“Wanna take a break?” she asked, eyeing the beds section.
“Meet me on the FJELL.”
Emma had heard that you were supposed to lie on a mattress for at least twenty minutes to determine if it was the right match for you; nearly every bed felt comfortable at first, but it was at the fifteen-minute mark that the mattress revealed its true essence, or something like that. After five minutes on the FJELL Emma could already determine that it wouldn’t work for the long haul—it was too soft, with not enough support—but she stayed put, lying supine next to Nick, content for the moment.
Nick rolled on his side to face her. “So I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
Emma felt the air slow to a stop. The noises around her no longer penetrated her ears. All was still and quiet. And then the questions started up, running like a ticker tape across her brain: Were they on a verge of a huge moment? Was Nick going to propose to her right here in the mattress section of IKEA? Wouldn’t that be odd and hilarious? Or would it be terrible? Was that even what Emma wanted? Wasn’t it all a little too quick? Though, wasn’t everyone always joking about what was taking them so long to get engaged? But still, wasn’t it all a little too fast? Weren’t they in a good place just where they were? And just starting to recover from so much turmoil? Or maybe Nick was just reaching for a tissue? But if he really was ready for this, shouldn’t Emma take a leap, too, and say yes? She couldn’t say no, could she? Surely it was just a tissue, right? Why would she even think of saying no? She wanted to be with Nick forever, right? But even still, wasn’t it a little too soon?
“Emma?”
“Oh, huh?”
“I thought you’d passed out on me. You got very pale all of a sudden. Are you okay? Should we get some DRYCK FLÄDER to revive you? I hear it’s very refreshing.”
“Oh, ha,” she said mechanically. “No, I’m fine, really.”
Nick took her hand, jangling her charm bracelet. She hadn’t taken it off all week, ever since Nick had found it on the kitchen linoleum among the hurricane wreckage, and ever since she’d decided once and for all to forgive him. At times she’d thought the piece too bold, or annoyingly heavy, but this past week it had suited her mood. From his pocket Nick pulled out a pouch of what looked like netting. Emma immediately relaxed. She could feel the color reenter her cheeks.
He opened the pouch to reveal a beautiful charm—of course. Emma examined the piece, overjoyed. The umbrella was delicate, a fanned circle of silver panels joined in the center by the nub of a clasp. The handle was a hook, colored red—ah, Red Hook—a stylish swoop. It was just the right memento of this moment in time, just the right thing for Nick to gift to her while lying on a trial mattress in a mock bedroom in the middle of a furniture warehouse. He really was the right guy for her.
“Hold out your wrist,” Nick said, and then hooked the new charm onto the chain.
“Babe, it’s gorgeous.” Emma shook her arm and added to the clanking of silver was a new kind of clink from whatever material the red hook was made of. “It’s perfect.”
Nick and Emma didn’t end up buying anything that day. They abandoned their half-filled cart and decided to return another time—the next day, or the next week, or the next month. Others were exiting the store loaded up with bags and boxes, buried by their stuff, but Emma, empty-handed, felt light and happy stepping out into the daylight with Nick. At one end of the parking lot a small group of volunteers was busy cleaning up the free breakfast, and across the grass the East River lapped up against the shore, the midday sun igniting its surface in sparkle. Soon it would be winter, but today was lovely, crisp, and almost warm, autumn’s last hurrah. Nick took Emma’s hand, and they walked together, the flash of red from Emma’s charm catching the afternoon light, glinting like a wink. They strolled through their new neighborhood, walking mostly in step all the way home.
Acknowledgments
I never would have made it past my initial panic about this book’s deadline, on to hope and excitement and eventually a first draft and then all the way to today, without the following lovely people:
Max Apple, my lifelong teacher, whose writing workshops are magic and manna. Tom DePeter, my senior year English teacher, whose lessons live on with me all these years later, and whose memory I hope to honor each day in my own senior year English classes. My writing students at NEST+m, whose enthusiasm and creativity are infectious (and my friends and colleagues who regularly reassure me that taking a break from my students’ writing in order to work on my own is necessary for my soul and my sanity). Kerry McKibbin, whose multi-genre project assignment was not only the highlight of my grad school experience, but also became the beginnings of this novel. Zick Rubin, for being a font of wisdom and guidance. Paula Derrow, a generous first reader, whose suggestions added sensitivity to an early draft. My brilliant agent, Joëlle Delbourgo, whose orbit I feel so lucky to have been pulled into, and who possesses the dazzling skill of turning what I think is casual conversation into sudden, savvy insights about revisions. My whip-smart editor, Martin Biro, whose delightful notes make me giggle even as I’m hard at work. Vida Engstrand, whose talent for spreading the word about my writing is top-notch, and the rest of the team at Kensington, who once again get all the credit for turning my scribblings into this beautiful book. My family, for their unconditional love and support and pride—and especially my mom, who has been offering sensible feedback on my writing since I was a kid, and who also was the one to suggest that a particularly harrowing home hunt might make good fodder for fiction. And Damian, who has been there for me through every clause and comma, and through everything else as well, and who has wholeheartedly built a home and a life with me.
With immense love and gratitude,
Lindsey
Photo by Allen J. Palmer
Lindsey J. Palmer has worked as a writer and editor in the magazine industry, most recently as Features Editor at Self, and previously at Redbook and Glamour. A graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, she earned a Master of Arts in English Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, and currently teaches twelfth-grade English, A.P. Literature, and Creative Writing in Manhattan. Lindsey lives in Brooklyn with her fiancé. Visit her at www.lindseyjpalmer.com.
Pretty in Ink
For years, Hers magazine has been a fixture on newsstands—relatable, reliable, and ever-so-slightly frumpy. But with sales slumping, Hers’ editor in chief soon finds a pink slip in her in-box. And her ruthless, blisteringly high-heeled replacement may not be finished cleaning house yet….
Leah Brenner suspects she won’t be on the payroll much longer, either. A telecommuting, breast milk–pumping mom of three doesn’t mesh with her new boss Mimi’s vision of a sleeker, younger-skewing Hers. Not content with nabbing Leah’s office, Mimi’s protégée, Victoria, is itching to take over Leah’s duties, too—and she’s not alone. As the summer rolls out, and staffers are asked to give up even their sexiest secrets to save the brand, everyone at Hers—the sycophantic new assistant; the photo editor who’s sleeping with her boss; the Ivy League intern with oversized aspirations—will fight to keep her career, and some shred of dignity, intact.
Smart, perceptive, and hilarious, Lindsey J. Palmer’s debut delivers an all too true-to-life tale of very different women faced with high-stakes choices in a rapidly changing—yet utterly familiar—world….
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Lindsey J. Palmer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9436-4
eISBN-10: 0-7582-9436-0
First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2015
ISB
N: 978-0-7582-9435-7
If We Lived Here Page 32