“Am I hallucinating, or is Emory Owen making an appearance in the world outside of her office?” Mia feigned shock as Emory closed the gap to their table. Mia Parsons was an up-and-coming attorney at Taylor and Fullbright and the consummate socialite. She worked hard and played hard and everyone liked and feared her equally.
Emory moved into Mia’s open arms. “You’re hysterical, Mia. So how is everyone tonight?” Emory regarded the table of three women, two of which she hadn’t seen in several months.
“Better now that you’re here,” Barrett said. “We were all so sorry to hear about your mother, Em. We’ve missed you. I wish you’d come out more often and let us take care of you. You know, be your friends.”
Emory smiled in Barrett’s direction. Barrett’s kind eyes penetrated the bubble she’d placed around herself, and she was genuinely happy to see her. Of all of her friends, Barrett was the most down-to-earth, and she could always count on her. She made a mental note to not let so much time go by without calling her next time. “I got your messages, Barrett, thank you. It’s just been a busy time.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do, just let me know. When I lost my dad, it took quite a while before I got back in the swing of things.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Ditto,” Christi Ann chimed in. Emory suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She couldn’t think of a single instance when the vapid Christi Ann had been there for anyone. She was more interested in who she could suck up to and who she could tear down behind the scenes. She’d known Christi Ann since the second grade and she had the girl’s number.
“Again, thanks, guys, but I think what I need right now is a dance, so if you’ll excuse me.” Emory noticed the young blonde leaning up against the bar. The one who’d been clearly checking her out since she’d walked in the place. Without a second thought, she took a mollifying swig of her drink and left it on the table, intent on one thing, mindless distraction. She made brief eye contact with the blonde and inclined her head toward the dance floor in silent invitation. She maintained an even pace, confident in every way that the girl was trailing behind her. She felt a hand move down her back and smiled as she turned, pulling the girl tightly up against her body.
They danced, hips pressed together, bodies moving to the techno beat blaring from the club’s speakers, hands moving freely across shoulders, stomachs, thighs. Two songs in, Emory slowly began to let herself drift into the unassuming connection she’d created with a nameless, faceless individual on a dance floor—someone she owed nothing to and expected very little from. “I’m Aimee,” the woman whispered seductively in her ear once the music shifted to a slower, more sensual ballad. But Emory didn’t care and, in fact, would prefer not to know.
“Emory,” she answered back out of nothing more than a sense of polite obligation.
“I know exactly who you are.” Well, so much for an anonymous interlude.
The song ended, but Emory wasn’t finished with what she’d started. She allowed the blonde to tug her gently into a darkened corner of the club where they could get better acquainted. Aimee pressed her back up against the brick wall and pulled Emory slowly to her. Emory smiled at her would-be conquest with enough heat to make the girl grip her tightly for support. She was aware of the power she wielded and couldn’t help but like it. Her sex appeal had always been a valuable tool in her arsenal, and she wasn’t afraid to use it when the time was right. Tonight, she had one goal and one goal only. Total and complete diversion and Allie—or was it Aimee—would fit that bill nicely. She dipped her head in slowly and captured Aimee’s lower lip between her own and kissed gently, steadily and then quickened the pace. Aimee reciprocated easily, though it was clear who was in charge. Even though Emory’s lips were occupied, the rest of her was having difficulty following suit. She tried hard to free her mind and allow her body to react to the sensations that should be assaulting her in the arms of this ripe and ready twentysomething, but they simply weren’t there. Finally, she wrenched her mouth away and stared blankly at the brick wall. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?” Aimee asked. Her wide eyes searched Emory’s in the dimness of the club.
Emory did her best to smile reassuringly. “Completely me. I think I need some sleep.” She took a step back and turned to go.
“Can I get your number then?”
Emory froze and thought carefully about how to handle this situation. She had no intention of seeing Aimee again but also felt no desire to hurt her feelings. “Why don’t you give me yours?” She pulled her BlackBerry from her back pocket and obediently typed Aimee-with-two-e’s number into her phone, and with a quick good-bye to her friends, was driving home, listening to soft jazz, and thinking fleetingly of a pair of understanding hazel eyes.
Chapter Four
So it turned out he was cute, handsome even, and well dressed. Sarah sipped her sangria and watched cautiously as James surveyed the dessert menu. Dinner had gone well. They’d chatted easily about their jobs, families, and even football, a sport Sarah felt beyond passionate about. She smiled to herself and marveled at the fact that one of Carmen’s setups might actually pan out.
“Why don’t you choose for us?” James said. He handed the small menu to Sarah and smiled. “They all sound wonderful to me.”
Sarah certainly had no problem choosing and zeroed in on the warm pecan pie and vanilla ice cream, her mouth already watering. They placed their order with the waiter and settled in for more conversation.
James relaxed easily into the plush chair. “Tell me about your daughter.” He seemed genuinely interested, and that scored major points with Sarah. Not many of the men she’d gone out with had so much as mentioned Grace on their own. This was promising, very promising indeed. As long as he didn’t live with his mother, they might be in business.
“Well, she’s eight years old and about as precocious as they come, interested in everything. Yesterday, she asked me if she could start drinking espresso, because that’s what the Italians did. I love her to pieces, but I may have my hands full when she’s older.” She smiled widely just thinking about Grace and then played back how that must have sounded. Maybe she shouldn’t point out that her child was odd.
“She sounds like a lot of fun.”
“Oh, she’s definitely that and more, a laugh a minute, that kid.”
The car ride to her apartment was quiet with the exception of the radio playing softly. Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if James would expect to be invited in, and if so, how she would go about explaining to him that she just, well, didn’t go there on the first date. Grace was spending the night with her parents, and that left the apartment empty. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.
As he followed her to her door, her anxiety only grew, and she was already formulating her polite explanation. But to her amazement, he paused on the front step and took her hand in his. “I had a wonderful time with you tonight, Sarah. You’re everything Carmen said you would be. I’d love to see you again, that is, if you’d like to.”
Sarah blinked once, again surprised by what a charming cutie her date was turning out to be. He actually looked nervous. “Um…I’d love to see you again. Next weekend?”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll call you later this week to firm up plans.” He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Sarah’s lips. It was simple. It was sweet. And it left her smiling as she watched him walk the length of the sidewalk back to his car. It had been a nice night, she mused as she made her way into the apartment. She was glad that she’d gone.
*
The next day was Saturday, and though Sarah usually took the day off, setting it aside for spending time with Grace and the rest of her family, today was a no-go. The house on Banning Street demanded her attention, and if she had any hope of finishing before the cows came wandering over, she would have to work overtime. It upset her, however, not to have the time with Grace. They usually spent the day on so
me sort of joint activity, which allowed them to connect after their mutually busy weeks. She decided to compromise, and after assembling a bag of Grace’s favorite “stay busy” activities, she picked up Grace and headed to work.
“Is this place really a mansion?” Grace asked as they turned onto Banning Street. “Like in the movies?”
“Just like in the movies,” Sarah assured her. “Which means that everything inside is very expensive and cannot be touched, mija. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mama. I won’t touch anything. I’ll just pretend it’s all mine and that I’m an orphan adopted by a rich man with no hair.”
Sarah took a moment. “Did you and Papi watch Annie again last night?”
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
As they pulled into the driveway, Grace’s mouth fell open at the expansive home spread out before them. “Wow. I wish we could live here.”
“I like where we live just fine. Don’t you? It’s our home—yours and mine.”
Grace returned her smile. “Me too.”
After situating Grace with some paper and crayons at the kitchen table, Sarah made her way back to the master bedroom to pack up the final contents of the closet.
There was a sadness that overtook her looking around the empty, dismantled room and understanding that it had been Catherine Owen’s sanctuary for so many years. She was in the midst of boxing up the books and casual clothes that were folded neatly in the multiple chests of drawers when there they were, a group of four blue canvas books. Three of the books were tied tightly from each side with twine. A fourth sat on top, unbound. Sarah flipped through the top book, assessing her find, and took a breath at the delicate, cursive handwriting and dated entries that lined the pages. This was her journal, Mrs. Owen’s personal journal. And the last entry was dated just over a month ago, not long before her death. The journals were thick and the writing quite small. The four books together could easily chronicle a good portion of the elderly woman’s adult life.
She slowly untied the twine that held the bundle and opened the bottom book. On one hand, she felt an enormous amount of guilt for the intrusion into the woman’s personal thoughts, but at the same time, something was pushing her to do just that.
She sat on the bed and began to skim the words written in very distinctive formal script. With each sentence, Sarah fell further and further into the world of Catherine Owen. She found herself exchanging one book for another as the entries turned to months and the months moved into years.
*
Emory pulled onto Banning Street cursing herself for still not having forwarded her mother’s mail. She’d not tended to the house as much as she should have and realized that there were still very pressing matters that required her attention. Bills needed to be paid, and there were charitable obligations that still needed to be fulfilled in her mother’s name. She was surprised to see the red Beetle in the drive as she pulled in. She hadn’t expected Sarah to work on a Saturday.
Emory sorted through the mail on the way into the house, categorizing each envelope into subscriptions to cancel, correspondence to follow up with, and checks to write. She decided in the future to have her assistants help with this process. There was no point in personally tending to these mundane issues. In fact, it was probably better for her to distance herself from the process as much as possible. She stopped abruptly as she entered the kitchen, double taking as she glanced up from the electric bill in her hand. She stared curiously at the strange child sitting at the kitchen table. “Hello?”
“Hi,” the child answered cheerfully.
“Um…And who might you be?”
“Graciela. But everyone calls me Grace. It’s very nice to meet you. Who might you be?”
“Emory. Owen. This is my house.” She was still off-balance by this unexpected visitor and didn’t know quite where to go. Damn it, she never knew quite how to talk to children. “So I take it you belong to Sarah.”
“Sarah’s my mom. Do you live here?” she asked.
“Yes. I mean, I used to. I don’t anymore. My mother lived here.”
“I’m sorry that she died.” Grace set down her purple crayon and gave Emory her full attention. “When I’m feeling sad, I like to color. I’m probably too old for it now, but I don’t care.” Grace extended a green crayon in Emory’s direction and tore out a sheet for her from the book she was working in.
When Emory didn’t immediately move, Grace re-extended her arm for emphasis. Clearly, she was not taking no for an answer. “You know, I have some bills I need to look through. How about I do that while you color?”
That seemed to be an acceptable solution to Grace who shrugged once and went back to work. Emory threw a glance over her shoulder looking for a possible rescue from Sarah, who had to be somewhere in the house. She could go and look for her, but what would she say when she found her? Your kid makes me uncomfortable? Instead, she reluctantly sat at the table and spread the mail out in front of her, focusing on the task she came to complete. Out of curiosity, she shot an occasional glance in Grace’s direction. Watching her color was, she had to admit, relaxing. The way she outlined each bunny before lightly shading in the gaping white portions until they were full of vibrant color. Okay, it was a child’s activity, but tempting all the same.
“Are you sure you don’t want a page?” Grace asked warily thirty minutes later. The kid was undoubtedly aware of being watched.
“I guess I could take one,” Emory replied nonchalantly. “I have a minute now that some of this is out of the way.”
Grace regarded her knowingly and nodded before handing over a picture of three small rabbits looking up at a large friendly bird in a tree. She moved the oversized box of crayons to the middle of the table so Emory had easy access to the assortment and went back to her own page, a rabbit curled up for a nap with several other rabbits. They worked in silence for a good forty-five minutes, Grace spending more time watching Emory color than coloring herself. Grace shook her head in awe as the once cartoonish outline turned into an honest to goodness, realistic forest scene. “You’re really good. Like really.”
“Oh, thanks.” Emory glanced up for the first time since she started. “You know, this is a lot more fun than I thought it would be.” And it was. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt calm, relaxed, and free. “I see why you like this.”
Grace reached for Emory’s page and held it up in front of her face, still shaking her head in astonishment. “It’s like the rabbits are real. How did you do that?”
Emory studied the piece of paper Grace held so reverently in the air and smiled at her, noticing how much she resembled Sarah. She didn’t have eyes as light, but her brown replicas were close. “It’s just a shading technique. Instead of only using one color for the rabbit’s fur, I used several to give it texture and layers.”
“That’s amazing,” Grace breathed. She shifted her focus to Emory. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure, go ahead.” She was somewhat honored that Grace would want to.
“Wanna color another?”
“Hit me.” But it was a foregone conclusion. Emory was already reaching eagerly for a new crayon.
*
Sarah closed the last and final journal in the stack and blew out a long, emotional breath, brushing a stray tear from the corner of her eye. She glanced at her watch and shook her head. She’d lost two hours of valuable work time reading the words of Catherine Owen, but she didn’t regret it for a second. She understood the importance of these journals and what they could mean for those she left behind, one woman in particular.
Sarah bounded down the stairs, hopeful that the silence from Grace was an indication that she’d been on her best behavior, as she’d promised she would be. She hadn’t meant to leave her alone so long and realized that it was now well past lunchtime. I’m a horrible mother, destined for parent jail. She decided she’d take Grace out for a bite to eat, just the two of them, before d
ropping her off with her mother, where she could have more fun for the rest of the afternoon. She still had work to get done at the house.
The scene she walked in on in the kitchen was not at all what she expected. There was Grace, munching on a plate of Oreos and coloring alongside none other than Emory Owen herself, who interestingly enough seemed quite content coloring a rabbit of her own. Sarah watched them, shocked but still able to enjoy the serenity of the quiet moment as the two artists concentrated in tandem silence.
“I take it you two have met?” She hated to interrupt their work.
Emory looked up. “We have. Grace was rifling through the china and I walked in just in time.” Sarah was horrified, but Emory calmly held up one hand. “Joking. Your daughter has been very polite company and even lent me the use of her crayons. How old are you again?” She turned back to Grace.
“Eight. How old are you?”
“Grace!” Sarah was beyond embarrassed. Maybe add manners to her motherhood to-do list.
“It’s okay.” Emory offered Grace a wink. “I’m thirty-two.”
Sarah moved further into the room, stopping behind Grace’s chair. “I hope it’s okay that I brought her here. No summer camp on Saturdays and I didn’t want to get behind.”
Emory gestured as if to wave off any of Sarah’s concerns. “It’s fine. She caught me off guard at first, but it’s turned out to be a nice morning.” Emory smiled at Grace, who beamed back at her with about as much hero worship as was conceivable.
“Mom,” Grace said. She turned around to face Sarah with a tight grip on Emory’s first picture. “Emory said I could keep it. Can you believe how real it looks?”
Sarah took the page from Grace’s hands and studied it, impressed as Grace was at the intricate detail Emory had added to the once basic outline. “Wow. She’s kinda good at this, huh?”
“Yep, she’s going to show me how to shade sometime.”
Sarah glanced apologetically at Emory, who’d clearly gone above and beyond to be nice when there were surely things she’d rather be doing. “Um, we’ll see. Ms. Owen is a very busy woman. Now pack up your backpack and head to the car. We’re going to Burger King and then Mami and Papi’s. I need to talk to Ms. Owen.”
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