just said, ‘For God’s sake, quit stuffing your face.’ Or, ‘For God’s sake, quit picking at your food.”
“I’m sure I’ve told you…”
She shook her head. “No. Never. You wanted to know why I wasn’t the lead in the play. And why the hell didn’t I inherit your athletic ability?”
He flushed. “Are you blaming me for your eating disorder?”
“I don’t know.” Emma stood. “Maybe. No. I don’t know,” she repeated. “But you hurt my feelings.”
He frowned. “I love you.”
“How come you never showed it?” she asked, then turned and walked out.
Her father called her name, but she kept going. Up the stairs, down the hall to her room. She felt so bizarre as she went in and quietly shut the door. Numb on the surface, but churning inside. Happy and scared and sick to her stomach.
She stood in the middle of her bedroom and thought in amazement, I told him. I actually did it. I told Dad I hated him, and that he hurt my feelings. All the things she’d imagined flinging at him like poisoned darts, seeing them bite into his flesh and bring him to his knees.
He hadn’t exactly crumbled to his knees, but Emma thought maybe she had hurt him. And she was glad. Maybe, if he really did love her, she could forgive him someday, but Mom was right: he deserved to hear what she really, truly felt.
And she, Emma Monroe, had been brave enough to tell him.
Her nausea subsiding but her heart still racing, she plopped onto the bed.
“Wait’ll I tell Sharon!”
IAN WAS STANDING IN FRONT of the fireplace, looking at photos on the mantel, when Kathleen came back from the kitchen with a tray. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was, with dark hair, blue eyes, strong cheekbones and the lean, athletic build of a tennis player. Tonight he was dressed casually, for him, in chocolate-brown corduroy slacks, Italian leather loafers and a Shetland wool sweater she had given him for Christmas several years ago.
“Where’s Emma?” she asked, looking around. As if he’d stuffed her behind the couch cushions.
He turned to face her. “Apparently I’m the bad guy now.”
Surprised, Kathleen set down the tray on the coffee table. “What do you mean?”
Stiffly, he said, “She says she’s hated me, and implied that it’s all my fault she tried to starve herself to death. Something about my never telling her she was pretty.”
Well, well. It would seem that Emma had worked up the courage to tell her father how she really felt. Kathleen wished she could have heard.
“Oh, plenty is my fault, too,” she said. “And maybe she’s even right.”
Ian resumed his seat, reaching for the cup of black coffee. “No,” he said, waving off her offer of creamer, “I’m cutting calories.”
He must have detected a little softening in the gut one morning, she thought with amusement. Ian did detest every symptom of aging.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” He frowned at her, reverting to the point. “How is her eating problem your fault?”
At least he hadn’t denied that it might be his. Could there be hope?
“I’m a perfectionist. You and I were both very image-conscious. Did we put pressure on her to live up to a pre-determined mold we’d cast for our child? Or at least express disappointm
ent when she didn’t? Probably.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” he said explosively.
She raised her brows.
He scowled at her. “Maybe this anorexia thing is chemical. Or in her genes. Why does it have to be our fault?”
“Oh, it may be physical, too,” she agreed. “After all, every girl who diets doesn’t develop an eating disorder. But in Emma’s case…” She looked down at her cup, not wanting him to see too much on her face. “She’s expressed quite a bit of anger to me,” Kathleen said carefully. “It’s pretty clear that she felt…inadequate. For whatever reason, she was afraid she didn’t measure up to our expectations. I will never forgive myself for having any expectation at all about her appearance.” She looked up, her voice gaining force. “What difference did it make if she was plump? She was a smart, cheerful kid. Beyond worrying about her health, why did we care?”
“Watching her eat turned my stomach.”
“Then you should have quit watching.”
The cup rattled when he set it down too forcefully. “My fault again?”
“Our fault,” Kathleen corrected.
He didn’t like it. He never liked any implication that he might be wrong.
“What now?” he growled. “Is she better?”
“You mean, all healed and will now be normal?”
“You know what I mean!” he snapped.
“No. Eating will continue to be a struggle for Emma. She’s young enough that there isn’t yet significant damage to her body. But the vast majority of anorexics don’t ‘recover.’ Like alcoholics, they face a lifelong battle. Emma is doing amazingly well. She may be one of the lucky ones. Right now, she is eating without any nagging on my part. Not as much as I’d like, but given the way she looks at her food before she puts it in her mouth, she really is doing fine.”
He frowned again. “How does she look at her food?”
“As if…” She hadn’t put it in words before, even to herself. “As if even something as basic as a bowl of cereal is some alien substance. Or maybe not alien. Maybe, intrinsically disgusting. As if I was expected to eat monkey eyeballs, and not only did I know how icky the texture would be, the very idea of eating them appalled me.”
“Your imagination is getting a little carried away.”
“No.” Kathleen shook her head. “I think even the texture of lots of foods repulses her. It’s been so long since she’s eaten anything but a few lettuce leaves on a regular basis, she’s having a hard time with just the act. But right now, she forges through three meals a day. Some days more successfully than others, but I’m proud of her for doing so well.”
“Fine. Then she’s better,” he said impatiently.
Kathleen opened her mouth, but closed it. Why bother arguing? She’d told Emma the truth. For all his admirable qualities, he was a jerk.
“How are you?” he asked suddenly. “You look good.”
Good? She’d have laughed, except it offended her that, after everything they’d talked about, he would still determine how she was doing in her new life by how she looked.
“I’m just fine. And you?” She sipped her coffee.
He grumbled about the economy, the housekeeper, his stockbroker’s poor judgment, and how empty the house seemed. It was the longest he’d talked to her in years.
“I miss you. I thought you’d get over this,” he gestured at the room around them, as if the house itself was part of her mad start, “and come home.”
Whatever her struggles with money and Emma, she had never missed him, Kathleen realized. How sad.
“I’ve learned quite a lot about myself and what I want out of life,” she said. “I doubt you’d much like me anymore.”
His mouth curled. “Was that a new boyfriend? Surely you can do better.”
She tensed. “And you summed him up—how? You barely met him.”
“Oh, come on, Kath!” he said scornfully. “What’s he do for a living? Dig ditches?”
She set her jaw. “He’s a very talented cabinetmaker.”
Ian snorted. “He’s blue collar. Does he have any education? Or don’t you expect conversation from him?”
His jabs went deeper than he knew, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince.
“When’s the last time you and I had a stimulating conversation? I’m afraid I can’t remember.” She set down her cup and stood. “Who I see isn’t your business, Ian.”
He laughed unpleasantly. “You’ll dump him.”
To think she had once loved this man. That she had been dazzled by his charisma and handsome face and ability to make money. How could she have failed to notice how unkind he was?
Without a word, Kathleen walked to the front door. There, Ian took his expensive wool coat from the rack and shrugged into it. “I’ll want to see Emma again.”
“That’s between the two of you. Feel free to call her.”
“I’m entitled to visitation.”
Bristling, Kathleen said, “Because you pay child support? Do you think you’re buying rights?”
“She’s my daughter.”
“She’s old enough to make her own decisions. I’ve encouraged her to consider seeing you. For better or worse, you’re her father. I know you once loved her.” She shook her head when he started to interrupt. “But if she chooses not to see you, I’ll support her. All the way to court.”
Ian looked at her with open dislike. “You have changed.”
She trembled inside. Outwardly her gaze was calm. “I do hope so.”
“I’ll be calling,” he promised. Or threatened. Without saying good-night, he stalked down the steps toward the street.
Kathleen quietly closed the door and turned the lock with a sensation of relief.
Why had Logan stopped by tonight? What had he thought when he saw Ian here?
And how did she interpret her own emotions on seeing him standing there? She’d felt so much at once: joy, embarrassment, awkwardness. She had wished he was dressed better. Why had he had to appear, now of all times, in his working attire of jeans and flannel shirt, sawdust on his knees, a new bandage on one callused, scarred hand? Why couldn’t he have looked suave and worldly and handsome, Ian’s match?
But she was so glad he wasn’t like Ian, why did it matter what he was wearing? Or what Ian thought, for heaven’s sake! She didn’t care. But she did.
For just a second, she had looked through his eyes, and seen Logan the way she would have two years ago. She’d seen a blockish, homely, working man. Someone of another class.
Someone too much like her father.
For the first time in her life, she wondered if that was so bad.
Kathleen turned and started up the stairs. She’d have to call Logan, once she knew what to say. But Emma needed her first.
She was glad of the excuse to delay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MUSIC POUNDING HIS EARDRUMS through his headphones and muting the whine of the electric sander, Logan worked down in his basement long past the time of night when he would normally have hung it up. He needed the distraction, the noise, the purpose.
Upstairs, his house was so lonely, he couldn’t stand it. The once peaceful silence had turned, like wine to vinegar. The TV no longer filled it. Music sounded thin, mournful, bagpipes wailing over the barren hills.
He had it bad. He remembered when Emma had asked whether he wanted to marry her mother, and he’d lied. Didn’t know yet, he’d said.
He knew.
Logan turned off the sander, peeled off his headphones and goggles, and ran a finger over the birch, pale and fine-grained. Smooth as silk. Smooth as Kathleen’s skin when he ran his fingers down her belly.
He shook his head violently to clear the image. Think instead about the way she’d looked at him tonight, dismay stamped on her beautiful face, he ordered himself. There she sat, sipping coffee and chatting with a man who reeked of money and arrogance, and Logan had had the bad taste to come calling. Something had flash
ed in her eyes that for a dizzying moment he had believed to be delight. Then she had glanced at the arrogant bastard, who’d raised his brows as if a servant had tried to join the party. When Logan had met her gaze again, he’d seen the truth: she was embarrassed to have to acknowledge him.
He clenched his teeth so hard, pain stabbed his temples. Angry, he yanked down the goggles, clapped on the headphones and picked up the sander again, the whine mingling with the hoarse voice of Bruce Springsteen singing about glory days.
He had never understood why a woman as beautiful and elegant as Kathleen Monroe had looked twice at him. Apparently he had his answer; it had been no more than a whim. In his anger, he figured their relationship was the equivalent of the British countess screwing the stable lad when the earl was away.
Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with the redheaded cashier at Home Depot who’d been flirting with him for the past couple months?
Looking down, he swore and switched off the sander. He’d gouged a good board, taking out his hurt and rage on it instead of the woman who’d inspired it.
“Crap!” he said out loud, unplugging the sander. He wouldn’t start on another board tonight; he was too worked up to be productive.
In his methodical way, he cleaned up, putting tools in their places and sweeping up the fine sawdust as best he could. It filled the air, the scent prettier than most perfume. He could taste the delicate particles, feeling them in his nostrils, knew he’d see a raccoon face when he looked in the mirror, as if he’d patted talc on his face and neck except where the goggles had covered.
Wearily he shut off the lights and climbed the stairs. He’d better take a shower. But first, he needed a drink.
He rarely had more than a beer or two, but he kept a bottle of Scotch in a cabinet above the stove. The whiskey had aged the way fine wood did, deepening in color. Logan poured a couple of fingers worth in the single shot glass he kept next to the bottle, then held it up to the light.
He couldn’t think of a damn thing to toast. His idiocy? The woman who had used him? The empty house? Tomorrow and the next day and the next?
In the end, he just tipped the glass back and swallowed, glad for the heat and the bite as the Scotch burned its way to his stomach. One more swallow and it was gone. He smacked the shot glass down on the counter and blundered toward the stairs, hoping that by the time he got out of the shower, the edges of his pain would have blurred.
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